How remembering the things that light us up, can unexpectedly heal and move us.

When I was 9 years old, I was obsessed with the movie Annie.

I knew every word to every song, and I even knew the dialogue of each character by heart.

Be it Rooster’s crow, Grace’s jazzy dance moves, Annie’s dimpled smile, or Tessie’s worried voice crooning, “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness.” 

I was mesmerized by all of them and had memorized every move, song, and word.

I remember loving Annie’s character and could very much identify with her because we were about the same age.

I longed for my very own broken heart locket from Tiffany’s (thank you subliminal messaging for permanently making me want that turquoise box with the white bow, anyone else out there?)

And every time she was rescued at the end, and she and Daddy Warbucks did their tap number on the stairs, I was filled with utter glee. 

Only to press rewind and play all over again.

Hopeful for my Tomorrow.

So, when my grade 5 class was hosting a talent contest, I knew I wanted to partake and that I would be choosing a song from my beloved musical. The obvious choice: Annie performing her song “Tomorrow” did not however, turn my crank. 

Instead, I decided that I was going to play the most interesting and dynamic character from my fixation and that was, Miss Hannigan.

That’s right. Carol Burnett playing the drunk and lonely orphanage caretaker. She was desperate for a man, very much abusive to the orphans, she had a hard shell that was hiding a secret longing to be chosen and to belong. (welcome all of society)

She made me laugh and I remember my 9-year-old self watching her and thinking she was literally the coolest.

I wanted to emanate her.

So, I did a lip sync of the song ‘Little Girls’ for that said grade 5 talent show.

I borrowed one of my mom’s flowy flower-patterned dresses that was layered and made from thin polyester. It was too big for me, but it moved with my little body and so, it did the trick.

I acted out her intoxicated self perfectly and had the audience in stitches with my spot on, expressive rendition of Miss Hannigan lamenting about how she was inundated with little girls at every turn.

I wanted to be her.

Not the sad alcoholic version of the character, but instead the energetic culpability of the actress herself.

I could feel her in my bones.

I wanted to embody the beauty and raw talent that was Carol Burnette.

I could see her.

As if my soul was saying, Hello Carol.

That was my first official performance on a stage.

And from that moment on, I was hooked.

After that, I only wanted to play the interesting characters.

The ones that were mean, weird, scary, or funny. 

I was Shere Khan in our school production of the Jungle Book in grade 6. So convincing in fact, that I sent children running out of the gym because they were afraid of my version of that evil tiger.

I was registered in a dance company that also did yearly performances. The hair, makeup and costumes were my favorite.

My dad took me to several musical and theatre performances, and I distinctly remember always being moved to tears when the actors would take a bow at the end of the show. 

I wanted to be up there so bad.

I played a jealous mean sister in a Shakespearean play; I was Oliver in “Oliver Twist” and by the time I graduated high school I was known as the actress/performer. I wore that label with pride.

In fact, for our grade 12 graduation ceremony I was asked to be the MC along with another drama fanatic and he and I stole the show, at least that’s how I remember it. ; )

I went on to college after high school without being totally certain about what I wanted to take. So, I registered in General Arts, upgraded the Math and Bio that I had just bombed and I decided to take a few extras. To test the waters.

One of which was a drama/acting class. 

I distinctly remember the prof saying to me,

“You are a natural Chantelle. There are very few people that can do what you do with so little effort, it’s a marvel to watch you. I mean it.”

My grade 12 drama teacher said something similar, but he was crasser. 
It went more like, “F*#k you’re good.” 

I was flattered but I fundamentally didn’t believe either of them.

Why? I have no clue.

Stupid really, with my extensive history, innate talent and obvious passion. But nevertheless, somehow very much true for me.

I’d never seen myself perform or make any of my many public speeches.

In one way or another each piece of evidence had either been forgotten, taped over, or lost (this was long before the days that video cameras were conveniently in our back pockets). 

So, I always either experienced my performances firsthand, by means of other people’s reactions in the audience or from their comments to me post-show. 

I never got to actually see what they saw. 

I did one more performance at 21 years young, before hanging up my acting hat. 

It was for Story Book Theatre, a production called, “The Ant and the Grasshopper”.

I was Legs, the grasshopper that loved to sing and dance. And although it was fun, this performance was ironically my least favorite. It was your cookie cutter role that used my body, physical appearance, and sweet voice to charm its audience. Boring.

I missed my Carol.

After 2 years in General Arts, I decided that as much as I longed to be on Broadway, I thought my “calling” was to be a nurse, so I applied to the nursing program and thanks to those upgrades, I got in.

I went on to nursing school without really looking back.

I felt and could feel from others that this was the smarter choice of the two. It was far more stable and acceptable from a societal perspective. Plus, it made me feel like I was nicer and better somehow. Like people would actually like me more.

It suited the wife I wanted to be and the mother I was longing to become. 

I stayed calm under pressure and always seemed to know what to do. Plus, it was a secure career. So nursing was perfect.

