Running Head: EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: A QUEER AUTOETHNOGRAPHIC
EXPLORATION OF GENDER AFFIRMING VOICEWORK IN MUSIC THERAPY

By Maevon Gumble, MT-BC
Pronouns: they/them

Advisor: Susan Hadley, Ph.D., MT-BC
Pronouns: she/her
Reader: Cindy LaCom, Ph.D
Pronouns: they/them
Reader: Christopher Scott, D.M.A.
Pronouns: he/him

A Thesis Submitted to
Slippery Rock University, Pennsylvania
in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for
the Degree of Master of Music Therapy

May 2019

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT

Embodied Speech Through Song: A Queer Autoethnographic
Exploration of Gender Affirming Voicework in Music Therapy
Presented to the
Slippery Rock University
Music Therapy Program

____________________________________________________________
Susan Hadley, Ph.D., MT-BC, Thesis Advisor

____________________________________________________________
Cindy LaCom, Ph.D., Reader

____________________________________________________________
Christopher Scott, D.M.A., Reader

ii

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Abstract
Through queer autoethnography (i.e., queerly telling stories), I have explored the
beginning development of a gender affirming voicework method within music therapy, informed
by my personal experiences of seeking a more affirming voice for myself as a nonbinary trans
person, specifically doing this through my singing voice. This was further informed by literature
from the fields of speech-language pathology, vocal pedagogy, and music therapy. This method
will potentially provide a uniquely holistic space, working with the physical voice in terms of
working on gendered behavioral changes and healthy vocal habits; the psychological voice in
terms of supporting the emotional relationship that a person has with their voice, body, and Self;
and the body in terms of encouraging relaxation and groundedness as well as working with the
ways a person expresses/relates to their voice, body, and Self. In attempts to ignite a
conversation around the possibilities of gender-based work within music therapy for trans,
nonbinary, and cis individuals, I share my experiences of engaging in gender affirming
voicework. Although this voicework is likely relevant to all individuals, it is perhaps more
pertinent for trans and nonbinary folk. This is reflected throughout my autoethnography.

Keywords: voicework, gender affirming, transgender, nonbinary, queer, autoethnography, music
therapy, embodied speech

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Contents
Acknowledgments............................................................................................................................v
List of Figures ............................................................................................................................... vii
List of Supplemental Recordings ................................................................................................. viii
Preface..............................................................................................................................................1
Chapter 1: Childlike Explorations ...................................................................................................2
An attempt at defining my gender .......................................................................................9
Reflections on binding .......................................................................................................14
My tensions with taking testosterone .................................................................................20
Chapter 2: Dropped in an Ocean ....................................................................................................26
Immersing myself in speech therapy .................................................................................26
Finding myself in the narrative ..........................................................................................33
A moment of queer clarity .................................................................................................41
Having my truth reflected back to me................................................................................43
Learning about my voice ...................................................................................................46
Bringing it all back to music therapy .................................................................................53
Chapter 3: ‘Becoming’ Together Through Queerly Telling Stories ..............................................71
But what is autoethnography? ............................................................................................71
Queering autoethnography .................................................................................................77
Interrogating power and privilege in storytelling ..............................................................83
Queer autoethnography and gender affirming voicework .................................................86
Chapter 4: Gender Affirming Voicework ......................................................................................88
Breath, breathe, breathing in the water ..............................................................................98
Connecting parts, voicing Self .........................................................................................115
Held in the music, held in the water ................................................................................133
The return .........................................................................................................................137
Still ‘Becoming’ ...........................................................................................................................144
References ....................................................................................................................................147
Appendix ......................................................................................................................................156

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Acknowledgments
Allow me to tell you
what a privilege it has been
to have been
created from the same dust,
droplets of cosmic rain,
ancient energy
and cradled
by our Mother Universe,
in the same
interstellar nursery
as you.
(Nikita Gill, From Writer to Reader)
While any research project is sure to be filled with emotional experiences, these past twoplus years of being immersed within my own voicework journey have certainly been expansive.
Words are inadequate at capturing my deepest appreciation for those who have been such a vital
part of my growth throughout this work. However, I will attempt to piece together some
semblance of my gratitude.
To Susan Hadley for your passion, knowledge, and willingness to learn alongside those
who enter this program. You have so deeply pushed and expanded me within this degree and
thesis, and I am beyond grateful. Thank you for being the person that you are.

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To Christopher Scott for donating your time and knowledge throughout my own gender
affirming voicework to deepen my understanding of my voice and of what this work could be.
You have been an invaluable resource for whom I am so appreciative.
To Cindy LaCom for continuing to support me and, as always, offering critical
constructive feedback rooted in a queer theoretical framework. Your strength, knowledge, and
passion for the work you do is inspiring.
To David Glover, Vern Miller, and Slippery Rock University’s Music Department for
graciously purchasing the microphone used within this research to obtain high-quality recordings
as well as allowing me to borrow the recording equipment used throughout this project. My
recordings of voicework were so important to my process.
To my therapist for being so deeply present to my own experiences, even when I am not.
Your patience is a gift. Thank you for becoming an unintended but particularly significant part of
my voicework story.
And last, but certainly not least, to my talented, passionate, and courageous peers in
SRU’s Master of Music Therapy program, particularly my core group (y’all know who you are),
for continuously stretching me in new directions and for becoming an important part of my
family. You have inspired me with the ways you so willingly enter a space with vulnerability,
shifting that space into something new and expansive.
Thank you all.

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Figures
1: “Untitled” mandala ......................................................................................................................3
2: “The Split” mandala...................................................................................................................40
3: “Gentle collision” mandala ........................................................................................................42
4: Vowel chart ................................................................................................................................48
5: “Discomfort” mandala ...............................................................................................................91
6: “Buried alive” mandala ..............................................................................................................94
7: “Pinpoint” mandala ....................................................................................................................95
8: “Breathing” mandala................................................................................................................101
9: “Shame” mandala ....................................................................................................................107
10: “Naked” mandala ...................................................................................................................110
11: Gender imagery: “The Ocean” ..............................................................................................112
12: “Disconnected” mandala........................................................................................................118
13: “Being an ocean” mandala .....................................................................................................122
14: “Expansion” mandala ............................................................................................................124
15: “Beautiful” mandala ..............................................................................................................127
16: “Uncomfortably comforted” mandala ...................................................................................136
17: “Trusting myself” mandala ....................................................................................................137

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Supplemental Recordings
Link to full album on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/sets/embodiedspeech-through-song.

1: Collage of vocal warm-ups ......................................................................................................116
2: Speech work excerpt (11/6/2017) ............................................................................................117
3: “The Promise” (11/6/2017) ......................................................................................................119
4: Improvisational warm-up (2/22/2018) .....................................................................................126
5: CoreTone variation (11/6/2017) ..............................................................................................128
6: Poetry speech work (4/3/2019) ................................................................................................129
7: Improvising to hold emotion (2/1/2018)..................................................................................133

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Preface
What follows is one account of what gender affirming voicework in music therapy might
be. I hope this story inspires creativity and that you find yourself realizing new and different
meanings that go beyond the words I write on these pages. Further, I hope this story leads to new
and unknown understandings of what gender affirming voicework in music therapy might be.

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CHAPTER 1
Childlike Explorations
You are a myth born to the wrong age. You are the kind of book
that has magical stories trapped in every single page.
(Nikita Gill, Untitled VI, italics in original)
With their living room as their underwater ocean trove, a young child wholeheartedly
belts, on repeat, at the top of their lungs:
I wanna be where the people are
I wanna see, wanna see ‘em dancin’
Walkin’ around on those—whad-ya call ‘em?—oh, feet
Flippin’ your fins you don’t get too far
Legs are required for jumpin’, dancin’
Strollin’ along down a—what’s that word again?—street
Up where they walk
Up where they run
Up where they stay all day in the sun
Wanderin’ free—wish I could be
Part of that world
(“Part of Your World,” The Little Mermaid)
Watching ‘The Little Mermaid’ as a child, they see themself in Ariel’s story—the mermaid with
the beautiful voice who wanted more than what she had…who wanted to be where the people
are. Their young Self intuitively knows something then that they wouldn’t fully realize until their
20’s. They love Ariel because she is curious and adventurous. She wants to be a part of

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something different from what she is told she is a part of. She doesn’t want the ocean…she wants
something…more. She wants land, streets, fire, feet. And she is determined and independent,
knowing that she doesn’t solely belong where she is and standing up for that. Doing something
about it, with or without permission. And her voice is one of the most important aspects of her
identity. It is what makes her recognizable to others, what others use to define who she is.
Without it, she isn’t Ariel. Just a girl without a voice, walking on dry land. Misperceived and
misunderstood.

Figure 1 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, 2/28/2019.

A twenty-three-year-old childlike person begins research, still intuitively knowing
themself to be Ariel walking on dry land, having an intimate knowledge of who they are.
Nonbinary. Neither singularly man nor woman. Something much more complicated. They hold
the fluidity of both fins and feet, their gender as fluid as the magic that shifts Ariel from one state

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of being to another. But people do not hear them for who they are. Their voice does not carry
with it any real or perceivable sound for who they know themself to be. It carries ‘girl,’
‘woman,’ ‘female.’ They are not heard. At times, it is like they have no voice at all.
Yet their voice—my voice—is such an important and intimate part of me. As a
musician—more specifically, a singer—it is often my instrument of choice, an instrument that I
carry around with me into every space I occupy. It is one of the very first instruments I started
studying in middle school and that I continued to study throughout college as my primary
instrument. My voice is something I take pride in and often receive compliments about. I know
my voice well and how to use it to engage in quality music. In fact, making music with my voice
is one of my favorite things to do. It is self-soothing, both a resource and strength. It vibrates my
body with warmth, filling up the spaces within me and extending into the spaces around me. My
voice connects me with other people and yet it also separates me in the way it offers one of many
ways to misgender me. Of course, my voice is not the only site of misperception, as my body
makeup and gender expressions also play important roles. However, it cannot be denied that
when someone hears my voice paired with my body and expressions, whether I am singing or
speaking, they often make assumptions about who I am and how I must identify. I love this voice
even as I am frustrated by it.
In coming to know my gender, there came with it the realization that I wanted a voice
that accurately and authentically represented who I am, how I identify, and how I want to express
that to the world. This occurred concurrently with beginning to consider what kind of thesis
research project I might pursue to complete my Master of Music Therapy degree at Slippery

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Rock University. Upon reading an article by Randi Rolvsjord1 and Jill Halstead (2013) which
explored the politics of gender and the voice in music therapy, I had an interest in voicework and
exploring how folks in LGBTQ+ communities experience their voices in terms of self-esteem,
gender, and sexuality. The more I reflected on my own relationship with my voice, however,
particularly with my singing voice and its overlap with my speaking voice, the more it became
clear that the research project I was meant to do was a self-study on gender affirming voicework
in music therapy. This was a gradual process where the focus expanded into different areas and
also narrowed into a clearer project throughout my process of reflecting on my voice, engaging
with various bodies of literature, and engaging in actual voicework.
Autoethnography became the method for the research. This method will be explored in
greater depth later, but it involves the researcher writing about “epiphanies that stem from, or are
made possible by, being part of a culture or by possessing a particular cultural identity” (Carolyn
Ellis, Tony E. Adams, & Arthur P. Bochner, 2011, n.p.). Further, it values the reflexive process
of analyzing and reanalyzing audio/video recordings, field notes, memos, and recollections using
creative methods, such as writing, poetry, music, etc., to find meaning and understanding
(Byrnjulf Stige & Allison Ledger, 2016). As the focus of my research continued to emerge, it
became clear that queer autoethnography would more specifically serve as my method because
of the ways it is grounded within a queer theoretical framework.

I am intentionally including authors’ first names in efforts to challenge the unconscious assumption that authors are
both male and white. I am also using first names in efforts to create an engaging and personal text which feels more
conversational for the reader. I recognize that this does not strictly adhere to APA guidelines. This is an intentional
queer choice on my part to write new discursive options that humanize people and recognize authors’ subjective
positioning. The first time I cite an author, I use their full name. Thereafter, I use first names when the author is
mentioned directly in a sentence, and I use last names within parenthetical citations.
1

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Although an exploration will later be provided containing the ways in which Tony
Adams and Stacy Holman Jones have hinged together autoethnography and queer theory (2008;
2010; 2011; 2016), it is important to offer a definition of queer theory before more deeply
sharing my story as I will refer back to acts of queering throughout my autoethnography. Simply,
although incompletely described because of the ways it can have many meanings, queer theory is
a critical theory and theoretical framework which involves deconstructing and destabilizing
normal, fixed, and binary understandings. Queer theories have their birthplace in the work of
Judith Butler (1999; 2004), Michel Foucault (1978), and many others. Common features of queer
theories can include “resisting the categorization of people; challenging the idea of essential
identities; questioning binaries like gay/straight, male/female; demonstrating how things are
contextual, based on geography, history, culture, etc.; and examining the power relations
underlying certain understandings, categories, identities, etc.” (Meg-John Barker & Julia
Scheele, 2016). Queer can be an adjective (i.e., a queer person), a derogatory noun (i.e., the
queer), or a verb (i.e., to queer something). Here, I turn to queer as a verb, meaning to take
action. This draws upon common features of queer theories in efforts to destabilize and
dismantle normative understandings, stories, and knowledge. Throughout my autoethnography, I
acknowledge moments of queering, and I consider gender affirming voicework informed by
queer theory.
Early on in my voice explorations, I emailed the following to my professor and thesis
advisor, Susan Hadley, with whom I had been sharing the complexities of gender and talking
about this potential research project:
I’m finding my own experience with my voice interesting because from high school up
until this point, I have been all over the place vocally, flipping from high soprano to

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mezzo-soprano and back…and then back again. I’ve worked with several teachers who
have followed me with this, either working with me within soprano territory or moving
me towards mezzo land. I mean that in terms of pitch range, but also in terms of voice
color and in some ways the themes of the repertoire itself. Sopranos typically have a
lighter, more delicate or what I would perceive as “feminine” sound. Mezzos typically
have a warmer, richer and more “masculine” sound. I’m interested in the context of me
being connected with either, or rather both, of these sounds. Meaning, did my feeling
connected with my assigned gender let me feel more comfortable with that more
“feminine” part of my voice which led me to have an easier time in singing soprano
repertoire? And then on the flip side, did not feeling connected with my assigned gender
lead me to feel a sense of wrongness and a struggling with using that “feminine” voice?
[Reflecting back,] I don’t think that I can really know the answers to these questions, but
I know that there have been times where I have had a lot of difficulty in navigating my
voice—where anxiety takes over, and I end up vocally giving up because of a feeling of
being uncomfortable. (2/2/2017)
As I reflected more on what I expressed in this email, I thought of times where my high notes
would blossom—where the sound would pour out of me and everything would just work. I
recalled these moments as feeling ‘good,’ ‘right,’ filled with confidence, like it all just made
sense. My voice was an extension of me, expanding into the room, taking up as much space as it
could. And in sharp contrast, I thought of specific moments where I shut down and these notes
would not work, regardless of how hard I tried to access them. The sound—lost somewhere
within me, not finding its way out. My voice—clunky, forced, harsh, pushed into a space that
wasn’t working. I recalled how some of these moments occurred in the presence of others,

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particularly in voice lessons, and how this often brought me to the verge of tears, halting the
work I was doing.
These questions and reflections arose within a desire to understand my voice and gender
in all their complexities and to access vocal sounds that accurately reflect how I know myself to
be. Since writing this email just over two years ago, I’ve realized that there are certainly
moments of singing and speaking where I openly embrace the femininity of my voice, with/for
myself, with friends and family, and with those I work with clinically. Sometimes this feels right,
wholesome, affirming. However, more often than not, this comes with discomfort. I feel much
more connected to my whole Self when I sit within sounds that would likely be associated with
masculinity or androgyny. Not always—but often. Further, musically, I have found that my voice
has settled into mezzo land as a contralto and even sometimes a high tenor and that I am most at
home when singing in the lower and richer parts of my voice. In particular, I love the way these
sounds rattle and vibrate my chest, neck, and body in ways that bring about a sense of aliveness
and fullness.
Where do I live in my house?
There are parts of my home I spend more time in,
but I travel around,
sometimes up to the attic,
sometimes down to the basement,
sometimes out in the garden,
sometimes settled in the kitchen.

But I am drawn to the basement.

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I keep coming back,
finding comfort there
even though its cold
and damp
and there’s no furniture
to sit on.
I’m drawn to the basement.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)2
An attempt at defining my gender
You are made of planets
and stars and seas and oceans.
And no one can tell them
what they can and cannot be.
(Nikita Gill, Planets and Stars, second stanza)
Throughout this autoethnography, I use Self with a capital S, referring to a person’s inner
most world, to a person’s truest and most whole understanding of themself as it may change
from moment to moment with fluidity. It is the notion of being connected with the center of your
being, to being fully with yourself. I do not understand it to be a stagnant, fixed ‘essence’ that
carries with it a singular truth and which remains unchanging, existing in isolation from others. It
is not like a house with sturdy walls and a clear foundation. I do understand the Self to be in a
constant state of becoming something else, impacted by their interconnectedness to other people,
to other interconnected Selves. It is like the ocean in that it is both a singular body and a fluid

2

Influenced by Lisa Sokolov’s discussion of the voice and body as a ‘house.’ Refer to Sokolov (in press).

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body that continues to ‘become.’ While recognizing the way ‘Self’ has often been used and
understood as this fixed truth, I intentionally use the word, attempting to re-author it into a more
fluid, complex, and queer understanding of identity.
Considering this, I turn to my gender as a part of my identity. Despite developing more
intimate understandings of my gender, I don’t think I will ever find ‘perfect’ language to offer
others. Because of this, I am often hesitant to attempt defining my gender as it feels as though it
is constantly becoming something else, like an ocean, the moving of water, the rotating of the
planets, the expansion of the stars. I worry that my words will grossly concretize something that
is so complexly malleable and shifting. Definitions can limit or reduce us to one way of being
even as they can be helpful for communicating and understanding. That shared, I am growing to
know that a parcel of my gender truth(s) is that nonbinary and agender have become the most
comfortable set of words to describe myself, as they feel able to hold my continued tensions with
gender. Perhaps that will shift because over time these words have emerged out of different
words such as genderfluid and genderqueer, which were somewhat comfortable but not quite
complete. At the moment it feels as though nonbinary and agender most accurately encompass
the natural shifting that occurs within my gender.
Succinctly, though perhaps not adequately described, I am drawn to understanding
myself as genderless, meaning that I have no gender and solely connect with different and/or
multiple points along a spectrum of culturally constructed ideas of masculinity, androgyny, and
femininity. Where I connect in relation to this spectrum has shifted over different periods of my
life. I have realized that I go through short and sometimes long phases where my style and sense
of Self settles into/onto/outside of this spectrum, at multiple points simultaneously. It is difficult
to describe this if you have not witnessed or experienced it personally, but my relationship to my

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Self and body feels differently across these phases. It is always nonbinary, but nonbinary along a
spectrum of culturally gendered meanings. Each time I reflect on my gender, my understanding
expands into more complex territory, which is beautiful yet also challenging to communicate to
others.
on the land
there are two poles:
Woman
and Man.
to resist one,
you must approach the other.

I bind my body
to fit
into a carefully constructed,
narrow
space
where only a few
will find me.
it reads,
“Other.”

this space is not a pole.
magnets tug from both sides.

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
they pull at my bones.
I hold myself together.

sometimes, I run
like the little boy I was
on my second-grade soccer team
a little wild
but powerful
and my lungs scream
to take up more space

sometimes, I sing
holding an infant
in a room full of new mothers
and only the baby knows
how my chest
is not for her

on the land,
I pose
and adjust
the dial of my appearance
I cannot paint myself

12

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
green, gold, and sky blue
here.
we are given
only black and white
so I attempt
the most perfect grey.

in the water
my chest is unbound
but I do not mind.
there is no word
for “woman”
here.

in the water
I am expansive
fluid
illegible

my arms stretch
my legs kick
my lungs expand
my hair flows

13

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my body flips and curves

my spine realigns
from the slouch of bound resignation
to the stretch and curve
of an otter’s playful dance.
my back no longer hurts.

here, I understand
how the octopus
enacts perfect camouflage
despite being colorblind.
I know what it is
to create colors
that, where I’m from,
do not exist.
(Victoria Gilman Fansler, on the land _ in the water)
Reflections on binding
It feels important to spend some time discussing what a binder is and how it has impacted
my ability to breathe and therefore my ability to sing and support my sound. Binding—the act of
wearing a binder—is something that many trans men and some nonbinary, female-assigned
persons do to compress their breasts and give a flat-chested appearance. A binder is made of
elastic material that compresses everything, causing the body to have to work harder to breathe.

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It’s obviously not ideal; however, the physical discomfort often relieves emotional discomforts.
For many, not all, this is a temporary solution until a person is able to have what many trans and
nonbinary folks refer to as ‘top surgery.’ Below I share a series of emails sent to Sue where I
reflect on binding prior to starting voicework.
I’m going to need to notate when I am and am not wearing binders [for voicework].
Because they put a lot of pressure on my ribs and lungs, they drastically affect my breath
control and support. Some days I can’t [or rather shouldn’t] wear them because of either
[my] asthma stuff or because my skin is raw from the pressure. […] Future note—when I
eventually have top surgery (binders are not a long-term solution [for me] as a vocalist
[and music therapist]), I’m probably going to have to return to some of this work (if all
goes well) […]
[…] binding, in general, is really stressful on the body. It’s not really a long-term
solution for anyone and if people don’t practice healthy habits, they can seriously
damage their body—break ribs, break down their cartilage, etc. […] I bind mindfully,
really avoiding [wearing] anything longer than 12 hours, having ‘off’ days with no
binding especially when my body is saying I need to, etc. In general, it’s a stressful thing
though.
[This reflection comes from Sue asking if I might decide to wear something
looser—she is concerned and saddened that binding causes me pain and difficulty with
breathing. …] [V]oicework might be easier with something looser, but unfortunately, I
don’t know when I will have surgery—it could be years from now—and if I’m going to be
living how my body is now, I’d rather learn how to support a sound with how I’m most
comfortable at this moment. Honestly, I think supporting that sound after [a] surgery

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would be even easier because my body would (hopefully) be trained to work at it. [I
imagine supporting would involve less work post-surgery.] If I do end up doing this work
with female-assigned folks, I’m going to run into similar struggles. Especially because
surgery is super expensive and not always covered by insurance because it’s [sometimes]
seen as cosmetic… (10/18/2017)
Further, I reflect on the ways a binder, amidst these challenges, has brought about a positive
impact:
[…] I’ve known I’ve wanted a [breast] reduction since middle school, but it wasn’t until I
started binding a year ago though that I realized it was more than that. I think of my
experience in voice lessons. One of the comments I’d always get from teachers was
“shoulders back, chest out” but that was so uncomfortable for me [to do because of the
(un)conscious ways my large chest felt hypervisible] and I’d tend to collapse in on
myself. When I’m wearing a binder, I don’t feel that way. I feel like I can stand taller, and
it’s not a masculinity thing [i.e., feeling able to take up more space]. It’s an “I feel
comfortable in my own skin” thing. I feel like that’s hard to understand if you haven’t
experienced it, but it’s very real for me. In some ways binding has improved my singing
because of [having my shoulders back and chest out], even as I don’t have the same
phrase lengths that I used to have [and even though it requires more effort to stay
expanded]. (10/18/2017)

Throughout my voicework, I ended up wearing binders for all sessions, and I never did work
when I was having a ‘bad’ breathing day. It feels important as I consider working with other

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people to be able to comfortably talk about binders and their impacts on breathing, singing, and
more broadly supporting sound.
Of course, binding exists within a history that should be recognized. I experience tension
when considering how cis women bound themselves using a corset in efforts to look pleasing to
men. Because of the ways this has become understood as repressive and oppressive, cis women
fought against this. But for trans and nonbinary folks, I would suggest that binding perhaps feels
anything but oppressive. For me, it feels liberating, even as it leaves me sometimes gasping for
air. Despite this historical context, I experience a beautiful kind of freedom in being so tightly
bound.
“Woman”
is a loose-fitting garment
a hand-me-down
passed through generations

an opera gown, from my father’s grandmother
stunning and simple
a frame for the music
and I am made of melody
yet the frame
does not fit

a feather boa, from my father’s mother
playful and bold

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
tap-dancing through her seventies
and I spin, and take up space
yet the feathers
make me sneeze

a maternity blouse, from my mother herself
tenderly making space for me
living and loving for family
and my heart, it holds so many
yet my womb
never will

this garment is so sacred
I might never have taken it off
itchy and vacant,
but rich with the history
of those who made a way for me

I dared not reject it
I dared not let it fray
I dared not stand naked
at the opera
at the studio

18

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in my home

The first time I bound my chest
I cried
at seeing myself
in something
that finally
fit

I cried
at seeing
myself

…
somewhere in my lineage
is a tightly-fitted corset
and a woman who unbound herself

I wonder if I disappoint her
but I think
I embody her the most

…

19

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20

somewhere in my progeny
is a twelve-year-old
whose gender has no name

I will offer them
a tightly-fitting garment
and they will stitch their story
(Victoria Gilman Fansler, Woman is a loose-fitting garment)
My tensions with taking testosterone
Within these ongoing journeys of understanding myself more deeply, I realized a desire
for a voice, particularly a speaking voice, that would be perceived in a more androgynoussomething-outside-of-man-and-woman kind of way—something that would not as easily lead to
female perceptions of gender and that would hold my gender in all the ways it shifts.
Importantly, I desired this voice to exist simultaneously to the singing voice that is such a
strength and resource for me. That is, I wanted my voice to be more androgynous, to hold the
ways I embody both my masculinity and femininity, but I did not want to lose the familiarity I
had with my singing voice, the instrument that I felt (and feel) so intimately connected with. I
began engaging with various bodies of literature from the field of speech-language pathology as
well as from other fields specific to musical vocal training and vocal health, all of which
considered trans (and subsumed within that, nonbinary) voices.

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21

I learned that many trans men and female-assigned nonbinary persons3 pursue hormone
therapy4; that is, they take testosterone (Eli Coleman, Walter Bockting, Marsha Botzer, Peggy T.
Cohen-Kettenis, Griet DeCuypere, Jamie Feldman, Lin Fraser, et al., 2012; Shelagh Davies &
Joshua M. Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória G. Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015). This
is because of how effective testosterone is at creating permanent and significant vocal changes,
along with other bodily changes. These include “deepened voice, clitoral enlargement (variable),
growth in facial and body hair, cessation of menses, atrophy of breast tissue, and decreased
percentage of body fat compared to muscle mass” (Coleman et al., 2012, p. 188). A deepened
voice typically occurs because the vocal folds are thickening, similar to what a young adolescent
cis boy experiences during puberty. Once this change happens, it is permanent and cannot be
undone. It is important to note that no one can pick and choose the changes that testosterone
might yield (Maddie Deutsch, 2014). Taking testosterone does not consist of a checklist where a
person can select which effects they want and which ones they do not or the intensity of the
aforementioned effects. Of course, there are ways to have some control over the process through
using low-dose testosterone and stopping after certain effects occur, but it is not an exact science
because individual bodies can and do respond differently. Some effects are only present when a

3

It is very important to me that I utilize gender affirming language, emphasizing in my descriptions of people
gender instead of assigned sex. Throughout this autoethnography, I do this as much as possible because I intimately
understand the painful experience of reading literature which continuously uses invalidating language to describe
trans and nonbinary people. However, sometimes when discussing nonbinary people, in particular, it becomes
important to include language regarding assigned sex. I only do this when it is imperative to understanding
nonbinary vocal situations. I express my deepest apologies if my language causes harm to anyone.
4
Hormone therapy encompasses several different types/options. This can include puberty suppressing hormones,
which are fully reversible and provide youth with time to explore their gender by preventing the development of
secondary sex characteristics (Coleman et al., 2011). Hormone therapy can also include taking hormones to create
partially reversible bodily changes—estrogen to feminize and testosterone to masculinize. An exploration into these
various types of hormone therapies is important for considering what gender affirming voicework might be in the
future. However, for the purposes of this autoethnography, I solely reflect on the possibility of taking testosterone
given my positioning as a female-assigned nonbinary adult.

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22

person is actively taking testosterone, but any effects caused by testosterone on the voice are
permanent, despite any discontinuation.
This new knowledge left me with a large amount of tension for various reasons. While I
knew that I wanted some kind of vocal change, I really did not want all the other physical
changes that would potentially come with hormone therapy, even if some of those effects would
only temporarily occur when I was actively using testosterone. Furthermore, taking testosterone,
even if only for a period of time, “greatly reduces the ability to become pregnant, but it does not
eliminate the possibility” (Deutsch, 2014, p. 8393). I do not know what the future may hold for
me in terms of physically having children, but I wanted that option kept open to its fullest
capacity.
What was perhaps my biggest concern, though, was a worry that I would permanently
change my voice, more specifically my singing voice, in a way that I might regret. I sensed that I
could cope with regretting this possible change in my speech, but not with my singing. I read
literature about specific problem areas that might be experienced by those using hormone
therapy including pitch range/variability, vocal control/stability, vocal power (i.e., strength),
vocal endurance, glottal function, the singing voice, breathing, muscle tension/posture, and other
functions not specified (David Azul, Ulrika Nygren, Maria Södersten, & Christiane NeuschaeferRube, 2017). Other literature noted that there are important considerations that must be kept in
mind for individuals who sing and use testosterone because of the ways it can decrease a singer’s
pitch range (Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, & John Van Borsel, 2012). In particular,
there may be a “loss in the high tones [that] might not fully be compensated for by a gain in the
lower frequencies” (p. 159). Further, Alexandros Constansis (2009) has written about the
phenomenon of entrapped FtM vocality, a term that describes the difficulties that individuals

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23

who’ve used testosterone may experience with getting their lower pitches to resonate. This has to
do with the fact that female-assigned persons’ vocal tracts are not getting larger, even as their
vocal cords thicken. This expressed, I had read personal accounts on the Internet of singers who
had used taken testosterone and were able to successfully maintain the flexibility and technical
skillset of their singing voice. However, I had also read horror stories of people who were
reduced to only an octave of their voice. As musicians and/or music therapists, I’m sure that we
can imagine how this would limit the musical capabilities of a singer. While recommendations
exist regarding how to best work with singers who’ve taken or who are taking testosterone
(Adler, Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012; Constansis, 2008; Anita Kozan, 2012), the variability is
certainly concerning.
I draw upon my early reflections on this:
I am a music therapist and my main instrument is my voice…my voice is a huge part of
my identity, both personally and professionally. Not only do I need my voice for speaking,
but it is my musical instrument and one that I have been using for a large portion of my
life. Musically, I have a particularly intimate relationship with it. I know how to ‘play’ it,
how it functions, and which notes and vowels I need to pay more attention to than
others—meaning, I know the nuances of my own voice and how to make it do what I want
it to do when I am singing. With this, the voice is different from other instruments in that
it cannot be picked up and put down as others can. It is a part of my being as I carry it
with me, regardless of whether I use it or not. With hormone therapy, I could pick up a
new instrument by taking testosterone, and I could find that I love this new instrument,
even more so than my current one. However, I could also find that I regret the change,
and given the fact that vocal changes from testosterone are permanent and irreversible, I

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24

would not be able to put this new instrument down. This is not a risk that I am willing to
take.5 (Spring 2017)
Yes, it is true that if I had pursued hormone therapy, my voice post-testosterone would
essentially function in the same way it did pre-testosterone (i.e., the mechanics behind how my
voice is able to produce sound would be the same). But there would be differences to that
functionality which would change how I know how to use my voice.
For instance, imagine this situation on any other instrument you might know well; I will
use the cello as an example. Imagine you’ve been playing a specific model and type of cello for
most of your playing life. Because of the length of time you’ve been playing, you know the
intricacies of the cello. Further, because you’ve been playing that particular cello throughout this
time, you know that cello intimately. You know what string tends to go out of tune. You know
how much pressure is needed by your fingers or the bow to create a specific kind of sound. You
know how long the endpin needs to be for the cello to feel most right in your body. You know
how your hand needs to be placed to jump from one note to the next. You know the physical
experience of playing that cello and the ways it vibrates across your body and into the room
around you. You know that instrument in an intimate way.
Now let’s imagine that you start playing the bass for the first time. Sure, the mechanics
behind how the cello and bass function are essentially the same, but there are subtle and perhaps
drastic differences that make those instruments uniquely different. You would likely fumble in
playing the bass, at least at first, not knowing it in the same kind of intimate ways that you know
the cello. The strings would feel different at the point they meet your fingertips. The instrument’s

5

I draw attention to the ways my thinking here sat in a queer and fluid space. In these early reflections, I consider
my voice as not only a deeply intimate part of my Self and identity, but also a tool and outside resource that I can
use. I understand the voice to not singularly be only one of these things, but rather both.

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25

size and shape—settled cautiously and perhaps clumsily in your hands and on your body. The
bow held at new and perhaps strange angles by your arm. The vibrational feedback experienced
with a uniqueness. The bass would in many ways be foreign territory, even as it might feel
vaguely familiar. Perhaps this vagueness would be a kind of change that you want. Perhaps you
would find that the bass is your instrument in a way the cello never was. Perhaps it feels like
‘home,’ perfectly sitting on your body, in your hands, at your fingertips—as though it is simply
an extension of who you are and how you exist in this world. If so—beautiful—you keep playing
the bass. If not, then you simply put it down and pick up your cello or even another instrument
altogether.
But again, the voice cannot be picked up and put down like other instruments. That
intimacy and connection that I have with my singing voice is something that is more important to
me than something that I could potentially connect more with. Perhaps I lacked the willingness
to venture into the unknown—to relearn my instrument and the ways testosterone would give it
new intricacies. Or, perhaps, I instead wanted the voice I know and love—even as it doesn’t
always fit me, even as it at times frustrates me—to be my ‘home.’

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26

CHAPTER 2
Dropped in an Ocean
The growing, aching quiet of this home
has led me to reading space theories.
The notions are slowly wrapping around my bones,
settling between my heart and ribcage with intricacy.
(Nikita Gill, Multiverse, first stanza)
Immersing myself in speech therapy
At this point, I continued to have tensions with the possibility of taking testosterone,
grappling with this decision and working my way through other literature from the field of
speech-language pathology. While I recognize hormone therapy to be an important and
invaluable resource for many trans and nonbinary folks, I wondered if it could really be the
resource that might fulfill my individual needs. I learned that in addition to vocal surgeries
(something I knew for certain I did not want to pursue), speech therapy was a possibility, one
that was often used in conjunction with testosterone. I read that as long as people are not pushed
to the extremes of their voices, it can “make a speaker’s voice more flexible” (Azul, 2015, p. 80),
which felt relevant to my own vocal situation particularly given the capabilities I already
possessed as a practiced singer. Clinical guidelines suggested that speech therapy can be used to
make clinical changes around gendered parameters of the voice including pitch, intonation,
resonance, articulation, speech rate, strength, language usage, and nonverbal communication, all
of which influence perceptions of gender (Azul, 2015; Adler, Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012;
Davies & Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015). I grew more intrigued by and curious
about an alternative route toward vocal change for myself, specifically within music therapy. I

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27

didn’t quite know what that overlap was because what I was reading was housed within the field
of speech-language pathology, not vocal pedagogy or music therapy, but I sensed that there was
some kind of potential there that overlapped with my own vocal strengths and knowledge as a
singer and music therapist.
Reading literature and engaging with my own voice in the ways I have, I’ve grown to
appreciate to an even greater depth the intricacies of the voice. There are so many different
aspects that make ‘our’ voice unique to us while existing within patterns of speech that lead the
listener to ‘hear’ gender in the voice (Azul, 2013). Understanding these culturally saturated
speech patterns is important for speech-language pathologists working with trans and nonbinary
voices (Richard Adler, Sandy Hirsch, and Michelle Mordaunt, 2012; Coleman et al., 2012;
Davies & Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015). These patterns are steeped in the
social norms that surround us. Further, I suggest that the voice is not just about gender—it gives
cues to important information about other aspects of identity, such as geographic location,
heritage, language, age, race/ethnicity, sexuality, etc. This is not to imply that aspects of identity
have essential sounds that are identifiable and that inherently mean one thing, but instead, that
vocal sounds can potentially give cues, whether those cues are right or wrong, to various aspects
of identity. With this, the idea of a universal feminine or masculine sound fails to consider the
nuances of “age, culture, region, and social context between speaker and listener” (Davies &
Goldberg, 2006, p. 169). What is understood as feminine or masculine varies across different
cultures, regions, and historical periods.
Culturally situating my own voice beyond my gender as nonbinary and assigned sex as
female, I am also a classically trained singer and music therapist who was twenty-three years old
during the beginnings of this research. I am white, queer, and physically non-disabled but live

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with dysthymia (persistent depressive disorder) and asthma. I am also an American-English
speaker with a graduate-level education who grew up in a rural mid-Atlantic region of the United
States and in a lower-middle-class family. Each of these cultural markers of my voice can
potentially be ‘heard’ or realized, some perhaps more so than others.
Despite understanding how there isn’t a universal feminine or masculine voice, there are
patterns of speech that are more likely to be perceived in feminine or masculine ways specific to
a Euro-American context. Patterns that tend to be perceived in more feminine ways and therefore
lead to people more likely being identified as women/girls include those who tend to speak
within the range of 180-220 Hz (around F3-A3) (Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015); with a greater
range of inflection; with higher head resonances and brighter, more nasalized, breathy, and
weaker sounds; and with lighter but more drawn out articulation (Adler, Hirsch, & Mordaunt,
2012; Coleman et al., 2012; Davies & Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015). Speech
patterns that tend to be perceived in more masculine ways, leading to identification as men/boys,
include those who tend to speak within the range of 100-140 Hz (around G2-Db3) (Davies, Papp,
& Antoni, 2015); with a more level or monotone kind of inflection; with lower chest resonances
and richer, warmer, stronger, and clearer sounds; and with staccato-like and punched-out
articulation (Adler, Hirsch, & Mordaunt, 2012; Coleman et al, 2012; Davies & Goldberg, 2006;
Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015).
I learned that of these parameters, there are certain ones that are more significant for
gender perception, particularly when considering work with trans and nonbinary individuals.
Pitch (or fundamental frequency) is one of the most important cues of gender (Marylou
Pausewang Gelfer & Quinn E. Bennett, 2013; Marylou Pausewang Gelfer & Victoria A. Mikos,
2005; James M. Hillenbrand & Michael J. Clark, 2009; Verena G. Skuk & Stefan R.

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Schweinberger, 2014), and although there are certainly fluctuations with the ranges mentioned
above, voices that sit within those frequency ranges and/or just outside of them are more likely to
be perceived in feminine or masculine ways, respectively. In the space between these two ranges
exists what is understood as a gender-neutral or more androgynous range—that of 145-175 Hz
(around D3-F3) (Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015). Within this androgynous range, resonance
actually becomes the most important cue of gender, more specifically the formant frequencies of
vowels (also known as FFs or the vocal tract resonances) (Donald G. Childers & Ke Wu, 1991;
Davies & Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015; Pausewang Gelfer & Bennett, 2013;
Hillenbrand & Clark, 2009; Skuk & Schweinberger, 2014). These will be explored later, but they
are particularly important in relation to gender as more masculine speech patterns tend to have
lower FFs and more feminine ones tend to have higher FFs (James M. Hillenbrand, Laura A.
Getty, Michael J. Clark, & Kimberlee Wheeler, 1995). Further, resonance is important even
outside of that androgynous range.
[A]s the length and complexity of utterances increases from vowels to syllables to
connected speech, the perception of gender becomes less and less a function of speaking
fundamental frequency [i.e., pitch] and more reliant on other parameters of the voice.
…[and o]ne of those parameters is clearly vocal tract resonance. (Pausewang Gelfer &
Bennett, 2013, p. 565)
This means that when working with trans and nonbinary voices, resonance is uniquely important
to perceptions of gender (Adler, Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012; Coleman et al., 2012; Davies
& Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015; Hirsch & Pausewang Gelfer, 2012; Jane
Thornton, 2008). When I consider my own vocal situation, I realized resonance, pitch and pitch
range, and the overall quality of the voice were areas that I was most interested in working with.

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words
language
bodies
wrapped in gender
like the water
wraps around my skin
as I swim.

I swim within
these waves
trying to
grab onto
the slipperiness
of their gender.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)
Through these explorations of speech therapy, I found a Voice and Communication
Program specific to trans (and nonbinary) individuals that was developed by Richard Adler
(2012) (refer to Appendix A). This focused on vocal feminization but would be relevant for
vocal masculinization as well. Here, suggestions were offered for speech therapy work. It was
suggested that throughout treatment, a client’s voice should be measured for visual and auditory
feedback and that clients should keep a journal of their successes and failures. Further, the use of
diaphragmatic breathing exercises, speech therapy protocols, various speech therapy assessment
tools, and progressive relaxation exercises should be incorporated. Adler advised that the client

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practice new speech patterns by reading short and long poems, taking part in spontaneous
conversations with the clinician, and employing these techniques in their everyday social
environments. Lastly, working on singing techniques, if appropriate, was mentioned. In a
separate chapter that was part of the same book as this Voice and Communication Program,
specific suggestions were offered for working with those masculinizing their voices (Adler,
Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012). These included working to maintain a lower pitch and
comfortable range; establishing chest resonance; establishing diaphragmatic breathing patterns
and stabilizing posture; producing a strong, easy vocal onset; eliminating the harsh glottal attack;
releasing tension from the jaw and tongue; and releasing body tension. This program and
additional suggestions specific to vocal masculinization helped to inform the kind of work I
would personally do in conjunction with the knowledge I already had as a singer and music
therapist.
At this point, I had not begun any kind of intentional voicework. However, engaging with
this literature and learning more about gendered patterns of speech led to changes in the ways
that I voiced into the world and experienced my Self. I grew more attentive and aware—
sometimes hyperaware—of my own vocal tendencies.
In voicing, I hear the disconnect
like a sound you don’t quite expect
to be coming out of the body you see
but somewhere in the water
there must be some semblance
of sound
that can hold me

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32

in the ways I know myself.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)
I noticed specific things about my speech and the ways it would move into and out of different
‘spaces.’ I acutely noticed the ways my voice would, at times, jump up and into this high,
breathy, small space and how this brought discomfort—wrongness—annoyance even. I sense
that this was something I had already been unconsciously experiencing prior to this research—I
considered my email to Sue where I reflected on previous experiences of my voice. But I didn’t
have the language then to articulate it for what it was and, further, I struggled to experience my
voice (and whole person) in a full-bodied kind of way. I believe that having that gendered vocal
language allowed me to understand and articulate my discomfort with my own vocal pattern,
and, more specifically, the ways it often fell into what is commonly perceived as feminine.
During this time, I—and those with whom I often interacted and in particular who knew about
the literature I was exploring—noticed how I both intentionally and unintentionally began
shifting aspects of my speech into its lower parts in terms of pitch and resonance to some degree,
although not consistently and not effectively. In a queer way, these changes were both purposeful
and not purposeful…both conscious and unconscious in thought…both with intention and
without…and they were changes that arose from a heightened awareness. These were affirming
even as I continued to struggle with my voice and with finding my place within all this literature.
Further engaging with the literature specific to feminizing or masculinizing the voice
through speech therapy, there were disparities identified by the authors I was reading. Most
notably, much of the literature focused on the experiences of trans women (and subsumed within
that, male-assigned nonbinary persons). Although present, literature on vocal masculinization is
sorely lacking in comparison to literature regarding vocal feminization through the use of speech

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therapy (Adler, Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012; Azul, 2015; Azul et al., 2017; Davies &
Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015). I learned that this difference within the
literature is likely attributed to the impacts of testosterone on the voice. For male-assigned
individuals who went through puberty, they’ve already experienced the permanent and
irreversible effects of high levels of testosterone in the body. Because of this, hormone therapy
(using feminizing hormones and not testosterone) does not impact the vocal cords of maleassigned individuals in the drastic ways masculinizing hormones can impact female-assigned
persons (Coleman et al, 2012). This means that trans women and male-assigned nonbinary folks
must pursue other options such as speech therapy and/or vocal surgeries, while trans men and
female-assigned nonbinary persons are more likely to use hormone therapy (i.e., taking
testosterone) because of how effective it is. However, given the difficulties that may be
experienced by individuals who take testosterone to masculinize the voice (Azul et al., 2017;
Adler, Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012; Constansis, 2009), speech-language pathologists I read
stated that speech therapy for vocal masculinization needs to be further explored (Adler,
Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012; Azul 2015; Azul et al., 2017). I suggest this needs to happen
not only for trans men and female-assigned nonbinary persons who do use take testosterone but
also for individuals such as myself who are reluctant to pursue its usage.
Finding myself in the narrative
And finally
I will open the doors
and welcome myself home.
(Nikita Gill, Homes, third stanza)

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At this point, I had learned of gendered patterns of speech, androgynous range, and the
importance of resonance to gender perceptions. I further had learned about the divides within the
literature and understood why those likely existed, even as guidelines suggested speech therapy
can be used for both feminization and masculinization (Adler, Constansis, & Van Borsel, 2012;
Azul, 2015; Davies & Goldberg, 2006; Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015). But all of this knowledge
still left me with tension that I couldn’t quite shake. I thought, “This is great—but also—what
does this mean for me?” All of this literature was talking about trans men or trans women, yet
the literature that I might relate more to as a female-assigned nonbinary person was not explored
at a depth that satisfied the uncertainty and ambiguity I was experiencing. Yes, I was excited by
what I was reading, but I couldn’t quite situate it. “Where am I in this literature? Where am I in
these narratives of trans vocal experiences? I don’t see myself…” I knew the information that I
was soaking up was important, but I struggled to understand myself in relation to this new
knowledge. What did this mean for me and my own voice—for this voicework?
The water is lukewarm
too cold and too warm
it’s not quite right
I don’t feel home.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)
In more specifically considering the voices of nonbinary individuals, there was virtually
no research that mentioned this community. One of the first instances of myself in the literature
came in the form of two paragraphs in a larger forty-two-page article that I had already been
reading regarding vocal feminization and masculinization:

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Many people identify as being under the gender nonconforming “umbrella” and there is
great variation in the extent to which voice and communication changes are undertaken
or desired by gender nonconforming individuals. Some gender nonconforming persons
seek to develop two speech patterns (one more masculine and one more feminine) either
because they identify as bigendered [i.e., nonbinary] or because external pressures
(family, employment, cultural community, friends) prevent living full time in a way that
is consistent with their felt sense of self. Some people may have a sense of gender that is
not at either pole of the cismale/cisfemale scale [i.e., man to woman spectrum] but is on a
continuum of masculine and feminine. They would like a more flexible gender
presentation to reflect this gender identity.
Further, most current transgender speech and voice protocols do not support
bimodal speech as a treatment goal, based on the belief that to achieve maximal change it
is necessary to have a consistent single speech pattern. Switching back and forth between
two speech patterns may be too difficult for some clients and inconsistent use decreases
practice opportunities to acquire the new speech/voice habits. However, the human
capacity to learn and speak more than two languages or dialects, develop a specific
accent for an acting role, and develop a singing voice that is different from the speaking
voice suggests it may be possible to develop bigender speech/voice. We encourage
speech-language therapists to be open to this possibility and not to routinely exclude
clients who have two speech/voice patterns as their treatment goal. We recommend that
speech services be made available to the full spectrum of the gender nonconforming
community. (Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015, pp. 120-121)

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And further pulling from an earlier clinical guideline which utilized similar, if not identical,
language as the above, there was also the statement that “[s]ome transgender persons who desire
changes to speech and voice seek maximum feminization or masculinization, while others
experience relief with a more androgynous presentation” (Davies & Goldberg, 2006, p. 168). I
was both excited and put off by the collective of these statements. I felt excited by the way they
recognized my existence as a nonbinary person for the first time in the literature. This was
unique to what I had engaged with up to this point, and I think because of this, I mostly stayed
within this space of excitement, perhaps because it felt safer. I wanted to be recognized, to
witness myself within the literature. But I was also put off by the way these statements so barely
scratched the surface. They were one nonbinary drop of water in the vast binary ocean of trans
vocal experiences that were explored within these clinical guidelines. Again, they were two
paragraphs in a larger forty-two-page article and were almost verbatim to those found in a thirtypage guide published almost ten years earlier. There had been no movement, except the removal
of any vague statement about those seeking androgynous voices—that is, me.
These statements existed alone and made no references to research that had been done in
relation to more nonbinary patterns of speech, whether those kinds of speech be more fluid (i.e.,
‘bimodal’ or even multimodal) or more consistently androgynous. This was a drastic contrast to
the vast amounts of research cited for other aspects of vocal change (although as noted most of
that research focused on trans women). If these are felt realities by trans and nonbinary persons,
then where were the clinical and research-based explorations of these variations and of ways of
working towards these kinds of speech patterns? Further, I experienced the way ‘bimodal’
speech patterns were discussed as dismissive in some regards, as if this queer vocal fluidity was
often explained away by the medical community as ‘improbable’…or worse ‘impossible’…or

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even worse ‘unhealthy.’ This caused tension that I did not fully realize at the time—and as I
reflect back on this literature now, it angers me. I recognize that tension to be tied to the ways
vocal fixity (i.e., one singular speech pattern that isn’t variable) is antithetical to understandings
grounded in queer theory. I now wonder if the field of speech-language pathology will shift to
more fluid understandings of the voice and gender. Interestingly, I’ve since engaged with an
ethnomusicology article by Alec MacIntyre (2018), where bodily and vocal performances of
drag were explored through ethnographic research, specifically how one drag performer
embraced three different personas that consistently voiced very distinctive gendered vocal
sounds. The use of three separate and distinct voices suggests that we as people are capable of
more than one singular speech pattern; that is, we can speak and sing in multi-modal ways.
Although drag culture is certainly unique and separate from understanding trans and nonbinary
communities, the performed gendered fluidity of the voice(s) that were explored in this article
alludes to the importance of developing literature situating non-binary understandings of speech
patterns.
Returning to the speech-language pathology literature, I did eventually find knowledge
that more specifically explored vocal masculinization in ways that allowed room for my
existence as a nonbinary, female-assigned person. I particularly appreciated work by David Azul,
which seemed to embrace more fluid understandings of the voice and gender. I read of
explorations into the ways in which the voice was experienced, focused on people who are not
trans men and who were seeking vocal masculinization (Azul, 2016). I further read that
nonbinary individuals complicate ‘typical masculinization,’ having different needs (Azul, 2015).
This literature importantly emphasized that

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Changes that are achieved [in speech therapy] are generally reversible and can be finetuned according to the speaker’s wishes. This makes the behavioral development of vocal
communication skills [i.e., speech therapy] also suited for speakers who present with
shifting subjective gender positionings and for those who are interested in adopting
idiosyncratic vocal gender presentations that may deviate from generalized notions of
female [i.e., feminine] or male [i.e., masculine] communication patterns. (Azul, 2015, p.
80)
I read this and found great comfort, even excitement in it, but it was still only a small corner of
the literature. Further, it still didn’t specifically offer case studies or more in-depth research that
worked towards nonbinary speech patterns—not just the possibilities of them. I wanted to read
literature that explored working with nonbinary clients to ‘achieve’ nonbinary voices, whatever
that might mean to those clients. Like other texts I engaged with, this literature did point to the
ways speech therapy can make a person’s voice more flexible and can work on gendered vocal
parameters. Significantly, this literature stressed the importance of speech-language pathologists
shifting toward a more client-centered perspective, which leaves room for the clinician to more
intentionally realize the unique needs of not only nonbinary persons but all trans persons seeking
vocal change. Outside of these instances, though, the experiences and difficulties of nonbinary
individuals’ voices were conspicuously absent.
Coming back to that two-paragraph blurb from the clinical guidelines, the following line
stuck with me:
the human capacity to learn and speak more than two languages or dialects, develop a
specific accent for an acting role, and develop a singing voice that is different from the

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speaking voice suggests it may be possible to develop bigender [or rather, any kind of
nonbinary] speech/voice. (Davies, Papp, & Antoni, 2015, p. 121, italics added)
This felt significant considering my own personal vocal desires. It acknowledged the relationship
between the singing and speaking voice for the first time in a way I had not previously
experienced in the literature. I was excited. Outside of this small instance, the majority of the
literature discussed either the speaking voice or the singing voice, and there were certain patterns
to how each of these were discussed. Most of the literature that focused on the speaking voice
focused on vocal feminization and the experiences of trans women (and nonbinary, maleassigned persons). Most literature that focused on the singing voice focused on vocal
masculinization and the experiences of trans men (and nonbinary, female-assigned persons).
There was very little variation to these patterns and little to no overlap between discussions of
both the singing and speaking voice. Reflecting back on this, perhaps speech-language
pathologists attend to this overlap in other capacities, but in reading the literature, I didn’t
recognize it within a conversation on trans and nonbinary persons. These patterns mirrored the
kind of dichotomous thinking I had about my own vocal transition during this time period,
meaning that I was very much immersed within my having to choose between either my singing
voice or an androgynous speaking voice. There was almost no middle ground and no overlap
between those two realities. These binary patterns within the literature and within my own mind
heightened the tensions that I was already experiencing.

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Figure 2 Mandala entitled “The Split” from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read “disconnected but connected” 2/10/2018.

disconnection
detachment
separation
a pulling apart of sound.

however, there must
be something
different.
there must
be something
in the middle.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)

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A moment of queer clarity
There was a pivotal moment that shifted my understandings of all of this that I remember
with clarity. Before this, I knew my research project would be exploring the intersections of
speech-language pathology and music therapy, but I still held tension about whether I could do
this with or without testosterone in a safe way. I asked Sue Hadley if we could set up a time to
Skype and talk about the tension I was experiencing and how I might move forward with this
research project. I sat on my bed in my apartment on the verge of tears talking about how most of
the literature on female-assigned persons focused on those who took testosterone, telling her that
I wasn’t sure how to gain access to the kind of voice I desired. I felt like I had to pick one voice
or the other and that by choosing a more affirming voice for my gender, I would have to choose
taking testosterone and lose (or at the very least experience difficulties with) my singing voice.
This was the overarching narrative that I saw of myself within the literature. Reflecting back on
this, my experienced tensions seem so exaggerated because of the ways speech therapy was
situated as an avenue by the literature I’d been reading. But my tensions were so intensely felt.
Sue supported me and reflected back everything I shared but also questioned and challenged me.
Specifically, she said a series of words that drastically altered my understanding of my voice, the
kind of work I might engage in, and more specifically how I might go about engaging in that
kind of work.
“I’m not a singer and don’t know about the voice like you might, but I imagine there’s a
connection there between your singing and speaking voice…”
…We sat in silence for a few moments, me digesting her words, her seeming to ponder
what she had just said…
“…What if you tried to access a speaking voice through your singing voice?…”

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I sat in further silence, still digesting what Sue said, but feeling her words open up a door
to something I did not fully understand. (3/2017)

Figure 3 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "gentle collision" 5/6/2018

In these moments, I remember clicking into those words and feeling this vast sense of relief pour
into and out of me. These words made sense of all the knowledge I already had about myself, my
voice, how to use my voice as a singer, and then all the literature that I had been engaging with.
Although I might use my singing voice in a slightly different way than I might use my speaking
voice, Sue was right. They both come from the same place, the same instrument. So why was I
talking about them so separately? Perhaps I was too close to myself or my voice to see this. But
also, the literature I was immersed within expressed similar understandings of the singing and
speaking voice as a binary. This moment of queering, of embracing the both/and of my singing
and speaking, offered such clarity. Although it might seem simple and obvious now, it was a
deeply important moment in considering what gender affirming voicework might be. Sue’s

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words opened up the potential that I sensed was present between speech-language pathology and
music therapy with trans and nonbinary folks. Of course, there were still so many questions, but
this conversation brought a sense of clarity which leaves me feeling forever grateful to Sue.
If when singing I am able to access certain timbres and qualities of sound that feel so
connected to who I am as a person, why couldn’t I then take those sounds and shift them into my
speaking voice? What an integrated kind of speech that would be! I began really considering
how music therapy could be a space where this kind of voicework might exist—where a person
may be able to shift back and forth between their singing and speaking voice in search of
something truly affirming for who they know themself to be. This was certainly new to music
therapy, and something that I didn’t recognize as present within the speech-language pathology
literature that I had been reading. I was excited but also not completely certain of how to move
forward.
Having my truth reflected back to me
It is the day
I will finally return
to myself.
Learn how to call
my own arms home.
(Nikita Gill, Baptism, third stanza)
With newfound excitement and energy, I turned to Christopher Scott, my former
undergraduate voice teacher and (at the time) current graduate chamber choir director. I was
unsure about myself and this voicework…Would it work? Could I do it? I was hopeful and
eager, but I wasn’t completely confident. He quickly agreed to meet with me. I wanted Chris’s

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opinion on whether this could be a real and healthy possibility for me, meaning, could I do this
voicework without testosterone and not physically harm or misuse my voice? I valued his input
on this given his experiences as a professional singer and vocal educator and also because of how
he knew my voice well through teaching me privately throughout most of my undergraduate
degree. I also knew that I could openly talk to him about gender within our relationship and not
have it be strange or awkward. At the time, I didn’t realize how important that last factor was,
but it made this experience and future experiences enriching because of the ways I could openly
share my gender. I told him of my own vocal desires, some of the tensions that I had been
experiencing, and about this voicework. His excitement was palpable and validated that this was
important and real work.
We met in his office and after talking, jumped into playing around on the piano and with
my voice, similar to my previous voice lesson experiences with him. It was familiar but also
incredibly new and exciting. Although brief, this meeting was momentous for me…
We’re exploring playing with resonance and with the lower pitches of my voice. He
encourages me to just let the sound fall out. “Okay.” I find myself staring at the space on
the wall that I would often fixate on during lessons, just across the piano, not really
looking at anything—but attentive to the inner experiences of my voice, physically,
mentally, willing myself to let it open up. “You’re already naturally lowering your larynx
for these notes—that’s good,” he says. I think “This is sort of working…Maybe I can do
this…” We continue to explore.
While he moves down and around the piano, he asks, “Are you supporting it?”
knowing full well that I am not. Chris often uses these kinds of yes/no questions when the
answer is no. Although it is at times frustrating, I personally value the questions over

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being bluntly told that I’m not doing something correctly. It keeps me engaged and
thoughtful about my own experiences, rather than shutting down. It’s constructively
critical. With his question here, I chuckle because I don’t think I can count how many
times he’s asked me this in previous lessons. He says, “Put it lower in your body.”
“Okay.”
We continue to play with my voice, exploring breath support and engaging my full
body. I attend to my breath, focusing on how deep I allow it to go—am I forcing it? I
breathe in…feeling the compression of my binder against my chest. I breathe out…feeling
that compression push my air out further, quicker than it used to. The length of my
phrases has gotten shorter since binding. Supporting my sound has always been one of
my biggest challenges and binding just made it harder. “This work will require you to
support your voice or you’ll vocal fry—that won’t be good for your health.”
We continue playing: him, as always, interjecting with helpful comments to
support my voice, my sound—and me, as always, struggling to keep my voice in my body.
This is not unusual—I often struggle to stay present to myself. I aim for a full-bodied
sound—breath expanded, rooted in the ground, feeling my support all the way down to
my feet. We continue playing and exploring for about ten minutes or so. Until eventually,
he stops and says, “Yes, I think you can do this!” (reflective account of 3/2017 meeting
with Christopher Scott)
I can’t express how affirming it was to hear these words. I knew at some level that I could do
this, but because all of this was such new territory, I think I needed someone who not only knew
the voice well but knew my voice well enough to tell me that this was a real possibility. During
this meeting he mentioned formant frequencies—I recognized these from the literature I had

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been engaging with—and he wondered if they might lower through my doing this work. I shared
that they had come up in the literature and that that makes sense given what I’d read but that I
didn’t really understand formants. At this point, I knew they had something to do with resonance
and vowels, but I didn’t quite comprehend them in any kind of in-depth way. However, his
comments inspired me to re-engage with the literature and, further, to explore the way singers
(un)intentionally work with formant frequencies. Throughout the rest of my research, Chris
became a vital resource for whom I remain greatly appreciative. Specifically, he graciously
agreed to meet with me for additional meetings after this, in what I came to understand as minivoice lessons, where I sought his guidance on this work and shared some of my own insights
regarding what I was doing on my own. At this point, I left this meeting with that tension further
melting away. Curious…excited…engaged.
Learning about my voice
The growing, aching quiet of this home
has led me to [continue] reading space theories.
The notions[, further] are slowly wrapping around my bones,
settling between my heart and ribcage with intricacy.
(Nikita Gill, Multiverse, revised first stanza, brackets and
strikeouts added)
Leaving my brief meeting with Chris, I realized that while I had an internal ‘sensed’
knowledge about how my own voice works, I didn’t always have the technical language to
understand the mechanics of the voice. I returned to the literature. Some of what I engaged with
was a review, but some led to explorations of the physics and acoustics of the voice, which not

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only deepened my appreciation for it as an instrument but also my understanding of how I voice
and how I might be able to voice more effectively.
The voice is perhaps more complex than other kinds of instruments given how malleable
and shifting its shape is…
You breathe in…the air travels down your vocal tract to your lungs. You breathe out…the
air flows out from your lungs and through your vocal tract whether you create pitch or
not. This vocal tract—your resonating chamber, containing your mouth (i.e., oral cavity),
throat (i.e., pharynx), and nasal passages—all of these carry that air.
You breathe in again…you bring your vocal folds together to create a pitch…you
breathe out. The air passes through your vocal folds, creating vibrations that produce a
pitch and its various harmonics. These vibrations travel up throughout your vocal tract
and also down into your body. Your lips and tongue, teeth and jaw, your soft palate—the
articulators—they all move and shift your inner spaces, your vocal tract, changing it. You
move these different spaces around to form different vowels… “ey”…”ee”…”ɑh”…”oh”
…”oo”… Each vowel uniquely different. Your whole vocal tract one space, but that
whole tract still creating different spaces within for each vowel. Those spaces getting
bigger in some areas…smaller in others.
You breathe in…You form a vowel bringing your vocal folds together…You
breathe out on that vowel singing or speaking a pitch and its harmonics. Your
articulators, creating the space to amplify or dampen certain bands of frequencies.6
I learned that these amplified frequencies are the FFs discussed earlier (formant
frequencies or vocal tract resonances) and are labeled F1 (formant 1), then F2 (formant 2) for the

6

For more on this, refer to Johan Sundberg (2006).

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next lowest, and so on up until F5 (formant 5). Understanding how these FFs relate to the vowels
of the voice, “the frequencies of the two lowest formants determine most of the vowel quality,
whereas the third, fourth, and fifth formants are of greater significance to personal voice timbre”
(Johan Sundberg, 2006, p. 105). The first formant relates to the throat space whereas the second
formant relates to the mouth space (National Center for Voice and Speech, 2018). The National
Center for Voice and Speech provides a vowel chart (refer to figure 4) which shows the way
these formants relate to specific vowels and the formant patterns that exist for each vowel.

Figure 4 Chart of vowels and their respective formant frequencies, from the National Center for Voice and Speech, adapted from
work by Peterson and Barney in 1952. Vowels included in the graph: “ee,” “ih,” “eh,” “ae,” “uh,” “ah,” “oo,” and “oh.”

Each vowel has a different formant pattern that allows us to distinguish it from other
vowels (Hirsch & Pausewang Gelfer, 2012). Although not a completely correct metaphor but one
that is perhaps helpful for understanding this, the vowels we speak and sing are almost like
individual instruments, separate from each other. Musical instruments have different timbres that
make them identifiable between each other. For instance, a clarinet sounds different from a cello

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which sounds different from a trombone. When considering vowels, the difference between an
“ee” and “oo” could be comparable to the difference between a clarinet and a cello. Obviously,
though, these vowels are being produced by the same instrument, but they are uniquely
identifiable based on their formant patterns.
speech, words
containing
perhaps
a million
different instruments
and we don’t even
realize it.
language is
a part of the music.
we are our
own orchestra
of sounds.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)
Beyond the ways the articulators form specific vowels, I further learned that the length
and size of the vocal tract itself (outside of what the articulators are doing) influences which
frequencies resonate better than others (Sundberg, 2006). The longer the vocal tract, the lower
the FFs as there is more space for those frequencies to resonate (Jo-Anne Bachorowski &
Michael J. Owren, 1999), and as mentioned before this is important for gender perception
because more masculine speech patterns tend to have lower FFs for all vowels in comparison to

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more feminine patterns which tend to be higher for all vowels (Hillenbrand et al., 1995). We can
physically raise or lower our larynx through the way we voice, thereby shortening or lengthening
the vocal tract, creating smaller and larger spaces, impacting the quality of the voice. In returning
to our musical instrument metaphor, we can consider how the timbre of an instrument changes
even within a particular instrument family, such as the strings. For instance, a bass and a cello
both belong within the same instrument family; however, the size of each instrument’s body (i.e.,
resonating chamber) influences the timbre of that particular instrument, even when playing the
same pitch, as certain harmonic frequencies will be boosted with each instrument. Sound quality
also can vary dependent upon the thickness of the strings, the age of the wood, the way the
resonating chamber is carved out, the flexibility of the bridge, etc. In considering the vowels, if
two people with differently sized vocal tracts were to speak or sing “ee” on the same pitch, the
harmonic frequencies that will be boosted would depend on the size and shape of each vocal
tract, as well as the individual characteristics of a person’s voice. However, the articulators of
either person’s vocal mechanism can move to create small changes to the spaces within the vocal
tract without compromising the clarity or integrity of the vowel itself. This is related to formant
tuning (Adam Kirkpatrick, 2009; John Nix, 2004; Sundberg, 2006) or vowel modification and is
something that we often hear in choir or from voice teachers when working to get vowels to
resonate more clearly within the voice.
You breathe in…You form the vowel “ee” and vibrate your vocal folds to create a
specific pitch…it doesn’t quite sit well…it perhaps feels forced, tense, or muffled…you
adjust your vocal tract, creating a new sense of space…the vowel still “ee” but slightly
different…the note and vowel feel less forced—they resonate more clearly, freely.

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Although a simple explanation, this is formant tuning or vowel modification. The aim of
this is to have the fundamental frequency of a sung pitch or one of its harmonics clearly resonate
within the spaces of the vocal tract, which would mean that these frequencies are within the FFs
of the vowels (Kirkpatrick, 2009; Nix, 2004; Sundberg, 2006). Singers move their articulators
into certain positions to create vowels, and they can then modify that vowel by slightly altering
the position of the articulators, creating spaces within the vocal tract that are different from what
they initially were. Because the shape of the vocal tract is changing somewhat, the FFs of the
vowel being sung also shift, being raised or lowered depending on the articulators. This relates to
the vowel patterns seen in figure 4. Again, the aim of this is to get the pitch being sung or one of
its harmonics to clearly resonate within the vocal tract. In this way, singers engage in vowel
modification, shaping their “vowels with respect to the location of the vowel formants so that the
sung pitch or one of its harmonics receives an acoustical boost by being near a formant” (Nix,
2004, p. 173).
Changing which harmonics are boosted effects the quality of the sound and how that
sound is perceived. It is noted that when higher frequencies are enhanced, and lower frequencies
are dampened, the tone is brighter (Kirkpatrick, 2009). Further, with warmer, richer tones, the
vocal tract is strengthening the lower frequencies and dampening the higher ones. John Nix
(2004) summarizes four ‘rules’ for modifying vowels:
(a) formant frequencies lower uniformly by lengthening the vocal tract (either by
lowering the larynx or protruding the lips or some combination of both; (b) formant
frequencies are lowered uniformly by lip rounding and lip spreading; (c) fronting and
arching the tongue lowers [the] first formant and raises [the] second formant, while

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backing and lowering the tongue raises the first formant and lowers the second formant;
[and] (d) opening the jaw raises the first formant and lowers the second formant. (p. 173)
However, this explanation is often not experienced or understood within a technical acousticbased language, but rather in terms of felt experience. Before understanding resonance in this
complex way, I mostly knew resonance as the sensations I physically experienced within my
body as a result of the process of resonating. Meaning, was the sound in my head and/or nose or
was it situated in my chest, or some combination of these? This kind of understanding relates to
the FFs of vowels, and the knowledge surrounding formant frequencies has provided me with not
only a more in-depth understanding of the voice but also a richer and deeper relationship with
my own voice. I am now able to think more technically about resonance while also sitting with
the visceral experiences of where sound is vibrating in my body.
Reflecting on the literature and my experiences as a practiced singer, it became clear that
many of the areas that speech-language pathologists focus on overlap with that of singers and
voice teachers. Of the greatest significance to my own vocal situation, we as singers work with
pitch, creating different vocal qualities by working with our resonance. Further, we also work
with other areas that are explored within speech therapy, including articulation, vocal strength,
nonverbal communication or body language, and what might more broadly be understood as
vocal expression. Although I struggled, and continue to struggle, with whether I am trained
enough to do the kind of work I imagine, this realization validated that I do have a unique skill
set as both a practiced singer and trained music therapist.
At the same time, there was a period during which I pondered reaching out to a speechlanguage pathologist and actually reached out to a musical vocal education professional with a
desire to be assisted in this kind of work. However, in the instances where I did reach out, I

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found that we had different ideas and visions for what the work might be. Despite not knowing
how, I desired that the work be more improvisational, and those I reached out to seemed
committed to this work sitting more firmly within a voice-lesson-like space. Reflecting back on
this, while I believe that those collaborations could have been wonderful, at the time I didn’t
have the language to really articulate what I was imagining gender affirming voicework in music
therapy to possibly be. My inability to represent those ideas limited how I could imagine such a
collaboration. In addition, Sue later challenged me to question why I felt I needed to rely on
others and on outside fields when I had the resources within my own self and resource pool, such
as Chris. She further tied this to the way music therapists often feel the need to validate their
work by basing it in other disciplines. Because of the interdisciplinary understandings that I was
exposed to in my graduate coursework, I know that Sue wasn’t diminishing the knowledge from
other fields. But she did seem to be questioning why I wasn’t valuing the knowledge that I
personally possessed given my own standpoint as a vocalist and student of vocal pedagogy and
music therapist. With reflection, I’ve realized that I wanted what I was doing to be validated by
someone more than I actually needed the resources. This led to me cautiously exploring more
technical literature within speech-language pathology in an attempt to understand how it might
expand the skillset that I already possessed and to help me broaden the basis of what gender
affirming voicework in music therapy could be.
Bringing it all back to music therapy
Considering the more technical aspects mentioned within the Voice and Communication
Program specific to trans (and nonbinary) individuals developed by speech-language pathologist
Richard Adler (2012), I imagined that I might approach this voicework by turning to clinical
techniques I was already familiar with as a music therapist, such as progressive muscle

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relaxation, diaphragmatic breathing exercises, clinical improvisation, and most obviously, the
use of the voice through familiar songs and vocal exercises. These would be grounded in
technique and healthy vocal use informed by my training as a singer, and they would be centered
on the gendered vocal parameters from the literature with which I had engaged. I also considered
using poetry and song lyrics in similar ways to those suggested by Richard Adler—as practice
opportunities. Because I did not have an intimate understanding of speech therapy protocols, I
did not incorporate these into my own voicework. I instead approached my work from within the
space that I was most familiar—my training as a practiced singer and music therapist.
Further, I imagined this kind of voicework to be something of what I might experience in
a voice lesson while also integrating aspects that were even more improvisational, allowing the
work to be less focused on the goals of a vocalist and more focused on speech goals. More
specifically, I imagined using improvisation to: explore vocal sound, play with pitch and pitch
range, play with my voice’s harmonics and vowel FFs, and explore vowel modification. I also
wondered how improvisation might be particularly helpful for speech-based work given that it
involves spontaneous sound making, which mimics the spontaneity of everyday conversation.
After all, I think we more often than not speak without much thought to how we are speaking,
especially when we are actively engaged with whatever it is we are doing (i.e., not with our
voices). Improvisation could encourage sound to sit within this natural in-the-moment space,
while still giving opportunities for intentional shifting of vocal sound. Working with poetry or
more ‘performed speech’ sometimes shifts us out of our natural voice into something with
exaggerated expression. Of course, expressive speech when performing is often considered a
positive as it will likely lead to a more captivating reading; however, with the kind of work I was
imagining, ‘performed speech’ would probably not get at a person’s day-to-day vocal pattern.

