Sing Like No One’s There—Even When They Are

Alone in the shower, I sing with a voice I never use publicly—unguarded, emotional, reaching for notes I’d never attempt if anyone could hear me fail. It’s not that I sound better in private; it’s that I sound more honest, less careful, willing to let the music move through me without filtering it through self-consciousness.

Our private singing voice is our emotional voice without performance anxiety.

In public, I sing carefully—matching expected keys, staying within safe vocal ranges, conscious of how I sound to others. But alone, I sing like someone who believes the music might heal something, like the song actually matters beyond its entertainment value.

Privacy returns us to the childhood belief that singing has power.

My wife sometimes catches fragments of my shower concerts and smiles at the passion she hears in my voice. “Why don’t you ever sing like that around us?” she asks, and I realize I’ve been protecting some essential part of myself by keeping my real voice hidden.

We save our most authentic expression for audiences of zero.

When I hear my son singing to himself while playing, building elaborate musical narratives around his toys, I witness someone who hasn’t learned yet that singing can be judged, criticized, or found inadequate. His private voice will eventually split into public and personal versions, and something beautiful will be lost in that division.

What would change if we brought our private singing voice into shared spaces? What would it mean to let others hear not just our technical ability but our emotional honesty expressed through song?