(noun) sound humans create by speaking or singing
(verb) to express one’s opinion
1. In the final stretch of our drive home from Michigan, Adam won’t stop crying.
It’s Christmas break 2022. The Chicago skyline looms ahead like a long-awaited hug. So do fluorescent red brake lights, which means we’re facing an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic. At 10 months, Adam’s typically laid back and smiley. Today he scrunches up his face and through his wails, says he’s D O N E being stuck in the car, and honestly, I am, too. We’re in gridlock with no means of stopping and I don’t know how to soothe my baby.
“Can’t you do something?” my husband says, twisting his head back to glance at Adam. “He’s really upset, Erin.”
Adam lets out another loud wail. The sound of “Jingle Bells” filters through our car radio and I shake my head at the irony. This car ride is anything but fun.
A memory materializes: Every December while I was in high school, I’d go caroling with our school’s madrigal ensemble. Back then, bringing joy to others through song was the highlight of my Christmas season. I wonder if I can conjure a little cheer now.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” I sing softly, squeezing Adam’s hand. “Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!”
At the sound of my voice, he quiets. Two verses in, I begin to enjoy myself. I end up serenading him with Christmas carols for the rest of our trip home.
2. Each December, I select a word to guide my thoughts and actions in the new year. For 2023, I chose “voice.” Voice isn’t just the sound we make or an action we take; in writing, voice is how an author shows her personality, style and point of view on the page.
Difficult to teach and even harder to master, voice makes writing memorable. The most powerful voices leap off the page and are easy to spot when compared with the works of others. Take the writings of Brian Doyle, Ross Gay or Mary Oliver as proof. Through humor, lyricism, diction, imagery and more, each of these authors offers a distinct style for the reader to enjoy. Voice endears us to our favorite authors.
As I anticipated my book release in March 2023, voice was very much on my mind. My friend Kim and I poured our hearts into The Beauty of Motherhood, and now that it was mere months from landing readers’ hands, I couldn’t help but worry how our book might be received.
Even though I believed deeply in our book’s message, I harbored doubts about my voice. Were my devotions strong enough to stand beside those of my coauthor, whose voice I admire greatly? And how could I market this book — which I was dreading — while remaining true to myself?
I reached out to a friend and mentor for advice. She reminded me that my words intertwined with my faith, and this book was an answer to a call. She mentioned she sensed a bold strength and conviction flowing from me as I approached the final edits of this book. And she encouraged me to trust the voice I’d already developed.
3. A few weeks after caroling in the car, I’m exchanging emails with the music director of our church. I’d mentioned to the pastor in our new congregation that I used to sing, and she put me in touch with him. We schedule an audition.
The day we meet, I laugh and tell him that, though I used to sing a lot when I was younger, I’m a little rusty now. That’s not entirely true: every day, I sing to my youngest. On a dreary day, I sing him, “Rain, Rain Go Away.” When it’s sunny, “Mr. Golden Sun.” We have songs for bath time, teeth brushing, the alphabet and more. As the daughter of a music director, music was the first love language I ever learned. I can’t help but sing to my children. But I don’t say any of this to him. I simply sing.
Soon I find myself on stage alongside my church’s praise band. The first time I perform with them, I feel as if I’m soaring. Afterwards, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. As the weeks pass, I grow to love the “intimacy of [belonging to] a tight group of people who had come together, miraculously, for a brief period in time, for the purpose of making art.”
Making music with the praise band unlocks a hidden part of me I forgot existed. I’m no longer just a mom or even a writer, I’m a creative soul who feels most at home in the world when she’s sharing her God-given voice with others.
The more music I sing, the more voracious I become for this form of creative expression: Sure, the melody is fine but could I try the descant? Or finish my meal with tight harmony? Sampling the chorus was a delight, but could I taste a solo?
The answer to it all? Yes, yes and yes.
4. I am 16 years old. In Ms. McDonough’s Honors English class we’re finishing a unit on persuasive writing. Ms. McDonough has curly black hair, bright brown eyes and insane energy, bouncing around the classroom on her chunky heels. I adore her.
We read various examples of persuasive writing, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” As a classmate reads the letter out loud, I highlight this passage: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”
Just before class ends, Ms. McDonough announces a special writing project. We’ll be writing our own persuasive essays just like Dr. King, she says, passing out the assignment. I wonder what I will write about, I think, but the ring of the bell breaks my attention.
Weeks pass and I’m back in her classroom reviewing a draft of my essay.
“Right here and here are a couple phrases you could tighten up to make your argument stronger,” she notes, pointing to her green handwriting. (She uses green pen because it doesn’t derive a negative connotation, like red.) “And I think reminding the reader of your proposed solution is a fine way to conclude your argument.”