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This in-the-moment queer improvisational space is something that I’ve come to
understand as important to my ideas of what gender affirming voicework might be. It is queer
because of the ways improvisation sits in this fluid, liminal, ‘becoming’ space. I’ve been deeply
influenced by an exercise described by Sanne Storm in her dissertational work (2013), which
was aimed at developing a voice assessment specific to music therapy which could communicate
more qualitatively based experiences (i.e., using the voice and body in music therapy) into
medical psychiatric settings to bridge understandings from one discipline to another. This voice
assessment specifically focused on assessing those who have depression, and her work showed
overlaps between the ways speech-language pathologists make quantitative measurements of the
voice and how music therapists might assess gender affirming voicework. While a deeper focus
on Sanne’s assessment (which has influenced my own ideas of how music therapists might
assess gender affirming voicework) is beyond the focus/intent of this autoethnography, I intend
to explore in another article what gender affirming voicework assessment might look like.
However, relevant to this research, I was particularly inspired by Sanne’s CoreTone exercise
from the assessment protocol that she developed for the purposes of the gender affirming
voicework I was beginning to develop. According to Sanne, the CoreTone exercise involves
voicing a single note and letting that note grow out into something else. It is a dynamic
phenomenon that changes with mood, energy, and/or state of being. Describing this exercise,
Sanne writes:
The client was instructed to place one hand on top of the other covering the chest bone.
Then the client was asked to imagine that when [they were] going to give sound to the
CoreTone, sounding from the chest area covered by the hands. The client was also told
that while giving sound [they] might sense the vibration of the sound in [their] hands.

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Then the client was instructed to talk about something; it could be anything. It could be
about the weather or about how [they] now [were] going to find [their] CoreTone for this
present moment.
While talking the client was asked to listen very closely to the melody of [their]
speech. The speech was kind of circling around one single note. The client could come
closer to the pitch of this note, the CoreTone, by sustaining different vowels a little
longer in the speech in general. Then finally the vowel came out as a note sounding at a
comfortable loudness level in the form of the sound Ah as in the word “car” or “farther.”
(2013, pp. 134-135)
In talking with Sanne via Skype, she further discussed how the CoreTone is about asking myself
what my most relaxed and easy pitch to sound is in this particular moment and letting this sound
spring forth from my speaking voice, examining what I’m already speaking and moving into
singing, sticking to the sound, repeating it over and over again, recognizing that it might change
but that this is where I am now (personal communication, 10/30/2017).
This exercise concretely articulated aspects of what I was vaguely imagining this
voicework to be. It mirrored more in-the-moment and improvisational work, and it considered
vocal harmonics (i.e., resonance) and qualities of sound in ways that I was considering for my
own voice. Further, I imagined the CoreTone to be a kind of “home base” of the voice, showing
where the voice gravitates…and whether that gravitation feels like an authentic and true
representation of who and how a person knows themself to be. And, of course, it would likely
change over time, from day to day.
Am I in the basement?
The attic?

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The garden?
The kitchen?
Where’s my voice?
Where is it traveling within my home?
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/5/2019)7
I considered how the CoreTone might be used to encourage someone to ask themself: “What is
my most authentic sound in this moment? Is it free and easy to sound? And how does it feel in
the body?” I was inspired by Sanne’s description of this exercise, and it led to incorporating the
CoreTone into my own voicework and to eventually expanding those ideas into more speechbased work. I was further inspired by Sanne’s words surrounding the body and the voice:
Take it [your sound] with you—bring it with you so that you can walk hand in hand with
it. Always. Because when you are close to your energy and the sound qualities you like,
then you can take it and walk [with] it hand and hand, up and down the piano…when you
are doing that, then you are listening to yourself, then you’re listening to when your
sound is ready to do the work and when your body is ready to do the work, not your
head…Your body is speaking to you. (personal communication, 10/30/2017)
Her words were energizing, and they felt like a powerful way of thinking about gender affirming
voicework. I love the focus on being present to yourself, to finding a sound that walks alongside
or rather with you, to listening to and for your own authenticity, to honoring what that
authenticity is expressing about where you are in the work. Sanne’s work definitely impacted my
clinical thoughts regarding what gender affirming voicework might be.

7

Influenced by Lisa Sokolov’s discussion around the voice and body as a ‘home.’ Refer to Sokolov (in press).

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At the point I began doing voicework, I hadn’t immersed myself within my ‘home’
field—that is, within music therapy literature. Sanne’s dissertation was the first piece of music
therapy literature that I deeply engaged with, and it was only after I had already begun to do my
own voicework. I think I was perhaps drained after so deeply and fully engaging with literature
from related disciplines. That exploration had occurred over the span of five-six months. It was a
long and emotional experience in and of itself, stemming from my own need to find nonhormonal strategies for changing my speech to fit my gender. In some ways, I think it felt less
necessary to bury myself in music therapy because I already had a ‘sensed’ understanding of
music therapy that I didn’t completely have of speech-language pathology. I think I also didn’t
more fully explore new literature because I didn’t expect the kind of gender affirming voicework
I was imagining to be present. And I was correct to a certain extent. As I reflect back now,
though, I wish I had more deeply immersed myself in music therapy literature from the
beginning because it could have further enriched the meaningful experiences I did have in
voicework.
Towards the beginnings of this research process, though, I did do a preliminary search for
music therapy and creative arts therapy literature on related topics, and I did already have some
basic knowledge of psychotherapeutic understandings of the voice (Diane Austin, 2009).
However, much of my engagement with music therapy and other creative arts literature occurred
concurrently with my engagement in voicework and/or in writing this autoethnography.
Exploring literature was a very malleable and queer process, and one that, as I reflect back, was
needed given that this is such a new area of clinical work for the field of music therapy. I
explored and then returned to re-explore certain literature as it became more relevant to my
experiences and sought out new literature as different struggles arose. This return has helped me

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to understand the complexity of my experiences. Throughout the majority of this research, I was
more often than not reading literature as I did voicework, perhaps trying to situate my own
experiences.
From the start, I was aware that overlaps existed between speech-language pathology and
music therapy around speech-based work, but they were situated around vocal disorders. I didn’t
have a disorder. I had emotional tensions around a voice that was functioning in a healthy
manner. The work I was imagining doing wouldn’t solely surround improving vocal functioning.
It would also surround identity and gender. That expressed, music therapists do already engage
in work similar to that of speech-language pathologists. Although quite different in focus, I later
found language overlaps with Neurologic Music Therapy, which provided descriptions that felt
particularly important. Specifically, Vocal Intonation Therapy was described as using inflection,
pitch, breath control, timbre, and dynamics to simulate the prosody, inflection, and pacing of
normal speech (Michael Thaut, 2013). Further, Therapeutic Singing was a technique described as
using singing to facilitate speech and language and to increase breathing capacities (Thaut,
2013). These understandings were situated within neuroscience and not identity; therefore, the
focus and reasoning behind these techniques as described in the literature were not necessarily
pertinent, although the techniques themselves were.
As mentioned before, I did come to this research with psychotherapeutic understandings
of the voice and voicework as a kind of metaphor of identity and reflection of the internal self,
based in the work of Diane Austin (2009). I had read through her work during my undergraduate
degree because it was an interest of mine. I imagined these understandings supported the ways
trans and nonbinary folks often have complex relationships with their voices, especially as the
voice is an important cue of gender (i.e., identity), although, initially, I didn’t fully realize how

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emotionally-based work was integral to the kind of work I would personally be doing. This did
make sense and was repeatedly suggested to me by Sue throughout the beginnings of this
research, but I didn’t realize the extent of this until later, when engaging in this voicework
brought about deeply emotional experiences. From the start, I was focused on physical vocal
changes (i.e., more behavioral and not emotional work), but this eventual realization shifted me
and my understandings of gender affirming voicework.
Further, I came to this research with an understanding that Randi Rolvsjord’s and Jill
Halstead’s work (2013) was quite relevant to my work. Their exploration of gender politics and
the voice focused on work with a woman who experienced anxiety and depression in relation to
having a very low singing and speaking voice. Therapy with this client focused on active music
making and verbal conversations that were centered around her relationship to the music, the
experience of singing with the therapist, and her own voice and singing abilities. It feels safe to
assume that this woman was cis, although it was not specifically mentioned in the article. How
interesting, though, to consider their work within the context of working with a trans woman.
While the therapeutic work that was done there is indeed related to what I have discussed thus
far, due to the nature of the work with the client, the focus was not on creating vocal changes but
on exploring feelings and emotions pertaining to the voice and music. Importantly, their work
suggested that the voice, and music therapy in particular, can be a place to disrupt gender. This
felt incredibly relevant to my own vocal desires and to the ideas I had about gender affirming
voicework. In accessing (or even attempting to access) an androgynous speaking voice, I would,
to some degree, be disrupting the automatic assumptions attributed to my voice.
During the early instances of my own voicework, Sue came across a Facebook flyer
regarding a voicework group for trans and nonbinary people. She suggested I contact Julie

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Lipson, the music therapist facilitating this group. I was excited that someone else was doing
similar work, although my impressions were that this group seemed focused on supporting the
more emotional aspects of trans and nonbinary vocal experiences and not necessarily on creating
physical or behavioral changes to the use of the voice. It further seemed focused on body-based
work and embodying sound. After being introduced through Sue via email, Julie and I arranged a
phone call. Julie shared their Master thesis (Lipson, 2013). In their research, they interviewed
trans individuals about how they experienced their voice after a music therapy session.
Specifically, Julie discussed how those who participated in their research experienced having
reactions and associations to the vocal experience provided, “noticing physiological changes,
memories, emotions, and personal characteristics” (p. 78). Participants also described putting a
lot of effort into the way they used their voices as well as a need to relearn how to use their
voices during various stages of vocal transition. This research made me even more excited
because of the ways it brought together trans and nonbinary people, the voice, music therapy,
voices in transition, etc.
Through our personal communication and through their research, Julie discussed how
music therapists have the training to work with the psychological voice, whereas speechlanguage pathologists are trained to work with the physical voice (personal communication,
3/2018; Lipson, 2013). Julie further suggested that music therapy could fill an important space
for which speech-language pathologists just did not have the training for because they are trained
to work with behavioral aspects of the voice, making physical changes to functionality, qualities
of sound, language, etc. in relation to gender perceptions. They are not trained to support the
ways people, particularly trans and nonbinary people, have deeply emotional relationships with
their voices that may or may not be experienced with tension. This support of the inner self

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through voicework is within music therapists’ area of already formed knowledge, although this
could certainly be explored in greater depth. This differentiation helped me to reflect on the
boundaries between speech-language pathology and music therapy in relation to this work.
Where might speech-language pathologists’ work end and where might our work as music
therapists begin? Or better yet, where might they overlap? Could music therapists sit within both
of these spaces with the right knowledge and training?
I again considered my unique qualifications and positioning as both a trained singer and
board-certified music therapist which brought me to this research. My thoughts expanded to
consider how my skillset might lend itself to a more holistic way of working on trans and
nonbinary vocal change. I thought about the integration of these two areas of practice and how
music therapy might truly be a place where both could exist, where a person could work with
many different facets of themself as those facets become relevant to their experiences, that is, not
having to go to separate spaces for emotional support or physical support but working with both
the psychological voice in terms of the emotional relationships people have to their voices and
working with the physical voice in terms of gendered parameters of singing and speaking.
Further, I later considered even more holistic ways of working that might begin to open up space
for other kinds of work, such as body-based work to physically embody gender, address
experiences of dysphoria, and work on releasing tension within the body, and also broader work
to contain the way each of the aforementioned facets will likely bring about deeply emotional
experiences. This holistic way of thinking is certainly much more complex than where I started
my own personal journey in voicework.

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I now understand gender affirming voicework as a potentially holistic, systemic way of
working, and relate it to an article by Joanne Loewy (2004), who ties together neurological,
emotional, historical, and cultural uses of the voice, specific to music therapy. Joanne states that
The use of spoken language is one of the most uniquely human parameters that
differentiate one human being from another. The words we choose and the musical
qualities that we use to express our words are based on a broad spectrum of functioning.
(n.p.)
And further:
Music therapists are deft at working with issues associated with language and voice
dynamics and content development. As it is nearly impossible to separate the speaker
from the speech, or the singer from the song in vocal discourse; the reader may attain the
most holistic model of vocal expression by viewing distinct aspects of thought, speech
and expression as a gestalt which contributes to emotion and meaning in human
communication and function. (n.p.)
Joanne’s work importantly connects the behavioral aspects of my work to the emotional and
cultural pieces of what drove me to seek voicework in the first place. These words, and the work
of Julie (2013), Diane (2009), Randi, and Jill (2013), encourage me to consider gender affirming
voicework as holistic, with the capacity to open up many aspects of a person.
Relatedly, I’ve come to realize that Lisa Sokolov’s Embodied VoiceWork method wraps
around my own voicework in important ways, containing many, if not all, of my experiences.
The growing, aching quiet of this home
has [immersed me within] led me to reading space theories.
The notions [have wrapped] are slowly wrapping around my bones,

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settling between my heart and ribcage with intricacy.
(Nikita Gill, Multiverse, revised first stanza, brackets and
strikeouts added)
I did not realize this, though, until personally experiencing the work I did and more deeply
exploring Lisa’s method afterward. I had minimally known of her work before but did not fully
appreciate it for what it was, partly because it is sparsely written about, and partly because what
is written is largely not written by Lisa. Because of this, I found little through academic
databases in my search for her work. After re-exploring her work (Sokolov, 2009) and finding
her personal website (Sokolov, 2019), I reached out to her to request other work she might have,
at which point she shared a chapter of her unpublished book. I regret that I did not more deeply
explore her method from the beginning, as I think it could have expanded my own voicework. I
find it interesting that Sanne’s clinical work is rooted in Lisa’s method as well as Diane’s and
others. Witnessing my own experiences in aspects of Lisa’s work has validated for me the ways
that gender affirming voicework might be situated within the field of music therapy.
On her website, Lisa writes:
Embodied VoiceWork is a method exploring the resources and the power within the
process of finding and freeing one’s voice. […] The work is about listening. It is about
connecting into and sensing our bodies. It is about giving voice to what is heard and felt.
[…] The goal of the work is to embody the voice, to come more fully into one’s body,
one’s sound, one’s music and one’s expressiveness. Participants can expect to be more
grounded in their bodies and to improvise and sing more freely and expressively. They
will be more fluent in the language of music. Listening skills will be awakened both

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internally and externally. This work can open individuals to a powerful experience of
emotional, energetic and expressive aliveness. (2019, n.p.)
Further, in the chapter from her forthcoming book which I have been given permission to include
aspects of here, she writes that it is a
method of free, expressive, non-verbal, improvisational singing which aims at the
development of fuller human potential through the practice of attentiveness, an attitude of
radical receptivity and listening. […] [It focuses on] a musical expressivity that is
inherent in all of us. […]
This work is about listening. We listen by sensing what is happening in our body.
We open to kinesthetic experience, breath, tone, and to the imagistic language of our
inner life. We listen deeply into what we are hearing. Immersion into the language of
non-verbal singing brings us into conversation, into a play with the body, with ourself,
with others and with the essentials of music. And, as we listen, we are led into a process.
Through inner listening we come to meet the body. We open to the descent of resonance
into the body. Through listening we come into flow with inner impulse and our innate
musical expression. Through listening we come to meet the other. Through listening we
come to meet the essentials of music. (in press, n.p.)
This method asks people to listen to themselves in-the-moment in a holistic way.
The emphasis on radical listening feels intertwined with queerness. In a chapter coauthored with Sue (forthcoming), we have considered queering our listening practices as
informed by Yvon Bonenfant’s work (2010). Specifically considering classical music, Yvon
articulates the need to cultivate the aesthetic sensitivity of queer listening by becoming more
aware of the ways that we lean in or pull away from voices (and bodies) that unsettle normative

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voicing, particularly in regards to queer voices (i.e., voices that don’t conform to cis- and
heteronormative expectations). Yvon (2010) has discussed this in terms of finding appreciation
for queer voices, thereby leaning into them instead of pulling away. Sue and I (forthcoming)
have considered this in music therapy spaces given the ways the voice is often important. I now
consider the ways this kind of awareness could support listening in to the Self to access a voice
and embodiment that we lean in towards, finding sounds that are affirming and validating. That
expressed, I believe beginning to find appreciation for parts of our voice that we also pull away
from could simultaneously be important work. Queer radical listening certainly feels relevant to
gender affirming voicework.
Returning to Lisa’s work, she understands how we as human beings live on many levels
with many interconnected bodies: the physical body—the bone, blood, viscera, fluids
earth/water; the energetical body—the spark, the electrical aspect, the flow of aliveness, fire/air;
the emotional body—the feeling aspect; the mental body—the thinking verbal body; and the
knowing body—the wisdom Self (Sokolov, in press).
Our body is a great house with many rooms. And yet many of us live perched in the attic,
hesitant to take our rightful places. We often resist fully inhabiting the body. Our breath
can be shallow, our tone can be thin and reside predominantly in the head or throat. Fear
of feeling, fear of power, fear of living entirely alive, contribute to an all too common
profile of shallow, halting breath and small tonal range. (Sokolov, in press, n.p.)
I am drawn to considering the body as a house to be inhabited, to be embodied.
In articulating this work, Lisa describes specific tools of Embodied VoiceWork,
including those of breath, tone, touch, imagery, and improvisation (Sokolov, in press; Sokolov,
2009). Each of these has importantly arisen within my own work, as you might recognize as I

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share my experiences. Lisa writes that we live in “an ocean of air”—that is, the breath—and it is
a vital aspect of this work. She understands tone or resonance of the voice to be a complex and
multitudinous thing that holds many notes and overtones that unfurl out of each other. It is selfgenerating. Lisa’s words create an image of endless vocal possibilities, and, as I’ve described,
resonance was an important aspect of the work I did myself. Lisa further described ‘touch’ to be
a tool for awareness, for opening up, landing in, and connecting to the body. It involves
questioning within the body: “What do you notice? What does it feel like?” I resonate with the
ways these questions encourage someone to be fully present to themself, to sit in a space of
authenticity. Embodied VoiceWork begins with a warm-up, moving through a developmental
sequence where a person moves from being “curled up on the floor, to sitting, to standing, and
eventually into walking and running” (in press, n.p.). Lisa writes that when we listen to tone and
the body through time, a descent of resonance happens within the body (i.e., a more grounded
sound). Imagery is also described—that is, the “language of our deeper mind, our knowing Self”
(in press, n.p.). She writes that this imagery emerges from the Self, and “speak[s] from and to the
deepest aspects of our beings” (2009, p. 45). I connect this to ideas of living authentically, of
finding ‘gender imagery,’ of finding vocal and embodiment language that represents the ways I
internally understand my gendered Self. Lastly, Lisa writes about improvisation being a tool for
moving through the aforementioned tools.
There is an arc to Embodied VoiceWork, where a person moves through a series of
stages—exploration, awareness, release, new balance of strength and openness, and integration
(Sokolov, in press; Sokolov, 2009). I recognize these stages as present within my own work. The
first stage is exploration, which is defined as

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[…] a state of mind, a willingness to see what we see, to hear what we hear, to feel what
we feel, to notice what we notice. It is an open mindset of radical receptivity. […] It is a
letting go of what we think should be happening, what would make us feel worthy if it
were happening, what happened before, what someone told us would be happening, what
we assume will happen. It is a receptivity to what is happening. (Sokolov, in press, n.p.)
This moves us into awareness, where we recognize our experiences and sensations, noticing
what we notice. Then we begin to shift into a release of tension, recognizing that tension to be a
misplaced strength, allowing the release to lead to a new balance of strength and openness. This
is like an unwinding—a release of authenticity where a “powerful surge of real laughter or
crying leaves us” (Sokolov, in press, n.p.). We then move into integration, where one shift
impacts the whole of a person. Lisa writes:
Change in a part of a system reverberates out into the whole system be it the individual
body, the relational body, the familial body, the community body. These ripplings, if not
dampered by resistance to change, continue the process, cycling us back to exploration,
awareness, release, new balance, integration, exploration, awareness, release… (Sokolov,
in press, n.p.)
It is a systemic way of working.
Lisa understands the therapist’s role within all of that to not be a giver of awareness but a
creator of openings. She writes:
The therapist creates the vessel for the process to play through by creating and holding
safe, clear space. The therapist has faith in the process and is able to stay with the
powerful tides of being human without fear. Awareness comes in on its own when we are
open to it. (Sokolov, 2009, p. 52)

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And further,
Music therapists understand the power of resonance. In this understanding, we know that
our primary work is in our own capacity to carve out our own beings, to fully embody
ourselves. It is through our own commitment to self-work and self-knowledge that one
becomes embodied, and then in one’s very presence, one becomes a conduit to growth.
(Sokolov, 2009, p. 53)
Embodied VoiceWork seems to be a full-bodied, full-Self experience that does not focus on one
aspect of the voice in isolation from other aspects. Although a holistic kind of perspective was
not one I began with at the beginnings of my own voicework, it is one that I have realized is
important to the possibilities of gender affirming voicework with others. Lisa’s method doesn’t
specifically focus on gender, but in reading about it after engaging in voicework, I found myself
witnessing important overlaps that perhaps you might also recognize within my
autoethnography.
With all of this in mind, though, the idea of gender affirming voicework was and is a new
endeavor within the field of music therapy, with so much that needs to be navigated. But it felt
clear to me that I was uniquely positioned as a music therapist, singer, and nonbinary person to
explore what this voicework might be. One might ask, “Why are you exploring your own
voicework? Why not work with others?” Good questions. This is certainly something I am
moving towards now, but to answer these questions I turn to the ways this research project
emerged out of deeply personal experiences of my voice and Self that, at the point I was
beginning research, I had not yet explored. It makes so much sense to me to allow those
explorations to be the research. I also consider Lisa’s reminder that self-work allows us the space
to become embodied which further provides us with the capacity to be conduits of growth for

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others. Further, I turn to the early workings of Analytical Music Therapy by the trio of Mary
Priestley, Peter Wright, and Marjorie Wardle. They did not find it ethical to experiment on
clients with such a new approach, so they explored this with each other. And Mary Priestley kept
copious notes, writing down these explorations and then sharing them with others. As such, I
turn to autoethnography, a method in which I write and tell my own story about my experiences
of gender affirming voicework.

