Singing for Sanity

My daughter’s room is in the basement of our house and our room is on the second floor. In the mornings, we all meet in the middle to start our days. Now that my daughter is almost done with high school she’s living with unabashed senioritis and pretty much makes her own schedule in the mornings, often skipping first period. 

At first I worried about my daughter’s loosey-goosey attitude towards first period, but she’s gotten into college, she’s getting good grades, she goes to work, and she seems to be handling her business, so I’ve stopped myself from going down to wake her up and get her started. Sometimes when I’m sitting in the kitchen doing Wordle before my day starts I’ll hear my daughter singing in the basement.

My daughter has always been musical. As a kid she hummed constantly, unconsciously. I can still hear her little tunes in my head — hmmm — mmm — ummm — ummm — mmmmh — hmmmm. As my daughter got older she started playing guitar and piano. She formed her own musical tastes, often playing her favorite songs on the piano and singing along. 

Some days my daughter is deeply distant with me, practicing the separation that is coming soon when she heads off to college. Though I know intellectually that this is normal, I can’t help by feel hurt and worried. When I don’t know what’s going on with my daughter, when she won’t talk to me, I assume the worst. I imagine horrible things happening in the background of her life, after-school-special travesties. I visualize the terrible truth coming out one day — that she’s being sex trafficked or taking fentanyl — and I’m the last to know.

But then I hear my daughter singing in the basement. Often it starts in the shower and continues as she gets dressed and ready for school. When it starts my partner and I always look at each other and smile. There she is. Everything is okay. She’s still here. She’s still herself. 

Sometimes my daughter comes home from school or work and, before she does anything else, she plops down at the piano and starts to sing. I know then to leave her alone. She’s self-soothing in some way, like she used to do with humming when she was little. 

A few days ago my daughter told me that she loves to go running really early in the morning because she can sing and not worry about anyone hearing her. She often drives herself places instead of going with others because she wants to have the time to sing in the car. 

One of my daughter’s supplemental college essays was about singing, starting when we joined family choir when she was five years old. She wrote about the joy she felt singing, the connection, the community. It was beautiful and I learned something about what singing has meant, what it means to her. 

A few times this year my daughter expressed concern about where she will sing next year. “Mom, next year I won’t have my own bathroom, I won’t have a piano, I won’t have a car. Where will I sing?”

“Join choir,” I say, and, thinking of our shared love for Pitch Perfect, “or an A capella group!!!” 

Moving away from home and going to college is a big deal. There’s lots to manage and finding a way to sing is likely to get lost in the shuffle of figuring out how to eat right, do laundry, and get to class on time. I know that my advice has a limited place in my daughter’s life right now — I suggest north and she heads south — so nagging her about keeping singing in her life is something I have to keep in my own head for now.

But I wonder as I listen to my daughter singing in the basement right now, hearing the joy that comes from her heart, “when she leaves home will she find a place to sing?” And what will happen if she doesn’t? Will she suffer? It’s just another thing for me to think about, another worry to add to my collection. 

I’ll miss so many things about my daughter when she leaves for college, but I think I’ll miss her singing the most. I’ll miss listening to her beautiful voice. I’ll miss the comfort and familiarity of hearing it in the mornings. But mostly I’ll miss the assurance I get from hearing my daughter sing, the clear sense of knowing that she is okay. 

My daughter leave for college in six months. I’ve been surreptitiously recording her singing on my iPhone for years. It’s not like the real thing, but it’s something. One of my favorite things over the years has been going to my daughters choir concerts. I love every minute — every off-key solo, every dorky Disney song. I love it all. 

Maybe my daughter will join a choir in college. Maybe there will be more concerts in my future. But if there aren’t, even if my daughter never joins another choir, I hope for her sake that wherever she is, she always finds a place to sing.