I recognized the inbetween- the notes between the notes. This is a journey through voice loss, soul messages, and spiritual reclamation.
Years ago, I lost my singing voice. I don’t mean metaphorically—I opened my mouth to sing, and nothing came out. It wasn’t just allergies or a bad day. It was as if something within me had shut down. After several appointments with specialists and speech therapy, I learned a benign tumor was pressing on my vocal cords. “It’s not worth removing,” they said. And so my voice faded.
This loss touched something primal in me. I’d been singing since childhood—chorus, madrigals, state competitions, even performing backup for Barry Manilow. I’d studied under jazz legend Sarah Vaughan. Music wasn’t just an interest—it was a soul language. But with the loss of my voice, I grieved as though a vital part of me had gone silent. I put it all away—literally and symbolically. My music was boxed up and shelved.
Time passed. I found new creative paths—writing, teaching, mentoring. But something was still muted. Then, a friend invited me to co-host a podcast. I agreed, with hesitation, to ride shotgun. A few episodes in, we interviewed a guest: a vocalist and music therapist. Her voice echoed Sarah Vaughan’s tone. Her story opened a memory door. I held it together on-air, but something cracked open inside.
Later that day, sitting at a red light, I looked up. The bumper sticker on the car in front of me read: “I ♥ Music Therapy.” That’s when it happened—that shimmer in the veil, the unmistakable nudge from Spirit. It wasn’t random. It was a sacred sequence: the guest, the memory, the music therapist, and now this bumper sticker—each a breadcrumb on the trail back to myself.
In metaphysical terms, I had received a soul transmission. In Jungian language, this was synchronicity—a meaningful coincidence stirring the unconscious into awareness. My inner music hadn’t vanished. It had been waiting for me to release ego, to listen beyond performance. I began to hear music again—not just with my ears, but with my third ear, my intuitive knowing.
I didn’t suddenly start singing again. That’s not the point. I began dancing in my kitchen. I turned up the volume on my favorite playlists. I cried during voice competitions on TV—not out of loss, but resonance. Slowly, I reinhabited the archetype of the singer—not as performer, but as priestess of vibration, as a vessel for sound.
This journey wasn’t just about reclaiming a lost gift. It was about reweaving soul fragments, integrating grief, and coming home to my true self. I now understand that music was never taken from me—it was transmuted into a new form of listening. A deeper, fuller resonance. The music between the notes.
The box is no longer on the shelf. The lid is off. And while I still mourn the voice I once had, I am learning to praise what remains. I don’t just listen with ears—I listen with presence, with devotion, with joy. That is the song I carry now. One that sings me.
What I experienced was a meaningful coincidence that brought me to further healing and individuation. I wrote about this in the book, Sacred Spaces. I offered a broader version of my story along with tips for keeping a synchronicity journal.
Here are related links to my story:
