It’s not a secret that my life is full these days. Full of travel, full of purpose, full of connection—and yes, full of fatigue at times, too. I’ve been on the go, presenting at universities, leading workshops and courses, collaborating with inspiring colleagues, and continuing to explore what I love most: the incredible, intricate relationship between the voice and the body. The way breath and movement, structure and sound, emotion and physiology all come together to support the human experience—especially for performers, artists, and storytellers.
This work lights me up. I feel most alive when I’m teaching, learning, and expanding the possibilities for those I serve. And yet, even in the midst of that passion, I’ve found myself asking a question lately: is it just overwork I’m feeling? Or is it something deeper? The chaos of the world? A mid-life shift?
I turned 46 on April 9. The next day, I boarded a plane to Italy with my husband and daughter for a long-awaited family trip. I was deeply excited. Grateful to have the chance to take this time with them. To show our daughter a new corner of the world. To rest, reconnect, and savor beauty.
And we did. Italy was stunning. The food, the landscapes, the rhythm of the day—it was everything I hoped for.
But I also noticed something unexpected. A growing sense of fear. Fear of flying. Fear of earthquakes. Fear of something going wrong. I found myself watching my surroundings closely, scanning for danger in ways I never used to. I’ve traveled across the world, often alone, sometimes without a plan—and I never felt this before.
Was it because we had our daughter with us this time? That very real sense of responsibility and vulnerability that comes when you’re guiding someone else? Was it simply the weight of the world’s uncertainty pressing in? Maybe it was all of it at once.
And then—while we were still abroad—I received news that shook me to my core. A dear friend, vibrant and full of life, had slipped into a coma. On Sunday, she took her last breath.
She was younger than me. Healthy. Grounded. Beautiful in every way.
I’ve never thought of 46 as old—and I don’t feel old. In many ways, I still carry the same energy and ambition I had at 23. But something has shifted. Now, even as I long for more freedom in my voice and my life, I find myself facing fears I’ve never had before. It’s a strange place to be—older, wiser, but newly vulnerable. And maybe that’s what this season is about: learning to hold both the fear and the freedom, and choosing to keep showing up anyway.
I wasn’t prepared for how much loss would show up in my 40s. I always imagined grief would come later. Much later.
It’s left me stunned. Grieving. And feeling the weight of this time in my life and in our world. I’ve thought a lot about mortality lately. About what it means to live fully while we’re here. About how quickly everything can shift.
But in the quiet moments—between the heartache, the jet lag, and the questions—I’ve also felt a powerful undercurrent of love.
Love for my family. For the time we shared. For the way we laughed, explored, and held each other close. Love for my friends and colleagues who inspire me with their artistry, their resilience, their honesty. Love for my clients and students, who trust me with their voices and their stories. And love for the work itself—for the way it allows me to meet others in their truth, to walk beside them through moments of transformation, and to continually be transformed myself.
So while I hold space for the grief, I also hold deep, unshakable gratitude. For this life. For this community. For all of you reading this now.
Thank you for walking this road with me. It’s not always easy. But it’s so very worth it.
With care and love,
Christine
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