The Younger Woman

Cora Harvey Armstrong was quoted once as saying: "Inside every older person is a younger person...wondering what the hell happened."

This is something I've been thinking about a lot lately; looking back on the twenty-three years of my life that I've lived so far. Seeing there is already plenty of places where I could insert the words "If only..." and "If I had it to do all over again..." And for some reason, this scares me. Because I was always someone determined to have no regrets.

The potential for regret really smacked me upside the head a few weeks ago, when I was scrolling through my Facebook page because it was late at night and I had nothing else to do besides sleep (as a side note, I think more revelations occur on Facebook for people than anywhere else; learning our long lost love is now 'in a relationship' with someone else, hearing other friends have been married, seeing pictures of people all grown up, fifty pounds lighter - or heavier - and overall just seeming different than when we last really knew them).

Anyway...

While scrolling the main page and looking at all the various updates and new pictures posted by my supposed friends, I saw one picture taken of the Schnitz Concert Hall in downtown Portland, Oregon...and on the front of the big white board, in big black letters, was the announcement that my old choir from high school - the one I'd helped build from the ground up - was performing with the Portland Youth Philharmonic, and featuring the brilliant soprano soloist -- (I'll omit the name for the sake of privacy).

I was in shock.

Because I remembered her; I remembered when once, what suddenly seemed like a thousand years ago, I'd been the featured soprano soloist, and she'd been one of the young things working her way through the ranks.

I remembered all those years as an alto section leader; when I'd been the darling of my choir conductor, who also happened to be my voice teacher.

I remembered that magical senior year, when everything had fallen into place. When I'd been offered scholarships from around the country, and how I was convinced I was off to a big, grand operatic career and that it was only a matter of time before everyone would see my name in big, bold, bright lights.

And then I remembered what came after as reality sank deep the claws of regret.

Those years that followed, of disappointment in my university experience. Years of depression. Of struggles with inner demons. Of struggles with the formal education machine. Years where the music simply died; where I didn't so much as open a book of sheet music for fear of bursting into tears because I would miss it so much.

This was where my brain froze: me, washed up already, with the young things who'd once looked up to me now threatening to pass me by.

So what did I do?

I took it to my voice coach.

And I cannot stress enough how important it was that I did this. A voice teacher is often times much more than someone simply helping you memorize a song or perfecting the slight accent in your Italian diction. At this stage in the game, they are also one of your greatest friends; one of your greatest supporters and allies. One of your greatest cheerleaders. And if you cannot go to them, who can you go to?

So I did.

I told him all about what had me down, and he looked right at me and said: "Why do you think you're washed up and going nowhere?"

I stammered. "Well...because, I..."

When it became obvious I had nothing to finish with, he picked the conversation up again. (Have I mentioned he has incredibly intense eyes when he's focused on you?) "Megan, you tried one thing, and it didn't work. So what. You're not the first - nor the last - person to discover a formalized music degree isn't the path for you. Look at me. I struggled with it too. So instead, you're here. You're here, and pursuing your dream again. Good for you. And you know what? You have plans. Big plans. So ask me again, in five years, who I think is washed up; you, or some of your other fellow musicians."

I basically just stood there like a blind, deaf mute without anything to say in response.

But it worked.

I actually heard what he said. And I felt the truth of it ring in my ears. And more than that, I was able to draw the mental conclusions that he'd not said aloud; namely that there will always be younger women. Beautiful women. With beautiful voices that enrapture audiences the world over. Because youth is a beautiful thing. And as humans, we're always on the lookout for the next big thing at any rate, regardless of the talent already on the stage.

But it doesn't mean those of us who are a couple years older have to give it all up and go home. Because guess what? At the end of the day, it all comes down to one thing: Who loves it more? Who wants it more?

This I know to be true: I love my music. And I love it all the more because I've had to walk through hell once or twice to get to where I'm at now. And there is absolutely no shame in it. Because now I know what I want. And I know what I have to do in order to get there. So what if I took a side path after people figured I was on the straight-and-narrow road to success? I guarantee you, the Megan Andrews who exists today will be far more prepared to deal with success than the Megan Andrews who was eighteen and fresh out of high school.

I have more confidence now.

I can look a conductor square in the face and tell him why I'm going to perform an aria my way, and not his. I can defend myself when people might otherwise blame me for a mistake. Whereas in the past, I would have hung my head, remained silent, and desperately tried to please everyone.

And a negative review of a performance?

Please.

After all the things I've been through, I don't think there's anything anyone could say that would make me want to quit now, or make me doubt my talents.

But in the past?

So no.

I'm not so devastated now.

Nor so full of regret.

Because I had to go through all of that, I think, to get here. And this, now, is just one more lesson that's important to learn; that every woman has to learn at some point, be it for an opera career, for marriage, or for the working world. The lesson that when you walk into an audition, there is always going to be someone younger, prettier, smarter, or with a better looking resume than you. But it simply can't matter. Because you are who you are, and I am who I am, and at the end of the day, I know I can sing.

How about you?