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CHAPTER 3
‘Becoming’ Together Through Queerly Telling Stories
Fairytales exist.
They always have.
We just have to rewrite them
over and over again
till they fit.
(Nikita Gill, Untitled III, italics in original)
But what is autoethnography?
The texts I engaged with describe autoethnography as a study of the self in culture that is
interested in how people tell stories about their lives (Tony E. Adams & Carolyn Ellis, 2011). It
pulls from autobiography and ethnography—stories of the self and stories of culture—making it
both a process for engaging in research and a product with its finished text (Adams & Ellis,
2011; Carolyn Ellis, Tony E. Adams, & Arthur P. Bochner, 2011; Ellis & Bochner, 2006). This
method sounded very different from the kinds of research I usually had heard about. Telling
stories? How is this research? I read that in autoethnography, researchers reflexively write about
their past experiences, not typically "liv[ing] through these experiences solely to make them part
of a published document” (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011, n.p.). They are instead pulled
together afterward, with autoethnographers reflexively drawing upon many different kinds of
materials, including personal memories, interviews, journals, memos, and recordings, and
creatively working with them through writing, music, art, poetry, creative endeavors—all in
efforts to share epiphanies of lived experience (Adams & Ellis, 2011; Ellis, Adams, & Bochner,
2011; Ellis & Bochner, 2006).

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Because I began actual voicework experiences knowing that I would eventually write an
autoethnography, it prepared me to collect many possible kinds of material throughout the
process so that I’d be able to creatively work with them as I write this story. The suggested
program by Richard Adler (2012), which I discussed earlier, helped to form the basis of the kinds
of materials I would gather throughout this voicework. Broadly, I gathered ‘sensed’ experiences
through actually doing voicework. More concretely, I summarized what happened during these
experiences and reflexively journaled about the ways I experienced them and about my broader
journey of this voicework. I also collected as many audio recordings of my voice as was possible
through the use of either a microphone that was generously purchased by Slippery Rock
University’s music department or my iPhone when this microphone was not readily available
(i.e., when recording opportunities arose that were not planned or intended or when the
environment was not conducive to setting up recording equipment). The purchased microphone
was not tailored to pick up certain kinds of frequencies but rather to gather raw sound. This
allowed me to get a sense of how I actually sounded without filtering. Further, I utilized a free
voice analysis program, Praat (Paul Boersma & David Weenink, 2018), which has been used
within the field of speech-language pathology as well as other fields that acoustically analyze the
voice. Along all of this, I further had the creative modalities such as music, art, poetry, etc. with
which I engaged throughout this voicework and throughout the writing of this autoethnography.
This data has greatly assisted me in not only remembering the details of this voicework but also
by providing me with a large body of materials to creatively engage with and include within this
autoethnography.
In returning to an exploration of autoethnography, Tony Adams and Carolyn Ellis
express so succinctly that scholars turn to this method:

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because they [want] to concentrate on ways of producing meaningful, accessible, and
evocative research grounded in personal experience, research that would sensitize readers
to experiences shrouded in silence and to forms of representation that deepen our
capacity to empathize with people who are different. (Adams & Ellis, 2011, p. 197)
I further learned that reflexivity is vital to autoethnography as writers “analyze these epiphanies
by comparing them to existing research, interviewing others with similar epiphanies, and using
their academic training to interrogate the meaning of an experience” (Adams & Ellis, 2011, p.
199). It means relating self-experiences to the ‘other,’ “illustrat[ing] new perspectives on
personal experience…by finding and filling a gap in the existing, related story lines” (Ellis,
Adams, & Bochner, 2011, n.p.). These reflexively engaged stories are immersed with and
inspired by the beautiful/evocative.
Autoethnographies are mindful of aesthetics and attempt to be captivating, using
conventions of storytelling such as character, scene, and plot development (Adams & Ellis, 2011;
Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011). I learned that this involves showing, telling, shifting and
alternating points of view, and the use of thick descriptions (Adams & Ellis, 2011; Ellis, Adams,
& Bochner, 2011). Showing brings you, the reader, into the actual story to vicariously experience
that story, and this often occurs through the use of conversation by the autoethnographer. Telling
provides some distance from the story so that the reader can think more about the events being
explored rather than viscerally experiencing them. Shifting and alternating points of view
involves portraying the story through first-, second-, and third-person accounts for various
perspectives. Lastly, thick descriptions aim to offer complex and nuanced understandings of the
cultures and communities being storied.

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When I consider the ways autoethnography is a creative, evocative process and product, I
find that I resonate with it on a deeper level because of my identities as a musician and music
therapist. Demeko Freeman (2018), in his own music therapy autoethnography, writes about how
“[m]usic itself often explicitly or subtly tells a story. … [and that] we as individuals have our
own unique stories to the music [and perhaps importantly for my research, the instruments] that
we love” (p. 6). Music is storytelling and has the potential to be incredibly evocative. Further, I
have often witnessed both within others and myself the ways in which engaging in creative acts
can bring about new insights, and that the more a person engages with these insights, the more
expanded they can become. Personally, I tend to value moments where I am able to immerse
myself within the confines of a music-making process, whether it be songwriting, improvisation,
recreation, or listening to music and creating physical artwork. As a creative person, creative
methods overlap with the ways in which I tend to make meaning of my life and of my own
experiences. Additionally, autoethnography perfectly captures the way I enjoy writing. I often
spend hours upon hours writing, reading, rereading, rewriting whatever it is I am working on. In
addition to other creative acts, writing is a way to more deeply understand something. That is,
autoethnography as a method importantly mirrors my own meaning-making processes.
In reading literature on autoethnography, I further learned that it developed in response to
researchers critiquing more traditional science-based research, which focused on precise “facts”
and “truths” (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011). The field of anthropology utilized ethnography to
engage in an objectivist studying of culture, with the ‘neutral’ researcher removed from the
culture being studied (Peter Collins & Anselma Gallinat, 2013). This objectivism within
anthropologic work has been called into question (Renato Rosaldo, 1989) with autoethnography
emerging out of a reformation of social science (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011). Scholars began

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advocating for personal narrative, subjectivity, and reflexivity within research, realizing “that
stories were complex, constitutive, meaningful phenomena” (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011,
n.p.). Carolyn and Tony (2014) note that:
These scholars were interested in the importance of storytelling and enactments of
culture, and they progressively became engaged by the personal traces in ethnographic
practice. Rejecting the idea that ethnographers should hide behind or perpetuate an aura
of objectivity and innocence, these researchers began including themselves as part of
what they studied, often writing stories about the research process and sometimes
focusing on their own experience. (p. 3)
Alongside this, there was a recognition of the ways people speak, write, value, and believe
differently based on their sociocultural location, which importantly influences their various
research endeavors (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011). Out of the intersections of these various
critiques and shifts within the field of anthropology, emerged autoethnography as a research
method.
Because of the ways autoethnography involves the personal experiences of authors, it is
often critiqued as being “insufficiently rigorous, theoretical, and analytical and too aesthetic,
emotional, and therapeutic” (Ellis, Adams, & Bochner, 2011, n.p.). However, an important
aspect of autoethnography involves the integration of both the emotional and analytical, and in
particular, finding a balance between these two. With this, I’ve read about the distinctions often
made between ‘analytic’ (more academically-situated) and ‘evocative’ (more emotionallysaturated) autoethnographies. More ‘evocative’ autoethnographies have been critiqued for the
ways they are understood as not being committed to enclosing the writer’s experiences within
theoretical frameworks (Leon Anderson, 2006; Clifford Geertz, 1973). I can understand these

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distinctions; however, I resonate with how these distinctions have been counter-criticized for the
ways they continue to privilege certain kinds of ‘knowledge’ and for the ways in which any
autoethnography, without distinctions, is evocative (Ellis & Bochner, 2006). Autoethnographies
focus on lived personal and emotional experiences—thereby, the evocative. Given how it is also
important to ground an autoethnography in the analytic, distinguishing subgenres of evocative
and analytic autoethnographies seems redundant and perhaps makes these labels unnecessary and
meaningless. These distinctions seem to position autoethnography against itself, placing more
value upon the empirical (i.e., science). Surrounding all of this, it is important to consider the
gendered way in which this analytic/evocative binary exists, with analytic relating to ‘masculine’
and the evocative relating to ‘feminine’ understandings, perpetuating the devaluing of knowledge
informed by the ‘feminine.’
Referencing the criticisms of Craig Gingrich-Philbrook (2003),Tony Adams and Stacy
Holman Jones (2008) state:
He wonders if our interest in realism, in evocation, in proving—once and for all—that
what autoethnographers and experimental writers are doing is scholarship—trades in and
betrays literary ambiguity, writerly vulnerability, institutional bravery, difference, and
artistry. He suggests that telling stories of subjugated knowledges – stories of pleasure,
gratification, and intimacy—offers one possibility for writing against and out of the bind
of sacrificing a multitudinous artistry for clear, unequivocal knowledge. (p. 374, italics in
original)
In other words, autoethnographers, myself included, often experience a need to write within an
either/or, choosing either between what is more likely to be deemed as ‘knowledge’ (analysis) or
the evocative, vulnerable, ambiguous story. I still experience attempts to consider

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autoethnography within the analytic/evocative binary but am trying to navigate the ways
autoethnography is both analytic and evocative. An autoethnography informed by queer theory
unsettles this binary, encouraging the telling of deeply evocative stories based in a queer
theoretical perspective.
Queering autoethnography
While exploring literature regarding autoethnography, I found myself particularly drawn
to the way Tony and Stacy write about it. Specifically, they avoid clearly defining
autoethnography because of the ways it would pin down and hem in the complexities of what it
could be into something easily digestible and identifiable (2008). They do, however, hinge
together queer theory with autoethnography, merging the analytic/evocative binary into a joint
space where a queer theoretical framework guides analysis.8
Tony and Stacy express that both queer theory and autoethnography disrupt traditional
narratives around research and the ‘norm’; commit themselves to novelty and innovation through
reflexivity; embrace the fluidity and instability of identity; serve as sites of ‘discursive trouble’ to
call out social injustices; and are critiqued in similar ways due to their commitment to reflexivity
(2008; 2010; 2011; 2016). What I particularly love about the writings of Tony and Stacy is the
way they leave room for me, in reading their texts, to arrive at my own understandings of what
autoethnography, and more specifically queer autoethnography, is. Autoethnography as queer
seems to be aimed at an autoethnographic process of writing and rewriting, of engaging in
creative practices, to hinge together meaning and unhinge that meaning all in one breath, to find
partial understandings that continue to change and develop. I was excited by their work and the
ways they based it within a queer theoretical perspective and the way it also moved away from

8

Refer to pp. 5-6 of this autoethnography.

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the analytical/evocative binary. I read, “[q]ueering autoethnography embraces fluidity, resists
definitional fixity, looks to self and structures as relational accomplishments, and takes seriously
the need to create more livable, equitable, and just ways of living” (2008, p. 384). I understood
that this method encourages us to move outside of clear categories and to dismantle set labels
and understandings by embracing languages’ failure to fully or accurately capture or contain us.
Further, it involves positioning identity as shifting and changing over time, thus requiring
constant negotiation and navigation through different contexts (2010). Further, it embraces
“stories of pleasure, of gratification, of the mundane, as they intersect, crisscrossing
rhizomatically with stories of subjugation, abuse, and oppression” (2010, p. 385).
I read about how Tony and Stacy understand written texts. Due to their permanent nature,
texts become fixed identities regardless of the autoethnographer’s intent because they cannot be
changed once published—they are therefore stagnant bodies. Interestingly, Tony and Stacy have
republished some of their work using very similar if not identical language at times, but with
each new publication expanding upon their previous statements or continuing to reframe them.
This seems to demonstrate what a queer autoethnographic process might look like…and how it
doesn’t end once a story is published. They wrote about how in this kind of research, the writer:
recognizes that bodies are immersed in, and fixed by, texts, but also recognizes these
bodies as doing, speaking, and understanding beings, forthrightly incomplete, unknown,
fragmented, and conflicting. Failing to recognize these contingencies, ellipses, and
contradictions, autoethnographers textually paint themselves into a corner… (2016, p.
211)
This corner further creates a fixed, unmoving, static identity where, “[i]n the place of
relationality, performativity, and transitivity, we create singularity, clarity, and certainty” (2016,

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p. 211). As writers, we often aim to write ‘good stories’—stories that are recognizable and that
offer concrete understandings to others, stories that have a sense of completeness (2008).
However, a queer autoethnography supports uncertainties, lack of clarity, and unfinished-ness
(2008). At the same time, we tell stories in attempts to be recognized by others, to be real and
intelligible. I am telling my story, in some ways, to be recognized by you, the reader. I am also
telling my story, in some ways, to have gender affirming voicework recognized as a possibility
within music therapy. Queer autoethnography, though, might ask me to willingly be undone and
unreal in the presence of others, to be witnessed but probably not recognized, at least not fully
(2011)—perhaps a truly radical way of being, of writing. I understand this to mean that the
author tells stories which
•

lack clarity due to the author moving away from fixed understandings

•

lack clarity due to the author being in the midst of ever-evolving conflict (i.e., no
resolution of the story)

•

don’t offer the kind of concreteness that academia tends to value

I further understand this as leaving the author in a vulnerable space, subject to criticism and
outright rejection for their failure to offer ‘meaningful’ understandings. With all this in mind, this
method can be considered a queer political action in the ways it challenges dominant discourse
and grand narratives (2008).
I found meaning in the ways that Tony and Stacy wrote about how a queer
autoethnographic process calls the author to reflexively engage with their stories. Specifically,
to reflect on the stories they are not ready or not willing to tell, questioning why they are not
ready or willing to tell them and whether that is precisely the reason why they should tell them
(2011). It involves “listening to and for silences and stories we can’t tell—not fully, not clearly,

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not yet; returning, again and again, to the river of story accepting what you can never fully, never
unquestionably know” (2011, pp. 111-112). Further, I read about how telling these ‘risky’ stories
‘shrouded in silence’ is dangerous because of the ways they are unclear, the ways they situate the
writer, the ways they situate those implicated in the story. I write about this below, but stories do
not exist in a vacuum; they are interconnected to the stories of others, and sometimes telling
stories involves sharing parts of someone else’s stories that might place those individuals in
vulnerable positions alongside the author. These stories can be told, though, “in the hopes of
making discursive and relational trouble; using a coauthored, I-we-you voice—an ambiguous
and fluid queer textual technique” (2011, p. 112). This I-we-you voice can decontextualize the
story, removing identifying information by shifting the ‘subject’ of the sentence; however, the
stories are still ‘risky’ in the ways they often don’t have clear, concrete meanings and can still be
easily contextualized. The use of ‘I’, ‘we’, and ‘you’ nevertheless brings the reader and writer
together into shared experience (2008; 2011; 2016). This mirrors the way autoethnographies
often offer alternative points of view or voices (Adams & Ellis, 2011). However, Tony and Stacy
situate this practice within its ability to bring both author and reader together into bearing
witness to harmful practices, violent and painful experiences, and the trials and tribulations of
‘(desiring) normalcy’ (2010).
Tony and Stacy further show the ways a queer autoethnographic process seems cyclical,
going around in a circle between three important pieces of this method in a form of analyzing:
the autoethnographic (the personal cultural story), the queer (the parts of the story that draw
attention to a problem), and the reflexive (the understanding of how we frame ourselves and
others) (2011). This cyclical way of engaging with the author’s stories involves embracing a
stance of “never becoming comfortable, always already wanting and being ready to (re)create”

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(2010, p. 150), of the author always ‘becoming’ something else by re-witnessing their
experiences. The writer also understands that those who read the text are also ‘becoming’ within
and alongside it. As the autoethnographer writes, they and their stories become something else.
As you, the reader, reads, you and your stories become something else. We both expand and
develop concurrently although separately. Because of this, Tony and Stacy allude to a need to
write without endings—to write without telling a clear story with a ‘good’ ending that provides a
precise meaning or take-away message. They suggest that we don’t have to provide these and
that authors might instead simply tell their stories without necessarily requiring analysis, thereby
making or leaving room for movement, re-imagination, and re-creation within the text (2010).
The reader can and will tell their own stories and their own understandings in response to and
alongside of the author’s story.
Tony and Stacy so beautifully portray this ‘writing without endings’ to me through a
parent telling of an interaction with his child at the pool (2011). I tell it in my own words here,
not completely understanding the meaning of it but sensing that it importantly expands my ideas
regarding the telling of stories. A child and parent float on their backs in the pool. The child
drifts into the deep end, a place she has not ventured before. Bumping her head on the floating
barrier, she opens her eyes and panics, vigorously swimming back to her father, angry that he let
her float away. Eventually, she finds appreciation for the experience. But later, when both parent
and child are driving home from the pool, she (un)relatedly talks of being angry and scared and
of worrying about moving to a new school, staying close with family, making new friends, and
fitting in. She further says that she didn’t tell her father about all this because he would try to
‘fix’ it. She talks about how when floating on her back in the pool, she had no worries until she
looked up and realized she was in the deep end. She then says: “Today, while I was floating in

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the water, I decided I am just going to be who I am and not worry so much.” The parent says: “I
think that is very wise.” But then, defeated, the child says: “It worked until I looked up.”
You [the parent] open your mouth, ready to speak, then stop. […] On the drive home, you
think about her floating in the water, suspended between here and there, between where
she is and where she wants to be. You look in the rearview mirror, looking for (eye)
contact. You want to tell her something that will make a difference, to tell her a story she
can take with her. You want to say that stories can be insurrectionary acts if we make
room for our (all of our) selves and their desires, for making trouble and acknowledging
the implications of doing so, for embracing the texture of knowing without grabbing on
to sure or fast answers. You want to tell her these things, but you can’t—not fully, not
clearly, not yet. And you understand that even if you did tell her these things, your telling
them won’t make it so for her. She will discover the power and responsibilities of telling
stories herself. You watch as she turns her head and looks out the window. You think
about her moving away from you, into the deep water, and you let her go. (2011, p. 114)
While not fully understanding this story, it suggests to me that the autoethnographer writes their
stories, arriving at their own ever-evolving, ever-incomplete meanings, and then shares those
stories with others—but doesn’t necessarily interpret their epiphanies or offer concrete
understandings. Instead, this story suggests to me a willingness to share my own story in efforts
to foster empathy and expand understandings within the fields of music therapy and even speechlanguage pathology, while inviting you, the reader, co-create your own meanings alongside my
own. I offer loose understandings that I’ve hinged together, while still attempting to leave room
for you to dive into your own deep waters as you read. We both are expanded—we both become
something else—by relating to these stories in different and/or perhaps similar ways.

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Reflecting on my research process, I ‘became’ and continue to ‘become’ something else
by exploring all the literature that I read and re-read and with my stories and experiences. I
developed new meanings and understandings alongside the authors and researchers I read, some
of which were very different than the often concrete ideas that were presented. These expanded
my own knowledge in important ways. However, engaging with these texts was painful at times
because of the ways the authors (un)intentionally wrote me out of their stories. The literature left
little room for my experiences as a nonbinary person and often used language that was offensive
and pathologizing of trans and nonbinary people. Although I don’t suspect maliciousness, these
stories denied my existence. The majority of this literature also heightened the tensions I was
experiencing around my voice. Further, I am currently developing new meanings and
understandings as I engage with my own past stories of actual voicework. As I consider these
experiences, it reminds me of how important the job of the author is. We tell our stories because
they must be told. But we must also leave room for readers to wholly take part in these, and
thereby with their own stories, providing the space for them to co-author and ‘become’
something else within and alongside them. By telling my stories here, I fully expect you to find
your own meanings as you engage with my larger story, your story, our stories. Telling and
reading stories can sometimes be painful, for both author and reader. I experienced hurt at times
in reading some of the stories told by the field of speech-language pathology. I also experienced
hurt when navigating whether to tell or not tell different parts of my story. But telling and
reading stories can also lead to growth, to change, to expansion.
Interrogating power and privilege in storytelling
In reading about autoethnography, I learned that a conversation around relational ethics
becomes imperative when we recognize narratives as ways of living and making sense of our

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lives (Adams, 2008). Autoethnographers have discussed how they have responsibilities to
consider the harm that can come to those they implicate in their stories (Ellis, 2007; Martin
Tolich, 2010). As mentioned earlier, the stories we write about ourselves are also the stories of
others, and these stories could disclose intimate details of relationship and perceptions in ways
that could be harmful to those implicated. Carolyn Ellis wonders “How do we honor our
relational responsibilities yet present our lives in a complex and truthful way for readers” (2007,
p. 14)? I read how she articulated that there aren’t any clear-cut rules to writing in relationally
ethical ways, but that she personally aims to maintain respect, dignity, and connectedness for
those implicated in the stories she tells. Martin Tolich (2010) has since offered specific strategies
for writing autoethnography in ethically sound ways, including respecting participant autonomy;
participating in ‘process consent’; recognizing how it can be coercive to seek consent after a
manuscript is written; consulting with others on ethical dilemmas; not publishing anything you
would not show to those who are implicated; being aware of internal confidentiality; anticipating
future vulnerability; avoiding or making the greatest attempt to avoid harm; minimizing risks
through pseudonyms; and lastly assuming that all people implicated will read the text at some
point (pp. 1607-1608). Many of these are also in line with suggestions for ethical writing by
Carolyn (2007).
While understanding the need for guidance on ethical questions, I read about how Kerri
Mesner (2016) directly references Martin’s work and challenges authors to queer their ethics
around autoethnography, emphasizing the ways that ethical concerns are situational and require
context to understand. A sort of ethical ambiguity is embraced—that is, movement away from
ethical certainty in attempts to question our autoethnographic ethics. Kerri suggests that
“institutional guidelines [such as Martin’s] support structures of unexamined privilege, where

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existing procedures serve to censor [and engage in a kind of narrative erasure of] voices and
stories that are already systemically marginalized” (p. 225). There is a queer give-and-take in
recognizing the ways my positionality and the positionality of those who I implicate in my
stories influences the way my story gets told. How does my sociocultural location, as well as the
locations of those implicated, influence the experiences contained within a story? Where am I
offering a privileged narrative and where a marginalized one? Where am I protecting and at
who’s expense? Where am I choosing not to tell a story out of protection—for myself or another
or both? How do I balance prioritizing my own marginalized narrative within the narratives of
those implicated?
Kerri acknowledges the importance of protecting those who are implicated in the stories
we tell, but also questions the emphasis on those protections for the ways they may further harm
the author. Considering the telling of stories, Tony and Stacy question:
what of the stories we want to tell because they are so important and enraging and
courageous and hopeful but we don’t because they aren’t ours—alone—to tell? Does not
telling these stories, or telling a story about all we can’t tell, do something in the world?
(2011, p. 109, italics in original)
With these ideas in mind, Kerri (2016) instead offers a set of ‘querying/queerying’ questions to
guide ethical considerations:
•

Whose voices are being heard within this particular ethical review process?

•

Whose ethical boundaries are being prioritized and at whose expense?

•

How might queer, disability, and decolonizing discourses help the autoethnographer
to re-envision the ethical parameters of their work?

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What are the costs to the autoethnographer [and others] of putting this work into the
wider world? What are the costs of not doing so? How might either choice hold
potential for ethical violence to the researcher themself [and to those implicated]? (p.
234)

In the writing of my autoethnography, I tell a story of my own experiences; what led to this
voicework; interactions I had with people I consulted with; and interactions I had with peers,
friends, family, and acquaintances throughout this process. The way I represent those implicated
in my story is an ethical concern. While writing, I have considered a combination of both the
ethical guidelines suggested by Martin given their clarity as well as Kerri’s questions given their
basis in queer theory.
Queer autoethnography and gender affirming voicework
Deeply engaging with queer autoethnography in the literature brought about excitement
within me. This method embraces a way of thinking that I had small inklings of prior to this
voicework and that, outside it, I was beginning to more fully move towards. Further, its basis in
queer theory provided a theoretical foundation that meshed so perfectly with my research and
with my queer experiences as a nonbinary person. This voicework had not been explored before
and as such, my narrative is only one account of the possibilities and potential limitations of
gender affirming voicework. Although I am thoughtful about how my own experiences might
assist me in understanding different trans and nonbinary narratives around voicework, my own
story more specifically explores the possibilities of voicework with nonbinary, female-assigned
persons not taking testosterone and who have a strong foundation in vocal techniques prior to the
work. Queer autoethnography, then, begs me to leave room for re-creation and expansion into
other kinds of narratives, narratives that might lead to very different kinds of voicework (i.e.,

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work with trans men and female-assigned nonbinary persons who take testosterone; trans women
and male-assigned nonbinary persons; intersex individuals who have completely been erased
within literature; or even cis men and cis women). Further, I am but one person exploring this
and know that others have much to add to this conversation. I want to leave as much room as
possible for you to creatively engage with my story. As such, it is through queer
autoethnography that I share my experiences of gender affirming voicework in music therapy.

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
CHAPTER 4
Gender Affirming Voicework
Every time you think you are broken,
know this: you are never really breaking.
No one can break an ocean,
darling, all you are doing,
is breaking the glass that is holding you back,
diving deeper into your own depths,
discovering yourself in pockets
of the most somber waves,
rebuilding your heart with coral,
with seaweed, with moon coloured sand dust.
So stop trying to hold yourself back inside that glass,
it was never meant to hold you.
Instead, break it,
shatter it into a thousand pieces…
and become who you were always meant to be,
an ocean, proud and whole.
(Nikita Gill, The Ocean You)
I want to wake up and know where I’m going
Say I’m ready, say I’m ready
I want to go where the river is overflowing
and I’ll be ready, I’ll be ready

88

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I’m ready to let the rivers wash over me
I’m ready to let the rivers wash over me
If the water can redeem me
I’m ready, I’m ready
I’m ready to let the rivers wash over me
I’m ready to let the rivers wash over me
I want to wake up
I want to know where I’m going
I want to go where the rivers are over-flowing
I’m ready to let the rivers wash over me
I’m ready, I’m ready
(Tracy Chapman, I’m Ready)
In considering how I might best represent the work I’ve done, I started off writing a
linear story from beginning to end, detailing each session, lesson, and conversation that
surrounded my voicework. Although an overarching timeline was helpful for me in more deeply
relating to my own experiences, it wasn’t manageable for this autoethnography nor was it a queer
way of sharing my stor(ies). A queer story is perhaps one that flows in and out of the author’s
experiences—jumping ahead, falling behind, stretching out the present moment—to understand
something more complexly. I offer an abbreviated version of that timeline here.
Throughout my voicework journey, I engaged in a variety of experiences both on my
own and with others. Much of my work with others consisted of consulting with Chris on
technique within vocal exercises and repertoire, and even engaging in some speech work with

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him. Partway through this voicework, I also began working with an Alexander Technique9
teacher focused on body awareness, releasing unnecessary tension, and becoming more
comfortable with my body through chair work and constructive rest. My decision to pursue
Alexander Technique was because many musicians pursue this kind of work to decrease tension
and improve their own body awareness. This felt as though it might be helpful for the kind of
work that I was focused on, and Chris agreed that it might be of use. Based on some of my
experiences in Alexander Technique, I felt the importance of spending time with my body;
however, I struggled with the ways Alexander Technique is such a hands-on approach, with the
teacher having you lay on a table or sit in a chair. They’ll go through various body parts, picking
up your arm, leg, foot, head, etc. to support them and ask you to give them the weight of that
body part, letting go of unnecessary tension. I experienced a lot of discomfort with this person
touching me. I barely knew them, and I didn’t know their perspective on trans and nonbinary
individuals. The gender of this person also influenced the way I experienced these lessons.
It’s from reflection on these experiences that I recognize the ways my positionality is so
important when considering gender affirming voicework with others. As a music therapist, my
embodiment, values, and sociocultural location will impact the ways I relate to others and they
relate to me. Trust feels integral to sharing intimate parts of one’s Self with another person.
Power and privilege seem connected with trust, especially in considering work with a teacher,
helper, or therapist. That person sits within a privileged position, and a relationship with them is

9

The American Society for the Alexander Technique (2019) states that Alexander Technique is a teaching method
to “change faulty postural habits […to improve] mobility, posture performance, and alertness along with relief of
chronic stiffness, tension and stress” (n.p.). Further, they state that “Most of us have many habitual patterns of
tension, learned both consciously and unconsciously. These patterns can be unlearned, enabling the possibility of
new choices in posture, movement and reaction” (n.p.). Lessons provide the space to “learn how to undo these
patterns and develop the ability to consciously redirect your whole self into an optimal state of being and
functioning” (n.p.). In these lessons, a teacher provides verbal and manual guidance, helping a person to recognize
and interfere with habitual patterns.

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uniquely experienced dependent upon the intersections of other aspects of identities (e.g., gender,
sexuality, race, and so on) between both the helper and the helped. I did not experience
maliciousness or a misuse of power with this Alexander Technique teacher; however, giving
them the weight of my leg/arm/etc. required a certain level of trust that just wasn’t there. While I
strongly believe that the perfect amount of discomfort can lead to growth, the amount of
discomfort that I was experiencing in these lessons was simply too much and very triggering for
me.

Figure 5 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "discomfort," 3/8/2018.

I instead found ways to integrate some of the tenets of the Alexander Technique, particularly that
of releasing unnecessary tension. This would be incorporated into the body and breath
experiences that I found myself doing within my solo voicework sessions and outside spaces,
which I will explore later.

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Importantly, shortly after starting this voicework I also began working with a music
therapist who was trained in GIM (guided imagery and music) and MI (music and imagery)10 in
order to engage in intensive (bi)weekly psychotherapeutic work. Although my reasonings for
seeking out a music therapist did not seem based in voicework but rather other personal life
challenges, it soon became apparent that these spaces which initially seemed very ‘separate’
within my mind were quite connected. Many of the themes from both spaces seemed to overlap.
Interestingly, the focus of my work with this therapist grew to be on authenticity and integration,
among other things, both of which obviously parallel voicework focused on accessing an
affirming voice. I realize now how unnecessary it was of me to compartmentalize and consider
these as distinct spaces. It is very easy for me to compartmentalize, just as it was easy for me to
consider voicework as strictly behavioral, void of any emotion. A binary of voicework and
GIM/MI existed in my mind. However, a queering has begun to take place, where I am trying to
embrace the overlap. After all, this work occurred concurrently, and my Self grew out from the
intersections of gender affirming voicework and GIM/MI music therapy. Within my GIM/MI
based work, I have worked with many of the resistances that parallel more mindfully engaging in
gender affirming voicework.
Of great significance, my work with this music therapist eventually led to voicing and
exploring my inner experiences of childhood trauma which profoundly influence my intense
discomfort with bodywork. Although the more intimate details of that therapeutic work are
beyond the scope of this autoethnography, more than I am willing to share, and not always

According to the Association for Music & Imagery (2019), “the Bonny Method of Guided Imagery and Music is a
music-centered, consciousness-expanding therapy developed by Helen Bonny. Therapists trained in the Bonny
Method choose classical music sequences that stimulate journeys of the imagination. Experiencing imagery in this
way facilitates clients’ integration of mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual aspects of well-being” (n.p.)
10

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completely related to gender affirming voicework, spending time with my body led to me
spending time with the impacts of past experiences. In understanding some of the overlaps
between my therapy space and voicework space, I’ve recently been listening to an audiobook by
Jacob Tobia (2019) with a few friends. Jacob’s memoir importantly positions the gender
socialization that they experienced as a kind of trauma and emotional abuse that they must cope
with—how growing up involved navigating the trauma of needing to let go of certain aspects of
their gender and gender expression or face rejection. Both the letting go and the rejection is
traumatizing. I resonate with Jacob’s experiences and view that trauma as a kind of death of Self.
For me, my gendered Self is wrapped up within my own experiences of childhood trauma. I
think Jacob says it best:
…I want the world to understand that depriving a child of the ability to express their
gender authentically is life threatening. I’m sharing this with you because I want you to
understand that gender policing is not some abstract, intellectual concept; it is a pattern of
emotional abuse that came from every direction and singularly robbed me of my
childhood. I’m sharing this with you because I want you to understand that telling a boy
not to wear a dress is an act of spiritual murder. (2019, n.p.)

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Figure 6 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "walls pushing back, truth coming out, buried alive,"
7/6/2018.

My own GIM/MI work centered around a different kind of trauma. However, I’ve realized that
in considering the kind of ‘gender trauma’ that Jacob describes, I am drawn to very similar
imagery as that of my GIM/MI music therapy work.
To heal you must first dive into the deepest ocean you will ever find and you will
find it locked in that soft, secret thing you call your heart.
(Nikita Gill, An Ocean Called Healing, excerpt)
When I began this voicework, my experiences of myself were disconnected from my
larger holistic understanding of my Self, that is, considering my voice within the scope of my
physical body/embodiment, emotions, internal world, and so on. I will more deeply explore this
later, but I was more focused on behavioral work similar to that of speech therapy and not on a
more holistic understanding of gender affirming voicework. I was not ‘in sync’ with myself. The

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innermost parts of my Self were quite frankly a mess, a never-ending ocean that I felt like some
miniscule pinpoint within.

Figure 7 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read “floating between worlds” 1/9/2019.

Further, my experiences with my body more often than not led to tension, hesitance, discomfort,
and feeling overwhelmed. I was compartmentalized—my voice separate from my body separate
from my emotions separate from my gender separate from my larger internal world.
The deep personal work which I strongly believe to have unconsciously begun in
voicework and which then shifted to my GIM/MI space could have perhaps been contained
within a singular therapeutic space of gender affirming voicework had I already been working
with a therapist knowledgeable in this kind of voicework and prepared for the ways traumabased work might arise. I do not intend to suggest that work within that kind of singular space
would be the same as to what I have experienced in GIM/MI. It would not because they are
different ways of working, and, further, they were focused on different although deeply related

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experiences. However, a voicework space could have perhaps contained some of the
themes/ideas that came up in working with that music therapist, aspects such as using breath as a
resource; being present to the fullness of my Self and my imagery (which often involved imaging
through the body); and integrating compartmentalized parts of my Self. I couldn’t do that kind of
work completely on my own, so it makes complete sense that my Self sought out the support of a
therapy space. I feel that we as music therapists need to be at least adequately prepared to
potentially navigate the fluidity and intensity of what a voicework space might be. It might shift
in focus around the physical voice, the body, the breath, the emotions, the internal world, etc. and
the intersections of all of these. This gender affirming voicework, for me, opened up a whole
ocean of inner movement at multiple levels—physically in terms of my voice and body, and
emotionally in the ways I experience myself in various capacities.
My voice.
My body.
My whole inner world.
All an ocean.
All overlapping,
intertwining together
like waves crashing
against and alongside
each other.
To pull apart water from water
makes no sense at all.
And what a difficult task, at that.

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Where does one end
and the other begin?
I cannot speak,
I cannot sing
without a body to create sound.
I have nothing to say,
I have nothing to sing
without that which drives my voice.
My internal Self is as vast as the ocean.
I beg of myself to witness all of me.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 4/2019)
My experiences in working with Chris and with my Alexander Technique teacher,
alongside the literature that I had been exploring, my experience as a music therapist, and my
experiences within GIM/MI based therapy influenced the voicework that I did on my own and
my thoughts that surround what this work might be with others. In what follows, I offer a series
of composite sketches based on what my solo voicework sessions typically looked like. I found
myself almost always engaging in specifically ordered types of experiences during these
sessions. This space was like a playground where I explored what kinds of experiences might
come up within gender affirming voicework, although this was difficult to do given that I was
working by myself. I typically started off with body- and breath-based work, shifted to a vocal
warmup, engaged in work around speech and song, and sometimes ended in more emotionally
driven music experiences that went deeper than my other kinds of work.

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This session structure/routine worked for me but would perhaps not work for others. This
typical session has provided a way for me to understand the work that I’ve done and the ways it
has been influenced by both those I consulted with and the experiences I had outside of
voicework. I also draw upon experiences that I had in sharing aspects of gender affirming
voicework with others in different spaces. Initially, I worried that sharing my experiences
through a kind of ‘mock session’ might be a simplification, an attempt to offer clear take-away
points to you, the reader. However, I’ve come to understand that this session structure was
significant to my understanding of my story and what gender affirming voicework might be with
other people.
Breath, breathe, breathing in the water
“One cannot imagine breath without body.”
(Timothy Huffman in Bryant Keith Alexander, Timothy Huffman, &
Amber Johnson, 2018, p. 317)
I will wash myself
with water
made of self care,
made of kindness
made of joy.
(Nikita Gill, Baptism, second stanza)
I put on Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Op. 34: No. 14, Vocalise arranged for cello and piano,
enjoying the sensation of the cello—it feels free and yet grounded.11 I listen to the piece

11

Performed by cellist Vladimir Ashkenazy and pianist Lynn Harrell from the Spotify playlist Solo Cello. I also
used other pieces during similar experiences, particularly those that I deeply connected with during my GIM/MI
music therapy work.

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once, lying on my back, feeling the carpet against my body. I focus solely on my breath—
specifically breathing down and into my back. Binding compresses my chest, but the back
of my binder has a thinner material that expands much more easily than the front does.
I’ve realized that focusing on that part of my body while breathing is helpful. I follow the
phrasing of the music, being intentional to take deep breaths but also willing my breath
to be as natural as possible. It feels good to just be in the music.
The piece starts again, and I turn my attention to the rest of my body. I do a
progressive muscle relaxation, moving from my toes and feet all the way up to my head
and down and out through my arms. I tense each muscle a few times, then let the tension
fade into relaxation. I struggle with tuning into each part of my body. I feel myself
disconnect and struggle to stay present, my mind drifting to the sounds outside the
practice room. While the stretching feels good, the hyperawareness of physical sensation
brings about discomfort. I feel silly/ridiculous in taking time to be with my body. This is
shame. I come back to my breath and continue to move through the progressive muscle
relaxation, willing myself to be present and release unnecessary tension.
Having finished, I move into a seated cross-legged position, still on the floor but
with my back now against the wall, music still playing. I freely massage my face, neck,
and shoulders. I find myself humming along to the recording, enjoying the experience of
my voice alongside the cello. This further morphs into free stretching, continuing to work
out the tension that remains in my body. I don’t leave a seated position, but I allow my
legs to come uncrossed, to let my body, muscles, breath, and voice move freely, following
my intuition, feeling the way my body wants to stretch and move, willing it to unwind and
relax. I ask myself: “How am I holding myself? What’s the least amount of work that I

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can do to just be here as I am? How am I feeling the energy of me here within this
space?” This feels good, but I have to keep myself from giving into the ‘silliness,’ the
shame that I also experience.
Sometimes it is so difficult for me to realize where in my body I am holding
tension, to be present to myself physically. That can be overwhelming. Tuning into
myself, into my body, requires so much awareness. The progressive muscle relaxation is
particularly helpful for me as it is focused on slowly isolating individual parts of the
body. When I am able to be more present to myself, I can work on getting physically
grounded in myself, experiencing my voice and Self within my physical body. I can be
connected with my breath, my body, my instrument. (reflective account based 10/28/2017,
1/20/2018, & 1/23/2018 voicework sessions)
It feels so simple that it shouldn’t have to be said, but it is a profound thought when you really sit
with the fullness of it. The body is imperative to voicework. The voice as a musical instrument is
the body. Without body, there is no voice. You cannot produce sound without your instrument,
without your body. You might have vocal cords, but without the lungs, the muscles, the full body
taking in breath and releasing that breath, there will never be sound. I say that repetitively
because I want you to feel the weight of what those words mean. Being present and aware of that
instrument is so very important. Not doing so would be like playing the clarinet but only
considering the reed the instrument. For me, I personally cannot recall a time where I didn’t have
discomfort with my body, which has obviously been impacted by my experiences of trauma as
well as tensions surrounding my gender. I came to this work so focused on my voice as this
isolative experience and was hit with the fullness of discomfort because, as I’ve previously

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stated, voicework requires being with the body. My work involved breathing through the
discomfort to find a place of groundedness, of Self, of some kind of comfort.

Figure 8 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read “letting myself feel it in the body” and “breathing → slowing
it down” 9/16/2018.

But the body is not only an instrument. Our bodies are also scripts that get ‘read’ by
others within broader cultural narratives. These narratives dictate how bodies should behave
dependent upon gender or presumed gender. We live in a strict gendered world where we are
socialized to behave and exist in cookie-cutter ways, and that, of course, intersects with other
axes of our identities. Considering stigma, sociologist Erving Goffman (1963) writes:
While the stranger is present before us, evidence can arise of [their] possessing an
attribute that makes [them] different from others in the category of the persons available
for [them] to be, and of a less desirable kind—in the extreme, a person who is quite

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thoroughly bad, or dangerous, or weak. [They are] reduced in our minds from a whole
and usual person to a tainted, discounted one. Such an attribute is a stigma […] (p.11)
The stigma that comes from both intentionally and unintentionally breaking outside of narratives
relates to three kinds of stigma identified by Erving. The first two include stigmas of physical
deformities and blemishes of individual character. The last includes “stigma of race, nation, and
religion, these being stigma that can be transmitted through lineages and equally contaminate all
members of a family” (1963, p.13). This work surrounds stigmatized people who are not
considered normal or even ‘human.’ Of great importance to gender narratives, Erving writes
[…] a discrepancy may exist between an individual’s virtual and actual identity. This
discrepancy, when known about or apparent, spoils [their] social identity; it has the effect
of cutting [them] off from society and from [themself] so that [they stand] as a
discredited person facing an unaccepting world. (p. 30)
Within this world, we learn how we must exist in order to accepted, whether partially or fully.
We are taught to behave, to be compliant and unspoiled.
Womanhood [and trans and nonbinary living]
is rich with unlearning.
How to unlearn the way
you hate your body,
how to rebuild your spirit
after the supernova of love
finally bursts,
how to understand that
there are a million

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
new versions of you,
hiding under your skin.
How each one is born
from suffering agonisingly,
unlearning what others
want you and your body to be,
finding moments
and seconds by metaphors
in everything
that make you feel good
make you feel
how you are supposed
to feel.
Reiterating them
till there is finally understanding
and accepting
inside your very soul.
The only thing that truly matters
is how often you say
on your journey,
“This, all of this,
is for me.”
(Nikita Gill, Unlearning, brackets added)

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I’ve grown to understand gender affirming voicework to be that of a return to the child who
existed prior to the learning of gender took hold. Let me show you.
Sue invited me to lead a few experiences around gender at one of the program’s
intensives.12 I facilitated several, but one body and music experience has stuck with me. I am
grateful to those who participated in that intensive for their willingness to be so vulnerable and
honest.
While playing a recording of “Kuan Yin” by Troika,13 I invite my peers to open their
awareness to the ways they occupy space, specifically tuning into the ways they
sit/stand/walk in gendered ways—into the ways that their body and movements are a part
of their gender and gender expression. I also encourage them to become aware of that
experience in relation to those in the room around them, not just paying attention to
themselves but also turning their attention to others and noticing their own internal
responses. I further encourage my peers to take up space in a way that felt most authentic
and affirming to them. We start by sitting, then shift to standing, then shift to walking
about the room, taking time to be present to each.
Afterward, a genderqueer person shares that they experienced “not wanting to be
seen” and this shame surrounding gender, even with those they were close or intimate
with. They express feeling dysphoric about the idea of people reading them as ‘woman,’
but importantly feel the most fear about being read as ‘nonbinary’ and facing rejection
for that. In their words, “the idea of being understood as deviant or nonconforming was
what brought a feeling of shame.” They showed this in their body during the experience,

SRU’s MMT program is online; however, twice a semester, students will travel to one location to engage in more
experientially based learning as well as just to bond. This particular intensive occurred 11/3/2018 and 11/4/2018.
13
“Kuan Yin” on the album Goddess by Troika
12

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physically slouching and sort of curling in on themself. That shame is something that
several in the room, including myself, deeply connected with. (reflective account of SRU
MMT intensive, 11/4/2018)
Later, that person privately described to me how the experience had moved a conversation about
gender out of an intellectual space and into their body. They described how the experience
brought the awareness of how they did experience their body. They shared:
I am feeling that now. I have never felt the desire to change my body based on gender; I
actually feel genuine love for my body pretty consistently. But what I realized today,
when I became aware of how my body expresses gender when I’m “just sitting there,”
and how others see me and read gender, was that I do have a problem with gendered
interpretations that are projected onto my body. […] They [feel] too simple at best,
erasing and invalidating at worst. (personal communication, 11/5/2018)
Relatedly, I offered a similar experience of my gender affirming voicework as part of a threehour CMTE at the MAR-AMTA 2019 regional conference.
One person who had looked very uncomfortable and who had been standing quite still
during the experience shares that they didn’t feel comfortable moving their body because
if they moved the way they wanted to move, they’d “be locked up in a mental institution.”
This seems to have a profound impact on those in the group—it has definitely stuck with
me. It leads to a conversation about shame and not being comfortable with our bodies or
the perception of our bodies. It further leads to the suggestion and a deeper conversation
around how this gender affirming voicework surrounds us “returning” to our inner
“child,” the child within us who is free and unashamed and so present to themself.
(reflective account of MAR-AMTA 2019 regional conference CMTE)

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I share my reflection on this idea.
[Very young] kids move without care to how they’re seen. They voice without care to how
they’re heard. They feel things without filtering those feelings. They exist without thought
to the way they exist. They’re carefree in the way they occupy space.
But at some point, we grow older [and are stigmatized, by others and even
ourselves] and many of us (although I might argue all) lose that [pure, unfiltered-ness],
whether partially or fully[, learning internalized scripts of what is and is not acceptable].
We begin filtering our movements, voices, emotions, etc. We conform them to what is safe
and/or acceptable. We pack away things and feel shame[, disgust, anger, fear, and so
on]14 about what is “odd” or “peculiar” or just plain “too much” [i.e., spoiled].
And that is incredibly harmful. It wounds us, damages us, shifts us away from our
authentic [S]elves into something more palatable to others. When I think about this it
makes me so sad and angry because it doesn’t have to be that way. (Facebook post,
3/29/2019)
As described by Erving (1963), signs/symbols can mark people as spoiled, thereby
becoming sites of stigmatization. Consider the cis woman who sits with their legs wide open. Or
the cis woman who speaks loudly and with confidence about their beliefs and opinions. Or the
cis man who cries. Or the cis man who speaks with a lisp and lots of expression within their
voice. While cis, trans, and nonbinary people will realistically all experience social pressure

14

Because of the experiences I witnessed both within myself and others, my initial thoughts surrounding this
focused on shame. However, Cindy has importantly challenged me to not assume and limit the possibilities for what
a person might experience. As I reflect on my own personal experiences, I recognize the ways other kinds of
emotions have arisen, particularly those of disgust and fear.

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surrounding gender expression sometime in their lives (unless they exist within some beautiful
genderless vacuum), trans and nonbinary folks must often navigate all of this alongside a need to
‘prove’ their trans-ness or nonbinary-ness by conforming to traditional conceptions of gender
expression. Consider the trans woman who doesn’t wear makeup. Or the trans man who loves
wearing dresses. Or the female-assigned nonbinary person who chooses to express their gender
in more feminine ways. Although I’m sure many people have found their pocket of friends and
family who will respond in affirming and loving ways to instances of gender nonconformity, I
would suggest that the larger cultural response to gender nonconformity becomes one of stigma.
Stigma for not maintaining gender expectations. And, of course, that can become internalized.

Figure 9 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, "Shame," notes read "jittery, gross, ridiculous, dirty," 1/2/2019.

The way you hate yourself
sometimes,
you seem to forget

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that there is still a child
somewhere inside you,
and you’re feeding
that innocence
within you
poison
with those
cruel words.

Protect that child
by being gentler
with yourself.

Protect that child
by being kinder
by yourself.

Because no one else
will protect them
other than you.
(Nikita Gill, The Child Inside)
The MMT and CMTE experiences mentioned above both share the idea of listening into
the Self, becoming more aware of the ways we inhabit and relate to our gendered bodies, voices,

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experiences. They also share the idea of critiquing and unlearning internalized cultural scripts
that surround gender and ways of being. In gender affirming voicework, I am particularly drawn
to understanding the Self as this inner child who, when given the chance to be within their full
authenticity, could move, voice, feel, think, be without regard or care to how stigma might hit
them squarely in the face. Listening into that child seems to require the kind of radical sensitivity
and listening that Lisa describes in her Embodied VoiceWork method and that I relate to in terms
of queer listening. On paper, it sounds so simple, yet, in practice, it personally feels quite
difficult, almost impossible. Wading through the waters of ‘me’ versus ‘not me’ when I’m
swimming in an ocean that seems to just keep getting larger and larger is beyond overwhelming.
It’s so easy to drown in something that’s that big. And if I’m able to swim through it, to breathe
in enough oxygen to keep myself alive, if I’m able to find my Self within the water, owning the
fullness of that requires a vulnerability, a kind of nakedness to the entire world. Letting that
child, that Self rise to the water’s surface feels so radically brave and courageous. Authenticity
means nakedly existing as I am, despite what might come of that.

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Figure 10 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "naked" 11/9/2018

In coming to gender affirming voicework, I was attentive to my identity as a nonbinary
trans person and was keenly aware of the ways my existence went against cultural narratives
surrounding gender. I recognized a disconnect within myself, specifically my gender, my Self,
my voice, and later with my body and the intersections of all of these. Developing an awareness
of this requires some level of listening, although I think it was through refining my skills,
listening with more nuance, listening while moving past shame, listening radically, listening
queerly that I’ve become more grounded within myself on a holistic level. I still am not the
greatest listener, and some days I am truly terrible. But I’m trying to be better. It’s a dynamic,
queer, messy process that doesn’t have a clear beginning and will likely not have a clear end. It is
a craft and skillset, a sensitivity to be continuously developed. When I consider my own
experiences of gender affirming voicework, I think that I eventually moved into work that

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attempted to cultivate to an even deeper and more profound level the ability to listen to and
embody my own radically present child within my body, voice, Self, inner world.
Although I haven’t dove into literature surrounding GIM/MI music therapy work, I have
lived experience as a client and believe that this approach could importantly inform what gender
affirming voicework might be. I eventually grew curious about what I’m coming to understand
as gender imagery—images, sounds, experiences, and ideas that are reflective of that child
within me. Chris and I discussed an Imaginary Body acting exercise, a character study from
Michael Chekhov (2002) where an actor imagines every aspect of the character, stepping into the
body of that person—from how they walk to how they wear their coat to how they wear their
boots to how they talk. It’s about taking the actor’s body and filling it into the body of the
character. I recognize the tensions that perhaps come from turning to an acting exercise.
Embodiments of Self could be construed as inauthentic performances given that this exercise is
based in attempting to portray and embody something that you are not in ‘real’ life (i.e., acting).
It makes me think of Judith Butler’s theory of gender performativity and the ways gender sits in
a space of duality (2004). Gender is both performative (unreal, an act, part of a cultural script)
and authentic (real, a self-embodiment, an identity, an aspect of the Self). However, I do not
believe that gender affirming voicework centers on inauthentic performances that focus on
embodying something that a person is not, but rather on an uncovering of what already is within
a person. The idea of ‘stepping’ into imagery seems to require a deeply curious and imaginative
space, in my opinion. For me, my own imagery has largely come out of my GIM/MI work.

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Figure 11 “The Ocean,” imagery created by me, surrounds the fluidity and vastness of my gender, text reads “You are not a
drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean, in a drop. -Rumi,” 4/2019.

In many ways, that ocean imagery and the experiences that accompany it are such perfect
representations of my internal world and Self. When I first began considering gender imagery, I
imagined the imagery to involve the creation of a collage of more concrete images that contain
the different ways in which I express or desire to express my gender (e.g., fashion style,
aesthetic, voices I am drawn to, etc.). I think exploring this is important; however, I think this
focus was limiting for me. And in some ways the unchanging-ness of a picture is not
representative of the ways my gender lives in a state of flux. However, the ocean is constantly
changing and moving. It is a fluid body, obviously one large body, but a body that is always
becoming something else. When I first considered gender imagery, I hadn’t really found the most
affirming imagery.
With reflection, I recognize the ways I have been resistant to more deeply engaging in the
intersections of body-based and imagery work. I’ve yet to bring this imagery into my own

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voicework space despite feeling the ways it might lead to deep and important work. First and
foremost, this is because being present to my body is overwhelming at times and
movement/dance is something that I tend to avoid at all costs. Upon writing this, Cindy LaCom,
one of my thesis readers, asked if I could write more here. Not asking as if to say, “you must
write more,” but instead a genuine questioning of am I able to safely write more without harming
myself. Cindy questioned the ethics of even asking me this question, knowing their positionality
as my professor and mentor and the privilege and power that those come with. In reflecting on
this, I appreciate Cindy’s thoughtfulness with these comments.
It is beyond challenging to write a thorough response because an exploration into my
resistances of body-based and imagery work parallels my GIM/MI work so intimately, and
words fail to express how difficult that work is. However, Cindy’s question sparked inner
movement within me as it, in a round-about way, asked me to directly look at what I am resistant
against. I have decided to write more because I think it’s important to acknowledge the
complexity of what gender affirming voicework might be. I have also decided to write more as I
turn back to my own words regarding queer autoethnography where I am asked “to reflect on the
stories [I am] not ready or not willing to tell, questioning why [I am] not ready or willing to tell
them and whether that is precisely the reason why [I] should tell them.”15 That expressed, my
decision to go into greater depth leaves me feeling very exposed because that part of my story is
messy, dirty, and very open-ended. In returning to the naked, vulnerable Self from a few pages
back, I recognize their courage. Sharing them with you is a small courageous step into the water.
If I am to be 100% honest with myself and with you, the reader, I must write that my
naked, vulnerable body—both as a metaphor (i.e., imagery) and as a reality (i.e., my physical

15

Refer to p. 79 of this autoethnography.

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body)—is something I look upon with disgust. Writing these words feels unsafe because of the
way they are so very real. It is easy to silence a metaphor out of existence, to look upon that Self
and cast them to the bottom of the ocean. It is harder to deny a physical body its reality, to open
my eyes and see my own skin, to then say that that skin is not real.
‘Cause if I just believe
then I don’t have to see what’s really there.
No, I’d rather pretend I’m something better than these broken parts,
pretend I’m something better than this mess that I am
‘cause then I don’t have to look at it
and no one gets to look at it.
No, no one can really see
‘cause I’ve learned to slam on the brake
before I even turn the key
before I make the mistake
before I lead with the worst of me.
I never let them see the worst of me.
‘Cause what if everyone saw?
What if everyone knew?
Would they like what they saw?
Or would they hate it too?
Will I just keep running away from what’s true?
(“Words Fail,” Dear Evan Hanson, lyrics excerpt)

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Writing these words for only myself invokes deep shame and hurt. Writing them with the
thought of these words being read by you, the reader, invokes fear—fear of being seen, of being
witnessed, of being unworthy. A naked Self at the bottom of the ocean cannot be seen by anyone,
even myself. Hence the avoidance of body-based work. I am still working at being with that Self
on a physical level, and it is unbelievably hard.
So, while I haven’t more deeply experienced in the intersections of body-based and
imagery work, I intend to pursue them at some point because I recognize their importance and
value, for myself but also in considering work with others. I could do so much more with my
own imagery now that I have realized it and now that I am in more of a grounded place than I
was at the beginning of my voicework. I am drawn to the idea of ‘stepping’ into gender imagery,
feeling how it impacts the ways in which I experience myself from moment-to-moment, although
that work is certainly a large task, filled with deeply emotional full-body experiences. But it is all
focused at embodying that imagery within my Self. These explorations might lead to worthwhile
work and shift the ways in which I experience myself. The body has been imperative to
connecting in to my Self and instrument.
Because of this, my own gender affirming voicework sessions almost always started with
the body and the breath so that I could begin to more consciously and with as little tension as
possible take in the air I needed to voice, to sing, to speak. This would then shift into attending to
my voice.
Connecting parts, voicing Self
Considering my own process within this journey, I began gender affirming voicework
very focused on my physical voice and vocal behaviors. Although in a messy, unclear, and
simultaneous manner, more voice-lesson-like work occurred alongside more improvisational

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ways of working, I have attempted to tease out the more voice-lesson-like work from the more
improvisational in what follows. Perhaps this is antithetical to what queer autoethnographers
have encouraged of me; however, the difference between those two ways of working yielded
very different kinds of experiences. While the work in each was indeed related and feel
important to what gender affirming voicework might be with others, the ways I naturally
engaged with more improvisational, chant-like voicework allowed me to more fully be both a
witness to my Self and to embody that Self. For this reason, it feels important to tease out, while
still attempting to leave my experiences within a queer space.
After working with my body and remaining attentive to my breath, my more voicelesson-like work would start by warming-up my voice in the kinds of ways I might in a practice
or choral setting, using a variety of melodic patterns, modulating up and down while working
with technique to support the sound as I move about my voice. Refer to supplemental file 1.16
…I hum, singing the vocal pattern 1-2-1-7-1, focusing on keeping my voice in a nice
smooth legato. I pay attention to the ways I sometimes grab onto my tongue creating
unnecessary tension to switch between notes. This would cause a kind of mechanical click
with each pitch change. I move the legato pattern up and down the piano, and down into
the lower parts of my voice, supporting my sound with some gentle accompaniment. …
…On the pattern 1-5—4-3-2-1, I sing “ee,” moving up and down the piano,
focusing on creating my sound from within a supported place, letting the sound come
from low within by body. I sometimes forget to breathe and gently remind myself to take
full breaths.…

16

Collage of vocal warm-up recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/collage-of-vocal-warm-ups.

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…I sing “ee” on a staccato 1-3-5-3-1, attentive to my breath and to breathing
deep into my body. I ask myself if my sound is supported, if the sound is connected to my
body. I play the piano with the kind of energy and engagement that my voice needs.
…(reflective accounts based on 1/23/2018, 1/26/2018, & 2/22/2018 voicework sessions)
In the beginning of this kind of work, vocal exercises then moved into speech at the end of the
vocal pattern in attempts to navigate the fluid space of singing and speaking. Refer to
supplemental file 2.17
On “ee” I create what sounds like an engine rev in attempts to loosen my tongue, then let
this fluidly shift into a five-note pattern of 5-4-3-2-1, moving into the phrase “easy is this
sound” at the end of the pattern, attentive to the liminal space between song and speech.
How can I carry this sound out of the context of an exercise and into my speech? How
can I move up and down the piano and still maintain the sound? My struggles come with
staying in the timbre and resonance of the sound, letting it be grounded and supported
within my body. Where does the sound ‘fall’ out of the support? Where am I closing off
the space, not voicing within the warmth of my voice? Am I letting go of the sound or
attempting to control it? (reflective account of 11/6/2017 voicework session)
In working in this liminal space between singing and speaking, I grew attentive to how I was
engaging in the fluidity of song and speech naturally, working with the space between exercises
where I would insert little comments, either in talking with Chris or talking out loud to myself
about what just happened within my voice. I considered how my sound would change between
exercises and actual speech.

17

Speech work excerpt (11/6/2017) recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/speech-work-excerpt.

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I sing “ee” on the same vocal pattern and stop myself mid-through to say “okay, how
about I do this,” but the difference between the sound I am working towards when
singing is a striking contrast to the sound I fall into with these outside-the-exercise
comments. My speech is much smaller and more forward in sound. It’s not the warmth of
that “ee.” It is very different and doesn’t feel at all connected to what I am doing. It is
frustrating to access something so warm and then to not have it transition. (reflective
account of 11/6/2017 voicework session)

Figure 12 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "disconnected," 12/1/2018.

I think part of this disconnect had to do with my voice attempting to navigate an exercise that
was outside the context of my every-day speaking experiences. I wasn’t working with how my
voice was already voicing. I was doing an exercise and expecting that work within my singing to
automatically shift into my speech.
Sing.

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Speak.
Sing.
Speak.
But wait, are they not the same?
Sing-Speak-Si-Sp-ng-eak.
Whatever happened to that?
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/2019)
Returning to the more voice-lesson-like work, sometimes this would involve engaging
with technique or expanding range while singing a song, changing the key of a song, running
parallel to what I might do in a voice lesson. Refer to supplemental file 3.18
Remembering your touch, your kiss
Your warm embrace
I’ll find my way back to you
Please say you’ll be waiting
Together again
It would feel so good to be in your arms
Where all my journeys end
If you can make a promise
If it’s one that you can keep
I vow to come for you
If you wait for me

“The Promise” (11/6/2017) recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/the-promise. Please note that this
was recorded using my iPhone and is not of the same quality as some of my other recordings.
18

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And say you’ll hold
A place for me in your heart.
(Tracy Chapman, excerpt from The Promise)
I sit at the piano, singing and playing the entirety of this song. I love Tracy Chapman’s
voice, it’s warmth and richness, the ways it unsettles expectations, sitting in this queer
and fluid space. In many ways, Tracy’s voice is a part of my gender imagery, something
that I am drawn to and lean in towards. In attempting to embody that sound, I question:
Am I supporting the sound? Where does the sound sit in my body? Am I opening up the
vowel to fill it with warmth? I spend time with the lower notes of the song, taking them
out of context of the song to let them expand into a larger and warmer space. I work to
keep the sound consistent as I move throughout my voice and the song. Being fully
immersed in the music is so enjoyable, particularly when the notes vibrate the full of me.
(reflective account of 11/6/2017 voicework session)
There was a point during my own voicework when I became very aware of how I was
shifting sound to access the lower, richer parts of my voice with ease and deep resonance. To
access that kind of sound requires patience, an opening up, a blossoming of sound, an awareness
of sensation, of voicing—all to access what feels like some deeper-than-my-chest register. It is
difficult to find adequate words to share with you the sensation of all of this because it is very
much a physical experience for me and one that I feel I cannot simply describe. It’s become
sensations that I’ve learned about my own body and voice that clue me into being more
connected with a voice that resonates with me.
It’s not another register, but the way I’m approaching it is similar to how I would
approach an intentional switch from my chest-to-head or head-to-chest voice. This lower

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space felt like it was just blooming out of my chest and the back of my head. It was
incredibly validating, comforting, and freeing. (journal entry regarding 2/23/2018 voice
lesson)
Accessing that sound required me to realize specific sensations and experiences within myself
that opened up that space so that I could more intentionally enter it outside of just sheer luck.
Within the context of an exercise or within some of the more improvisational, chant-like work
that I will soon explore, I utilized overtone singing19 and humming, attending to the sensation of
this, playing with the space within my mouth, particularly around my lower notes. Working with
overtones involves intentionally playing with resonance, opening up the space for different notes
to resonate and sound more clearly. This also sat alongside me focusing more on the sensations
felt on my hard palate, feeling the vibrations of that and tuning into it to connect with my chest
voice. I found it important to attend to the sensation within the back of my throat and mouth,
particularly the space between my top back teeth, focusing on letting that space grow wider and
bigger. As I’ve already expressed, it was important to check in with the level of engagement
from my whole body in the creation and support of my voice. Lastly, I found the imagery of a
“raw and real” sound to be so helpful. The image that comes up for me when considering raw
sound is that of visceral, pure, full-of-life-and-body, got-me-moving-and-engaged, messy kind of
experience. It vibrates. It pulses. It’s an energizing sound.

According to the Smithsonian Institution (2019), in overtone singing (or throat-singing) “a singer can produce two
or more notes simultaneously through specialized vocalization technique taking advantage of the throat's resonance
characteristics. By precise movements of the lips, tongue, jaw, velum, and larynx, throat-singers produce unique
harmonies using only their bodies. Throat-singing is most identified with parts of Central Asia, but it is also
practiced in northern Canada and South Africa where the technique takes on different styles and meanings” (n.p.). It
often is understood as a kind of chant-like singing.
19

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When I get out of it [i.e., this sound], I need to think about: What do I need to do with my
body—my voice—to get back in that space? What’s happening that’s preventing me from
staying there? That takes some effort to recenter myself, but I feel that since I’ve more
concretely realized what needs to happen in my singing to access this space, I have more
understanding of what needs to happen in my speech. Once I’m in it, it just clicks. Before
it was all happenstance…it felt like pure chance that I could do it. And I don’t know that I
ever really successfully accessed that space while speaking before. It felt forced and took
a lot of thought. All of this excites me even more because I have had some concern about
whether accessing that sound through my speech would require a lot of effort—all day
everyday—or that it wouldn’t feel natural…but, over the past day or so, there have been
moments, conversations, instances where it doesn’t require conscious effort and when it
feels completely natural. I’m just talking. (journal entry from 3/3/2018)

Figure 13 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "being an ocean, being present to all of me, drastically
opposite to [feeling like] the pinpoint," 1/16/2019.

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My voice is an ocean,
filling all of me.
It is warmth.
It is expansion.
It is cleansing.
It is a resource.
It is a strength.
My voice is an ocean,
taking up so much space,
letting me go to a greater depth,
where my child sits wrapped in a blanket of that warmth.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 4/2019)
Although I have found great value in some of this earlier work, it’s important to note that
most, if not all, of the more voice-lesson-like work invoked a kind of ‘perfection/performance’
mindset where I just wanted to ‘do it right,’ to sing/speak ‘androgyny’ in the ‘right’ way. I
understand that this mindset was tied to the ways in which I experienced that work as a voice
lesson. Given my history as a voice student, I associated lesson and practice spaces as those in
which I was focused on doing something correctly, improving my technique, being ‘right.’
While I understand this, that mindset wasn’t helpful or productive. Nor was it queer. Nor was it
really ‘me’ in that it was focused on performing and doing ‘right’—that is, not just being with
my Self. It felt quite distant from the ‘raw’ imagery that I eventually realized was so important.
Alongside all of this, at one point, I began to experience tension with the ways this more voicelesson-like work felt like forcing sound. In a reflection, I wrote in a journal that “it doesn’t sound

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like ‘me.’ It sounds forced and mechanical. Outside of speech. Not a part of ‘me’ but an
organized effort.” For me, this required me shifting the way I approached this work, although
perhaps for others, they might be able to exist in a voice-lesson-like space without experiencing
the difficulties I did with being present to my Self.

Figure 14 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "expansion," 12/21/2018.

The more voice-lesson-like work that I’ve discussed thus far was important, and I don’t
intend to suggest that it’s not where any work happened or that it is somehow ‘less than.’
Because that’s just simply not true. I grew as a person within this work and began to have an
even deeper, richer relationship with my voice, understanding it more intimately and the ways I
could use it to access something that was truly ‘me.’ This work was an important part of my
journey and has impacted the way I experience my voice and Self. But within my own gender
affirming voicework, there was a gradual and almost unnoticeable shift from “How am I being
heard by others?” to “What am I hearing from within myself?” And that shifted me out of work

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that paralleled voice-lesson-like experiences and into more in-the-moment way of working
where I grew more attentive to my own Self and experiences and became less focused on
outcome. “Process over product,” as they say. I shifted into a more improvisational, chant-like
work which emerged as I sat honestly and in-the-moment with my voice. This focused on being
so deeply attentive to my own voice, to where it was naturally settling, to where I was feeling
myself drawn to. It centered around willing the sound to open up, to be supported by my whole
body, to be free and relaxed, and further to be present to my own body and experiences. This
feels connected to the kind of radical receptivity and emphasis on listening to the body and Self
that Lisa describes in her Embodied VoiceWork method.
Here, I would warm up my voice not through exercises, but through simply making
music around different ‘givens’ of improvisation (Tony Wigram, 2004). This shift was important
because it helped me to move out of a perfection mindset. Unfortunately, I do not have a
recording of this particular experience.
I sit at the piano and start a vocal and piano improvisation. I focus specifically on the
sounds “s,” “ts,” and “z” to help me to engage my support, my diaphragmatic
breathing.20 I play with my voice rhythmically, my fingers adding to this rhythm along the
black keys. I’m less focused on supporting myself and more focused on just being in the
music, letting my voice sit alongside the piano. While this is enjoyable, I keep forgetting
to breathe down into my back. Eventually, I gradually transition from the “z” sound into
vocal sighs on “ah,” following my inner urge to sing and voice. The sighs soon turn into
an “ng” sound. I feel the sound moving around my mouth, my voice returning to the
rhythms from before. I let my voice wander around the piano, allowing it to morph from

20

Constansis (2008).

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“ng” to an open “ah” and then back and forth between and “ah” and hum. My fingers
still following my voice on the black keys. There’s freedom in just being with my voice
while playing, although it is a struggle to both sing within that freedom and support
myself on the piano in the ways that I want my voice to be supported. (reflective account
of 10/28/2017 voicework session)
I so desired for the kinds of music-making I was doing to be musically rich. I craved the music
that sat beneath my voice to have a depth to it and to not just be a simple kind of support. It was
hard for me to fulfill this need on my own while still attempting to voice and be attentive to the
work I was doing in that capacity.
In this kind of work, I would also engage in improvisations where the givens were
focused on certain techniques or thoughts. For example, one given was just to track resonance on
my palate and to play with the sensation of shifting it around intentionally while also just being
in the music and my own voice. Refer to supplemental file 4.21
I hum throughout the improvisation, letting my voice settle to where it wants to be in the
moment. Playing around the piano, I realize that I am singing in the key of Db. There’s
some tension in my voice at the start. However, the entire improvisation has this “coming
home” kind of feel to it, and the further I go along, I hear the way my voice open ups into
a warmer and freer space. I felt so much contentment coming out of this improvisation,
not only because my voice was in this really engaged space, but the piano was such a
presence underneath me. At several points, I join the piano in unison, entering this both

21

Improvisational warm-up (2/22/2018) recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/improvisational-warmup. Please note that the microphone was placed too closely to the piano causing the piano to overpower the voice at
times.

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fragile and strong space that I am so connected with. (reflective account of 2/22/2018
voicework session)

Figure 15 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "beautiful," 1/30/2019.

Although I was focused on technique and more deeply experiencing my voice by tuning into
physical sensation, this improvisation moved into just being with my voice within the music,
finding the ways that I wanted to engage in that moment. It was so grounding, and it satisfied the
desire I had to be contained and expanded upon within the music. I think in some ways, by
exploring vocal technique within improvisation, it opened voice-lesson-like work into a place of
curiosity and wanting to know my own voice better. A voice-lesson-like space was too
intimidating for me, perhaps because it was so familiar, and I had a particular way of existing
within that space. So while the work is the same…it was so different.

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One of the most pivotal moments in shifting into more in-the-moment song and speech
work was with Sanne’s CoreTone exercise from her voice assessment, which I mentioned
earlier.22 For review, it is the idea of being present to the ways I am using my voice, noticing the
specific pitch, the CoreTone, that my voice gravitates to, elongating that pitch and sound out, and
then toning on that sound, letting it open up and become relaxed and grounded in the body. Refer
to supplemental file 5.23
Beginning a variation of Sanne’s CoreTone exercise, I begin talking to myself and it feels
incredibly awkward. Not only am I very aware that I am talking to myself, but I am also
aware that I am recording myself talking to myself. It’s strange and doesn’t feel natural
at all. It’s outside the context of my ‘normal’ speech. I want to quickly move into the
toning part of this. I speak, letting my words become longer, letting there be more space
between the consonants where the sound can be sustained. But I don’t sit in this liminal
space as long as I could have, perhaps because it feels awkward.
While toning what feels like my CoreTone on an open “ah,” I let it move to a hum
and then continue to go back and forth between these two sensations. Sanne’s exercise
calls for me to sing a singular pitch on an “ah,” but I really enjoy the sensation of the
hum in my chest and within my body. Searching for this note on the piano, I realize that it
is an E3. I create what feels like waves of sound on the piano by sustaining an E minor
chord in various octaves, moving my voice and the piano together, letting the piano
lighten up as I pause to breathe and letting it come back in as I exhale sound out of me.
(reflective account of 11/6/2017 voicework session)

22
23

Refer to pages 55-57 of this autoethnography.
CoreTone variation (11/6/2017) recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/coretone-variation.

