When I was younger, singing was one of my greatest joys. I loved music, the way it could transport me to another place, the way it made me feel free. I would sing anywhere and everywhere—karaoke nights, in the car, at home. I even had the privilege of singing for guests when I worked in the spa on Windstar cruises. It was a moment of pure joy, sharing music with people from all over the world, feeling the connection that only a song can bring.
But then, life took a turn I never expected.
In 2019, I had sepsis. I was fifteen minutes away from not surviving. The experience left me with more than just physical scars; it left behind a battle with post-sepsis syndrome, PTSD, and a deep-seated fear that still lingers. The worst part was the breathing. I had drains in my neck during my illness, and something about that experience changed the way I felt when I tried to sing. The breath control that once came so naturally now felt restricted. Singing, something that had once been effortless, now made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.
At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. I’d start to sing, and suddenly, my chest would tighten. The breathlessness would creep in, and then the memories would follow—the hospital room, the tubes, the panic of not being able to get enough air. Flashbacks would hit me like a wave, and I’d be right back in that place where my life hung in the balance.
Sepsis took many things from me, but I never expected it to take my voice.
For a long time, I avoided singing. It was easier that way. Every time I thought about it, fear took over, and I pushed it aside. But part of me missed it deeply—the way music had once been a source of joy and comfort. I knew I couldn’t let sepsis take that from me too.
So, I started small. I hummed to my daughter, Amelia, at bedtime. I sang softly when no one was listening. I reminded myself that it was okay if my voice wasn’t what it used to be, that it was okay to take things one step at a time.
And that’s the thing about healing—it’s not always about getting back to where you were. Sometimes, it’s about finding a new way forward.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to sing like I once did, but what I do know is that I’m not going to let fear silence me completely. My voice may be different, but it’s still mine. And as long as I can, I will keep finding ways to use it—not just in song, but in sharing my story, in helping others who feel like they’ve lost a part of themselves too.
If you’ve ever lost something you loved—whether it’s your voice, your confidence, or a part of yourself you thought was unshakable—know that you’re not alone. Healing isn’t about going back; it’s about moving forward in a way that honours who you are now.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my way back to singing again.
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