Right.

And although I’ve created a beautiful and very fulfilling career as a nurse, as I write this, I can see so much that I couldn’t see about myself when I started my nursing career.

Where I was, what I thought was my “calling” and why I chose to move forward with it and away from my dream of being a stage performer. 

20 years after my last performance on a stage, there I was at 44, craving a change.

4+ years out of my divorce, 10 + years into my healing, 20+ years as a bedside nurse, settling into a beautiful relationship with MM and I found myself being pushed to do something else.

Career wise. Life wise. All of it wise. 

Like a calling from the Universe, or maybe even God himself.

One day at a full moon ceremony in my yoga class, the instructor prompted us to write down something that we wanted to manifest. 

I thoughtlessly wrote down the sentence “BE ON STAGE”. Just like that, bold letters, and all.

And I could feel my whole body smile.

Huh. That’s right, I thought. I remember how much I loved to be on a stage. Shit. How long had it been? 

And then my mind started to orchestrate my stage life;

Maybe I could do a TED talk? Maybe I could teach something or do some public speaking around growth and healing? Maybe I’ll talk about trauma or parenting or divorce or my blog?

I was responsible.

Even with my dreams.

I remembered that I loved to sing and perform, but I had totally forgotten about my Carol.

So, I decided to sign up for singing lessons. 

I guess I’ll start there, I thought.

I found the perfect instructor that had been on several stages herself and was a true master at her craft.

Enter, The Master.

I started going weekly and The Master taught me that I tended to sing out of my jaw and that I was losing all sorts of sound and breath by clenching and not opening the back of my throat. 

Each week I was pushed out of my comfort zone, and I tried to unlearn some pretty solid muscle memory.

So, it felt hard. It felt like I couldn’t do it and that I wasn’t good enough. Not even close. 

The Master’s studio was in her house. It was a gorgeous studio that was full of natural light, some real plants, a huge grand piano and stacks and stacks of music.

My ability to embody things proved to be beneficial in my singing as well. When the Master said, “Bring the sound here” (while pointing to the tip of her nose), I could feel it and move the energy up and out quickly. She was impressed.

Thank you, kundalini yoga.

So, I practiced humming to get the sound to reverberate through my nasal passages. I’d put my hand on my back to breath into my waist. I learned to send the sound out through the space right underneath my eye sockets. 

Every week I would diligently go, I’d practice, but I never seemed to get through one song in its entirety. I would end up going home thinking, huh…I’m not sure I can do this. I don’t think I’m good enough. 

Was I ever really good enough?

I did these lessons without really sharing them with anyone. I didn’t tell my kids about them, and I didn’t tell my family either. I mentioned them to MM and Best but in a very “How’s the weather?” kind of way. 

In my mind, I was doing this insignificant thing for me that I didn’t think I was very good at and that would likely not lead to anything.

But, I kept going.

And then the Master mentioned a recital. 

“Do you want to do a recital Chantelle?” In my head I was thinking, I have no clue what that looked like or what that entailed.

“Sure”, I answered cautiously.

“But I don’t think I’m ready.” 

“You’ll never FEEL ready, you just need to get out there and do it.”

“Ok. I’m in, I’ll try it” I agreed and then started thinking,

That’s why I’m taking these lessons right? 

My mind started to run. It started to challenge me.

Wait, why am I taking these lessons? It’s not like I can ACTUALLY do anything with them…I have 4 kids, I work shift work in the ICU, and I barely have time to feed myself some days, how and what am I doing? Plus, I’m already writing a blog, what am I an actress and a writer and a nurse and a mom now? Is there such thing as too many things? What are people going to think? They’ll see through all this stuff for sure. Huh. Whatever, I’ll keep going and not think about all this for now. Wait, do I have to memorize the songs? What if I cry? I cry every time I sing my ballad, what is actually wrong with me? 

Hello, Imposter.

For the recital, I needed to memorize two songs; a ballad and an up-tempo piece.

I practiced and practiced and practiced. The up-tempo number I chose felt pretty easy for me, aside from a few pitches that I couldn’t seem to hit, I was overall excited to bring this piece to text.

My ballad was another story. 

At first, I couldn’t sing it without;

• a) crying
• b) keeping my eyes squeezed shut or
• c) feeling like I was terrible. 

The Master tried to encourage me,

“Look at yourself in the mirror, it’ll help you see where you are tightening.” 

Ha, ya right. Didn’t she know how bloody emotional I was over here?

Then, one day I sang the whole song for her in that beautifully lit studio and low and behold right before the last verse I became a blubbering mess and The Master got to witness my ability to emote. 

“Well, I usually have to really coax people to get them to show emotion, and I’ve never said this before to anyone, but you’re going to need to disconnect a bit emotionally from the song so that you can get through it.

At least until the ‘Uh Oh, Oh Oh’ part at the end. Then you can cry.”

This made me laugh out loud. 