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After listening back to the recording of this, I recognized that when I first began searching for
my CoreTone, I was actually closer to an F3 or G3 than I was to an E3. Further, I even jumped
up higher than that at times to a B3. At first, I thought: “Well, I did that wrong.” But then I
thought: “Does it really matter? Perhaps that can give me important information.” I started off at
F3/G3 but didn’t stay with those notes, despite the fact that these were really where my voice
was. My Self desired to sit lower within my voice. That feels important. I wondered how working
with the CoreTone in this kind of work could give me insight into where the first sound starts,
where the voice is itself. And then where the voice wants to be, where it gravitates toward. I
heard movement within my voice. That movement might show me where the work needs to
happen. Listening back to this first experience of the CoreTone, I was also intrigued by the way I
unintentionally supported my CoreTone with an E minor chord, which contains the extremes of
my speech during this experience—E3 to B3.
Working with the CoreTone exercise sparked a deeper thought within me—what if
instead of just isolating one singular note, I worked with longer phrases of speech? This began
with poetry and song lyrics because in many ways they felt safer and less awkward—I had a
piece of paper telling me exactly what to say. I didn’t feel pressured to talk about anything in
particular but simply to read what was directly in front of me. But eventually, I moved into more
intentionally working with my natural in-the-moment-outside-the-context-of-an-experience
speech. Refer to supplemental file 6.24
I read the text of the poem out loud,25 the entire thing first, just to get the sound and
words in my mouth. The second time through, I spend time with each phrase, working

24
25

Poetry speech work (4/3/2019) recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/poetry-speech-work.
Nikita Gill, Unlearning.

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slower, to feel the way each sound exists within my voice and body. With the second time
through, I search for the note on the piano—an Eb3—and I teeter back and forth between
this note and F3. On the piano, I mostly move back and forth between and Eb major
chord and F major chord, but I also occasionally include a Db major chord. I spend time
with a few notes and words, ‘reiterating them,’ humming and focusing on the sensations
on the palate, enjoying the way the words feels like they blossom into something warmer
and richer within my body and voice. Most of my phrases drop off at the end, not really
existing on any one pitch, but fading off into the fabric of my speech. There’s a moment
where I pop out of the context of the poem and attend to my speech, which slightly shifted
into a smaller space.
I question if the sound is free, relaxed, open. I question if the sound is grounded in
my body. I question if I feel connected to the sound, if it is a representation of who I know
myself to be. I question how I might be holding the sound back, only letting some small
part of it out into the world. These questions encourage me to be present to myself and to
open to my own sound. After slowly working with the poem, I read it back through again
returning to my usual ‘speech’ speed, playing the piano underneath in attempts to
capture some of the movement of my voice. The words of this poem so perfectly sit
alongside this experience. (reflective account of 4/3/2019 voicework session)
Some of the most exciting work for me has come out of engaging in this kind of chant-like,
opening up of sound, where with repetition, the sound becomes freer, more relaxed, more
grounded. It becomes filled with me—with my Self. I understand this aspect of the work I’ve
done to be a kind of radical listening to the Self and the voice in-the-moment, attending to where
they are and where they want to be, to where they want to grow, to the movement they desire.

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My excitement with this work was not always the case, as I alluded to when describing
the first CoreTone experience I did. While I’ve grown quite drawn to this way of working, I
struggled alongside of that to sit within that liminal space between speech and song, where
there’s little distinction between one or the other. It was so easy for me to quickly move from
speaking into singing and singing into speaking, to tease apart the ways my voice sings and the
ways it speaks. It was hard to embrace the overlap between these voices without popping into
my “singing voice” or my “speaking voice.” In some ways, both were performed. But I grew
more curious about my voice, and that voice is found within the in-between liminal space, where
there’s an uncertainty of whether I am singing or speaking. Perhaps I am always simultaneously
doing both. I now so love that liminal space. It’s where I am most energized at the thought of
working with other people.
A big piece of my excitement comes from the ways these kinds of experiences have
impacted me. I more often than not have left that chant-like space feeling more connected to my
voice and to gaining access to richer and deeper resonances. In fact, there have been instances
where I’ve shared this work during presentations, demonstrating the fluid shift between speech
and song, showing the ways chanting and toning around my already spoken speech opened me
up into something I more deeply connected with. After demonstrating that to those in attendance,
it has impacted the ways I speak immediately afterwards, with my voice often staying with the
same resonance that I just left the experience with. I was very aware of the ways this often
happened, but it was so validating when those I was talking to heard it as well. It’s easier for me
to stay within that resonance after this kind of chant-like work because I had just spent all this
time accessing it consistently. It made it easier to come back home because I had been living
there for a little bit.

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My basement,
warm and furnished,
a place where I can live,
a place where I can find comfort.

I still go to the attic.
I still go to the garden.
I still go to the kitchen.
But I am home in the basement.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 5/2019)
I get so excited about this work because I can spend a few minutes sitting with my speech and
then let that shift me into a more connected space. I can do it in my car or when I’m at home. I
personally think that working with my actual speech, out of the context of poetry or song lyrics,
has been most meaningful because it’s taken away some aspects of the ‘performed,’ of the
voicing to ‘sound’ in a particular way. However, it also has required the most willingness to
listen radically without shaming myself or feeling ridiculous.
At the moment, I am currently wrestling with the tensions and overlaps between where
some of my own work started and where it is at the writing of this autoethnography. They feel
quite different but still connected, intertwined together. I would likely not have experienced the
work I ended with in the same ways had I not first engaged in the work that I started with. My
beginning feels more behavioral. My current ending, or perhaps my current beginning, feels
more holistic. When I think about how I might want to work with other people based on my own
experiences, I’m drawn to work focused more on radically listening to one’s Self; however, this

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work is, of course, informed by more voice-lesson-like work which still assists me with voicing
in healthy and sustainable ways.
Held in the music, held in the water
You are:
[…]
An untamed, powerful ocean
of every experience that made you
into a journey full of storms
and quiet starry nights.
(Nikita Gill, What You Are. What You Are Not., excerpt)
Within this gender affirming voicework, there were important instances where music held
and supported the strong emotional responses I had within the work, containing those emotions
through improvisation and music-making, providing a space to acknowledge and be with them.
One experience began with reading the lyrics to “Weep No More,” a song that Chris and I had
been working with during a voice lesson and that I took to my solo voicework space. The
lyrics/music are filled with a melancholy feeling. Although the song was selected purely for
working with technique, I find it interesting how reading through the text of these lyrics to work
with speech eventually led an experience filled with a kind of sadness and disappointment. Refer
to supplemental file 7.26
Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?

26

Improvising to hold emotion (2/1/2018) recording: https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/improvising-to-holdemotion.

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Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven’s sun doth gently waste!
But my sun’s heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping,
Softly now, softly lies sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at e’en he sets?
Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping,
Softly now, softly lies sleeping.
(Roger Quilter, Weep You No More)
I spend time with the first two lines of this, attending to the melody of my speech, which
surrounds the notes of F, G, G#, and A. I play around on these notes, taking them out of
the specific melodic pattern they began in. I tone on them, focused on letting them grow
out into something else. I work with playing with overtones of these notes, and there’s an
opening up that comes with this. However, as I progress, I find myself getting very
frustrated because my voice wasn’t quite working the way I want it to be working. I
experience it with a heavy, clunky, and tense ungroundedness. Eventually, I give up on

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continuing with more technically focused work and seamlessly move into an
improvisation not focused on anything in particular. I can’t recall the specific point at
which I moved away from the ‘work.’ I am so connected to this improvisation, using the
same notes I had just been working with, although I added various aspects of a minor
scale to them as the improvisation progressed. As the improvisation begins to come to an
end, it grows quite angsty, with some very strange vocal sounds and techniques coming
out of my voice. I left my voicework session here, in this weird space. I experience my
voice after this improvisation as sad, disappointed, discouraged. I feel disheartened
about what just happened. (reflective account of 2/1/2018 voicework session)
This experience was so needed for what was going on internally for me, and honestly, is perhaps
the ‘best’ representation for what I imagine gender affirming voicework to be with others
because of the ways this experience brought me into a more holistic space. This was valuable
work in that I was present to what I was feeling and took the time to attend to that. However, if I
had been working with a music therapist, we could have attempted to process how this
improvisation related to the greater context of my voicework, and we could have processed the
emotional experiences of that larger context. Most, if not all, of my gender affirming voicework
sessions were not processed in-the-moment with another person in the kinds of ways a music
therapist could support that processing. The work existed within the void of a practice room,
where I was the only one present. Even when working with Chris, who was attentive to the ways
I at times experienced hesitation and discomfort within our work, he isn’t a music therapist and
isn’t trained for that work. A music therapist trained in gender affirming voicework could have
helped to broaden the meaningful experiences I had within this voicework.

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Figure 16 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "uncomfortably comforted," 7/11/2018.

Considering other instances, there were times when I would access this part of my voice
that I so deeply connected with, where my voice would work, flow, fluidly exist in this rich and
warm space with an ease that was so comforting and enjoyable. Sometimes I would continue in
the work that led me to that space, whether that be working with speech melodies, a CoreTone
variation, and so on. Other times, I would turn to improvisation and music-making as a way of
more deeply appreciating and being with that sound, enjoying the sensation it gave me, vibrating
my body, filling me with a kind of wholeness. In those instances, I didn’t want to be in the work
I was just in. I wanted to swim in a sound bath of my Self.

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Figure 17 Mandala from GIM/MI music therapy session, notes read "trusting myself," 3/24/2018.

All in all, music served as this holding space for me, where the emotions contained
within my gender affirming voicework found a way to be explored to at least some degree. My
work was deeply emotional, providing the space for my own past experiences of trauma to spring
into the moment, pushing me to pursue work with a GIM/MI music therapist, even as that work
didn’t evolve from the conscious awareness of my being pushed. My gender affirming
voicework also provided the space to invoke feelings of hope for a more affirming way of
existing (i.e., the future). I am so grateful for the ways music exists in this nonlinear,
interconnected space, where so much can come out if we only provide it the space.
The return
When I sing for them,
I crave their love.

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
I crave the applause.
I crave their words
to validate
that my voice
is worth using.
When I sing for them,
I don’t see myself.
I see their response,
their praise, their pain.
So I sing them things that make them smile.
I sing them things I know they love.
But you didn’t ask me this.
You asked me what it means to sing for them.

Singing for them
means drowning myself.
It means suffocating myself
in that ocean,
sinking myself down
to its bottom
where I can’t breathe,
where I can’t sing,
where I am lost,

138

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
where some ghost of myself
floats at the top,
half-heartedly singing
some fairytale of a song.
Yet they don’t tell the difference.

But you also asked what it means
to be heard as my authentic self
…and I cry…
because I don’t know how
to sing for them
and simultaneously sing for myself.
Because to be heard as myself
means I must sing for no one else.
Because to be heard as myself
means I will likely
not be heard
by them.
At least not
with praise,
with love-like words,
with applause.

139

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
Because to be heard as myself
means diving down
to the deepest depths
of this ocean
to find the part of me
that has morphed
into some foreign,
magical creature
to survive.
To find the part of me
that has become water.
That grew fins
to swim and not die.
That grew gills
to keep singing
in solo water caverns.
That made home
in this ocean,
finding songs within the waves,
echoes in the caves.
That found safety
in solitude and independence,
because the authenticity

140

EMBODIED SPEECH THROUGH SONG: GAV IN MT
of this creature
was banished.

But nothing
can live
in darkness
forever.
And nothing
can sing
in silence
forever.

You ask what it means
to be heard as my authentic self.
It means freedom.
It means letting the comfort
of those love-like words
mean nothing
because they alone
don’t validate my worth.
It means letting their manipulation
roll off my skin
like drops of water

141

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142

for I have survived
deeper waters.
For the water
is as a part of me
as my very breath.
For I can breathe
on land and in oceans.
And perhaps
that is the
one gift
all of this
has given me.
(Maevon Gumble, Untitled, 1/2019)27
I return to that child from the opening pages of this autoethnography who wholeheartedly
belts at the top of their lungs, throwing pure, unfiltered, radical sound at a world whose vastness
they haven’t fully realized. That child sings of a desire to run, to jump, to dance, to wander, to be
on the surface with the people, to be a part of something they knew they were always a part of.
That child felt their humanness and knew their place within the world, within some alternative
fairytale that we missed the beginning of. You see, before Ariel was a mermaid, she was human,
not the other way around. The real story is that Ariel in her human state got thrown into the
ocean, sank deep down into a place she never thought she’d go. To save her, Ursula used her

27

After discussing with my therapist the overlaps that I was recognizing between my GIM/MI music therapy space
and my gender affirming voicework, my therapist encouraged me to journal. This poem came out of that journaling.

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magic to change Ariel from human to mercreature, meaning well although the damage was done.
There’s a kind of death in transformation. When it was finally safe enough, Ursula returned Ariel
back into a human. And my child, my inner Self was always human. They lived through the
trauma, but they want us to know that we all missed the point. We all focused on the wrong part
of the story. We saw transformation. But it was always a return.

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Still ‘Becoming’
“My closing refrain has played at the corners of my mind. I don’t plan to write
much. I don’t need to, as I’ve said much of what I must say. Why am I not
writing? It isn’t quite writer’s block, because I think that if I sat down I’d know
what [I’d want] to say. […]”
(Timothy Huffman in Alexander et al., 2018, p. 322)
I am not analyzing my experiences to provide some clearly articulated summary. This is in the
attempt to provide you, the reader, with the space to breathe, to live and create within this text,
this story. To find your own meaning, your own creative understanding of what this account
means to you about the field of music therapy and gender affirming voicework with others. I do,
however, wish to state that this work is an approach and method that I have developed and will
continue to develop as I begin to work alongside individuals who wish to access a more
affirming voice and embodiment for themselves. The ideas surrounding and contained within
gender affirming voicework fill me with such an excitement, and it is through experiencing my
own journey of this work that I’ve come to realize that this is my life’s passion. I am particularly
interested in prioritizing the voices, experiences, and bodies of trans and nonbinary people in
attempts to intimately engage with the complexity of this process within a therapeutic
relationship. In my mind, that begins with dialogue and working alongside each other to explore
the challenges and possibilities of this work. Once I begin clinically working with others in this
way and become informed by those experiences, I will further share my method to more deeply
consider this work within music therapy. As mentioned earlier, I relate to the experiences of
Mary Priestley, Peter Wright, and Marjorie Wardle, who explored Analytical Music Therapy
first amongst themselves and then shifted that work into clinical spaces.

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I must also explicitly write of the importance of training within this gender affirming
voicework method that I am developing. I have been immersed in these ideas and this process for
over two years and have only worked with myself. That has been deeply informative to my
understanding of gender affirming voicework. I do not feel that this work is something you can
just read about and do. I believe that it requires an in-depth exploration of speech-language
pathology literature surrounding trans and nonbinary voices; an engagement with similar
voicework music therapy methods (such as Lisa’s Embodied VoiceWork method); an intimate
knowledge of healthy vocal use and vocal pedagogy; training around working with imagery in
informed and deep ways (such as GIM); an in-depth understanding of trauma-informed work and
the ways it could inform understandings of trans and nonbinary experiences; continued learning
surrounding trans and nonbinary healthcare and culture; and a deep interrogation and addressing
of personal values and biases surrounding gender and other cultural axes of identity. I am not an
expert by any means, and personally think that words like ‘expert’ too easily impose hierarchies
and reduce the possibilities for the ‘expert’ to continue to expand. I have so much growth yet to
do with the intention to pursue training and/or personal work with Lisa, potentially some GIM
training, and other trainings/education around vocal health and function, while continuing to
immerse myself in trans and nonbinary culture, spend time with my own voice and body, and
continuously work to engage with more cultural humility. Despite feeling strongly about all of
that, I am left with more questions than answers.
In attempts to invite you, the reader, into my own experiences, I wish to voice a set of
questions that arose throughout this autoethnography and that we might query together through
dialogue and further exploration.
•

How might gender affirming voicework impact a person on a holistic level?

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•

146

What might be the roles of the music therapist in working with the physical voice,
the psychological voice, the body, gender imagery, and the overarching emotional
aspects of gender affirming voicework?

•

What kinds of experiences might we offer in gender affirming voicework?

•

What kind of knowledge/training do we need to engage in gender affirming
voicework safely and effectively?

•

How might we assess and evaluate gender affirming voicework?

•

How might we collaborate with other fields?

•

What considerations are needed to possibly expand gender affirming voicework
into different kinds of gendered experiences (i.e., working with other trans and
nonbinary or cis persons)?

These questions hold so many possibilities of breathing new life into the air. I understand gender
affirming voicework to be a work in progress, and there’s no great way of ending a story that’s in
the process of becoming something else. However, I will end with a quote that perhaps captures
this autoethnography in some miniscule way. I hope my story leaves you with the wonder,
excitement, and passion with which I am currently filled.
“I am inspired by the ideas that float through this article like pockets of oxygen
trapped in a sea meant to breathe life into our bodies long enough for us to escape
our realities and offer a bit of hope for what is to come. Much of what is to come
is buried in the questions […]”
(Amber Johnson in Alexander et al., 2018, p. 323)

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Appendix
Suggested Steps in a Voice and Communication Program (Adler, 2012, pp. 515-519)
Following is a generalized voice and communication therapy protocol for the
transgender/transsexual TG/TS client. This is by no means a complete voice and communication
program but rather a suggestion of where to at least begin. Based on the individual needs of the
client, the steps below may be used in their entirety or only parts of the program may be used.
A. Establish a vocal health program to ensure safety and preservation of vocal folds.
B. Use instrumentation measures to allow for visual and auditory feedback to the client for
pitch work, intonation, perturbation, and shimmer.
C. Have the client keep a journal of successes and failures during the days when the client
does not attend therapy so that the clinician can monitor the client’s progress during the
transition period. This allows the clinician to check for vocally abusive or misuse
practices.
D. Teach and establish spontaneous abdominal breathing for optimum breath support for
speech production purposes.
E. Establish optimum breathing patterns; check for jitter and shimmer at this point; notice
any misuse or abusive vocal behaviors.
F. Attempt a sequence that uses nasalance to establish a proper and appropriate forward
resonance pattern [vocal feminization].
G. There are a number of voice therapy protocols that may be implemented for TG/TS client
with a pre-existing voice disorder or subsequent problems due to abuse or misuse.
▪ Chewing method
▪ Yawn-Sigh Method
▪ Pushing technique
▪ Progressive Relaxation
▪ Easy-Onset Initiation
▪ Beckman Facial Massage (Beckman, 1999)
▪ Laryngeal manipulation (helpful to those who have difficulty raising the larynx to
increase fundamental frequency of pitch) [vocal feminization]
▪ Digital Laryngeal Manipulation
▪ Humming/chanting for resonance
▪ Resonant Voice Therapy (RVT): frontal focus [vocal feminization]
H. Introduce the Rainbow Passage to establish breathing, phrasing, relaxed easy onset for
spontaneous reading and eventually speaking in connected speech. The Rainbow Passage
helps the patient to transition from short phrases with and without nasalance to more
connected, yet still controlled speech.
▪ When the sunlight strikes raindrops in the air, they act like a prism and form a
rainbow. A rainbow is a division or white light into many beautiful colors. These take
the shape of a long round arch, with its path high above, and its two ends apparently
beyond the horizon. There is, according to legend, a boiling pot of gold at one end.
People look, but no one ever finds it. When a man looks for something beyond his
reach, his friends say that he is looking for the pot of gold at the end of the Rainbow.
I. Introduce the My Grandfather passage as a more difficult reading task to further establish
breathing, phrasing, relaxed easy onset for spontaneous reading and eventually speaking

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in connected speech. This passage helps transition the client from shorter sentences to
longer utterances with and without nasalance to more connected, longer yet controlled
speech. [Below is] illustrated the typical My Grandfather passage that is used in most
therapy sessions.
▪ You wished to know about my grandfather. Well he is nearly 93 years old; he dresses
himself in an ancient black frock coat, usually minus several buttons. Yet he still
thinks as swiftly as ever. A long, flowing beard clings to his chin, giving those who
observe him a pronounced feeling of the utmost respect. When he speaks, his voice is
just a bit cracked and quivers a trifle. Twice each day he plays skillfully and with zest
upon our small organ. Except in the winter when the snow or ice prevents, he slowly
takes a short walk in the open air reach [sic] day. We have often urged him to walk
more and smoke less, but he always answers “Banana Oil!” Grandfather likes to be
modern in his language.
J. Introduce the Town-Heuer Reading Passage, which is a more difficult piece to read, and
at the same time control breathing, phrasing, intonation, and so forth. This will help the
client move from simple connected speech as in My Grandfather to a more difficult
illustration using multisyllabic words and more difficult sentence structure while
maintaining practice with and without nasalance, yet still controlling speech output and
maintaining the new fundamental frequency of pitch. [Below] illustrates the part of the
Town-Heuer Reading Passage that is commonly used in voice and fluency therapy
clinics.
▪ If I take a trip this August I will probably go to Austria. Or I could go to Italy. All of
the places of Europe are easy to get to by air, rail, ship, or auto. Everybody I have
talked to says he would like to go to Europe also.
Every year there are varieties of festivals or fairs at a lot of places. All sorts of
activities, such as, foods to eat, sights to see, occur. Oh, I love to eat ices seated
outdoors! The people of each area are reported to like us—the people of the U.S.A. It
is said that it is true except for Paris.
Aid is easy to get because the officials are helpful. Aid is always available if troubles
arise. It helps to have with you a list of offices or officials to call if you do require
aid. If you are lost, you will always be helped to locate your route or hotel. The local
police will assist you, if they are able to speak as you do. Otherwise, a phrase book is
useful.
I have had to have help of this sort each trip abroad. However, it was always easy to
locate. Happily, I hope, less help will be required this trip. Last trip every hotel was
occupied. I had to ask everywhere for flats. Two earlier trips were hard because of the
lack of heat at hotels.
On second thought, I may want to travel in autumn instead of August. Many countries
can be expensive in the summer months and much less so in autumn. November and
December can make fine months for entertainment in many European countries.
There may be concerts and musical events more often than during the summer. Milan,
Rome, and Hamburg, not to mention Berlin, Vienna, London, and Madrid are most
often mentioned for music.
Most of my friends and I wouldn’t miss the chance to try the exciting, interesting, and
appetizing menus at most continental restaurants. In many European countries, food
is inexpensive and interestingly prepared.

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K. Introduce progressive relaxation to reduce tension in the laryngeal area.
L. Have the client read from a short and then a longer poem that will aid in helping to learn
different breath support needs depending on the length, tone, mood, sentence, or word
length of an utterance.
M. Have the client practice [their] new vocal parameters during a spontaneous conversation
chosen by the clinician.
N. Have the client practice [their] new vocal parameters during a conversation with a clientchosen topic.
O. Employ all techniques through interaction in the client’s community, work, and/or school
environment without help from the clinician.
P. Review all exercises above.
Q. Have at least two or three counseling sessions near the termination of therapy to allow the
patient to vent about [their] feelings concerning the new voice and communication skills,
ask questions, as well as develop confidence in the new voice. Know when “speech and
voice” counseling should be referred to a professional psychologist or counselor when
emotions seem to dominate the session.
R. Work on singing techniques if appropriate for the particular TS/TG patient, because
many singers often forget their voice training when talking.
It is important for each client embarking on voice/communication feminization to maintain a
healthy and safe voice throughout the entire process. The above protocol is an outline of a total
program that may meet most client’s needs. The clinician and client will need to decide those
aspects that are necessary.