“Thank you so much, Ms. McDonough,” I say, sitting at my desk and thumbing through her notes. I will bring this home and perfect it, then hand it in on Friday. Then, biting my lip, I add, “I really hope this works.”
My topic is related to music: Recently our music department director had announced that students would no longer be able to participate in both the top band and the top choir, citing that next semester each group would practice during the same period. This change would make it easy for students to collaborate without sacrificing their lunch hour, he explained. The plan is, by all accounts, reasonable.
Except that, I was in both the top band and the top choir, and I didn’t want to choose between them I knew several other students like me, and it didn’t seem very fair for the administration to force us to choose between groups. So for my essay I come up with an argument against the change and offer a new solution to solve the existing issue. Writing this piece feels really good. It flows out of me.
”I think your words could affect real change here,” Ms. McDonough says, straightening up. “And I’ll be happy to help see that your final paper ends up in the hands of our administration.”
“Really, Ms. McDonough?” I look up at her.
“Absolutely. That’s why I created this assignment — to show you the power of your voice.”
Ms. McDonough is right. The essay does affect change and the administration chooses my solution over that of the music department chair’s. When I learn this, I’m ecstatic.
I continue participating in the top choir and top band through my senior year of high school. However, something significant does change: Rather than “Music,” I select “English major” on my in-progress college applications.
5. When our book releases in March 2023, it’s equal parts amazing and terrifying. I am overjoyed and grateful for its positive reception. At the same time, I find myself wavering in and out of a state of existential dread. The book I’d dreamed of writing years ago is now real. But the grind and pressure connected with promoting it overwhelms me.
After our formal promotional work slows in June, I am relieved and deflated. Staring at my empty planner, I have so many questions: Do I still love writing? Am I all out of stories? I am sure of one thing — I’m burned out. So I step away from writing publicly to prioritize rest and my family.
Over the summer, I tend to my wellbeing: I become more consistent with my workouts. I savor time with my kids. I devour a seven-book fantasy series. I do some freelance writing assignments and journal. The voice of Anxiety that has haunted me much of my life but especially during book season grows quieter. My prayers become more peaceful.
6. For Halloween, I sign up to help with my church’s fall festival. There’s pumpkin carving, trunk-or-treat and a Disney sing-along. I dress up as Elsa and lead a variety of songs, including Elsa’s signature “Let It Go” and Ariel’s “Part of Your World,” the latter of which was one of my favorite songs as a child.
Growing up, I was a princess girl through and through. I loved watching Beauty and the Beast, Snow White and The LIttle Mermaid, then dressing up and performing my favorite songs for whichever family members would bear to listen.
Now, when it’s my turn to sing “Part of Your World,” a smile blooms across my lips and that familiar soaring feeling arrives. I think, if only eight-year-old Erin could see herself now. She would be so proud. It’s just a sing-along, but it means so much more to me to be here, confident and brave, using my voice to share a song I love.
Surface level, The Little Mermaid is about a girl who runs away from home and changes her appearance in pursuit of a handsome prince. But the real story, the emotional undercurrent of this movie, is about being brave enough to leave old ways of being and explore a new culture. Sure, Ariel makes mistakes along the way — sacrificing her voice for a crush — but in the end, she reclaims it.
Ultimately, The Little Mermaid is a story about losing and finding your voice. 2023 would be a year of finding my voice, I’d resolved. Yet, looking back today, I wonder if it was there all along? Perhaps I wasn’t ready to claim it.
7. What surprised me most about my word of the year was the voice I found wasn’t just my writer’s voice: it was my choral voice, too. Returning to another form of creative expression helped me cope with the swirl of conflicting emotions I habored about book launch. Through song, I was able to see that the joy of art is not in its reception, rather it’s in the making of it.
I want to keep singing. I want to keep writing stories and sharing them with others. I want to embrace the fire in my voice, and glimmers of insight on the page. I want to finish things — poems and essays and maybe another book (years from now, when Adam is older). I want to keep my pen close to the page and to my heart. I have so many words bubbling up and rising to the surface now… Can I make sense of them and make an offering? I don’t know. But I have to try.
Isn’t the task of the artist that of offering a mirror to her reader to help her see the beautiful truth before her? To say, yes, there is pain in this world, but have you also noticed the grace of wildflowers? And a baby’s tiny toes? What about a woman buying groceries for a needy stranger? Or when you hear music that moves you to tears? Isn’t it an amazing thing to be alive on this fresh day — and human?
And, if enough of us artists raise our voices — enough singers and painters and pianists and poets and sculptors and weavers and actors and composers and a plethora of others — we could form a mass choir singing for peace and prosperity. We could use our voices to calm the tide of violence that threatens to drown us. We could create a new culture grounded in kindness and human dignity. Wouldn’t that be something?
This “Defining word essay” was inspired by a selection from Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s Textbook.
Erin Strybis 