Let me tell you about Margaret.
She's been standing outside the door of my rehearsal room, metaphorically speaking, for about three years. She loves music — always has. She sings along to the radio when nobody's listening. She went to a choir concert a while back and sat in the audience feeling something she couldn't quite name: a pull, a longing, a quiet little voice saying 'I wish that were me.' And then, on the drive home, a louder voice drowning it out: 'Don't be ridiculous. You're not a singer.'
Maybe you know Margaret. Maybe you are Margaret.
This post is for her. And for you.