What a beautifully complicated request that I was happy to be struggling with. 
I accepted these tears with an open heart, knowing that my body needed to release them, and I rejoiced that it finally could with such ease. 
After years of disassociation and not being able to cry, I knew this meant that I was healing.

Enter recital day.

Church.

I pulled up to the parking lot and was struck by all the parents and grandparents that were gathering their belongings and making their way into the seating area. To watch their people, perform.

Wait, are there spectators? Shit.

The thought of spectators hadn’t even entered my mind. I hadn’t asked the Master if there were spectators to begin with and consequently, I didn’t invite anyone to come and watch.

So, I sheepishly made my way to the front pew, waited for my turn, and then asked one of the other participants if she would mind recording my performances.

Five minutes later with my hands shaking and sweat pooling in my pits and groin, I got up on stage. 

I performed again. 

All at once, I wasn’t just singing, I morphed into the character that I was playing with all of me. And I mean ALL.

I started with my ballad.

The technical doozy.

Remembering all my Master’s tips, I tried my best to keep my throat open while feeling into this anguished character. I gave it my shakiest all and as if on cue, the tears welled up in my eyes just as I was finishing the last verse.

I wiped said tears away, apologized to the audience for being emotional and then quickly shook it off to transition into my next number.

Here, I barely thought and effortlessly brought the song to text. Using a chair and my character shoes as props, I embodied a tired annoyed waitress that was complaining about how sore her feet and toes were at the end of a long shift.

This one was fun for me, I liked exaggerating said waitress’ woes.

I heard laughter and cheers and then it was over.

Sitting in my car afterwards, I squeezed in a couple extra minutes before needing to run off to pick up my daughter and I pressed play on my cell phone screen.

Anticipating that I would no doubt jump to criticize some part of my performance (did I mention that I have struggled with perfectionism as well?), I slowly sunk into my seat, waited, and watched.

There was no criticism.

Instead, I laughed, and then I cried. 

I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed.

I couldn’t believe how good I was. 

Not good in the literal sense of the word. 

But in the “really f*#cking good” sense of the word.

I could see how much I loved it.

I could see how naturally I did it.

I could see how much it lit me up.

I could see me.

And I could see Carol. 

All at once, as if someone had opened a flood gate, I remembered my 9-year-old self. The one that wasn’t conditioned to believe anything. That simply watched and dissected everything about Miss Hannigan and knew that she could do that too. 

The one that felt Carol in her bones. 

I had totally forgotten about my Carol…

My heart burst and broke all at once.

20 years. How could I have not been doing THIS for 20 years? How is that even possible?

I knew in that moment, that this was bigger than I was giving it credit for, then I had even realized myself.

And because I didn’t invite anyone to watch me, I was able to live through that whole experience without any outside influence or opinion.

I was able to simply witness me. 
The me me. 
Whoa.

I proceeded to cry for the rest of the day.

I processed with MM and reflected on all the things that make me me. All the ways I had unknowingly abandoned myself over and over to the point that I had literally forgotten all about my Carol.

To be a nurse, a mom, a wife, a daughter and a “good girl” both at home and in society in general. 

To suit the masses and to suit me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I loved all those roles and honestly wouldn’t have changed a single part of my life. Divorce and all.

And there is definitely such thing as divine timing.

But I got to remember, remember the part that even I had forgotten. 

Now I know why I started singing lessons. 

I know why I went through (and will continue to go through) the hard of learning to sing differently and the challenge of, in my case, not embodying my song too much. 

My soul was like, “Hey Chantelle, I’m over here, come and see me, you won’t regret it.”

I now know that it was God who was tapping me on the shoulder.

I could feel and see my light in that performance. 

Today, I can say that I have no clue where all of this will take me and that the destination doesn’t actually matter. I know that I’m not the best and that this will likely only exist in my little circle.

That I will continue to fulfill all my other roles with strength and integrity.

But now I can add back this beautiful, little, yet very bright part of me to the whole mix. 

Experiencing it has given me a beautiful gift.

A gift in healing, in remembering, in rebirthing and in pure love/joy. Especially because it was so unexpected and even minimized by me. 

From trying to fit my stage self in a responsible box, to feeling like I wasn’t nearly good enough, to seeing myself light up in a way that I have never seen before.

All of it. 

So, go play. Go explore and try the thing that you always thought was maybe silly, insignificant, or that was extremely significant, and you’ve just shelved it for a while. 

Are you a doodle artist, or a comedian, or a rapper, or an auctioneer?

What’s that thing for you that had you light up when you were 8 or 9?

Before the world got to you.

Find it. 
Do it. 
Watch and feel it heal and feed your soul, and consequently the souls that you touch with your art. 
Do that.

It’s never too late.

Your curtain is waiting to be lifted so that you too can say hello to your Carol.

For now, I, will graciously take a bow and thank Mrs.Burnett from the very bottom of my gushy, raw performer heart.

xo