How I navigated losing my voice as a trans opera singer

This First Person column is written by Asher Maclaren who is a transgender singer living in Vancouver. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

I was elated taking my first shot of testosterone in September of 2019. A very kind nurse administered the injection, going over in detail how I would do the same for myself at home every week.

I was told to expect body hair, sweatiness, acne, breaking voice — all the hallmarks of traditional male puberty, only I'd be experiencing it at the ripe old age of 28. But that didn't matter because my chemical transition from female to male was finally beginning! 

I was excited for it, especially to hear my voice — which I could only describe as that of a particularly saccharine Disney princess — drop into the male register.

Listen | Asher Maclaren sings a Disney princess song before his transition:

This excitement was tempered with fear though. My voice breaking and lowering would alter my ability to sing, and could permanently reduce my vocal range.

You see, I am a classically trained coloratura soprano — which meant I could hit some of the highest musical notes with accuracy and precision. I was essentially risking my passion for my identity. 

Prior to my current career in tech, I had studied at the Vancouver Academy of Music, training as an opera singer. I had improved and shaped my voice there, eventually singing the lead role in their spring opera (a feminine, shrill woman pretending to be a cat magically transformed into a human — drawing some strange parallels given my trans identity) before an injury forced me to drop out.

Listen | Asher Maclaren performs in an opera as a coloratura soprano before his transition:

While my high voice was a poor match for my identity, I was proud of it and took every opportunity to sing. Before COVID hit, that meant hitting up karaoke nights all over the city, delivering a smashing version of the Beatles' Oh! Darling and soaking up the admiration with a confident vanity that any cat would be proud of. 

So it was with a growing undercurrent of worry that I observed my voice as it changed. By June 2020, I had been on testosterone for nine months. I was fascinated by the changes I was seeing in my body, and most strangers now assumed I was male. The first time an Uber driver called me "sir," I was so jazzed that I went and bought a bottle of celebratory prosecco.

Second puberty hit me at full force: I was hungry; I was too hot; my boyfriend lovingly called  my increasingly hairy lower legs "woolen socks." Despite the sweat and acne, my confidence was at an all-time high.

Most notably, my voice had dropped by almost an octave. This change, as I'd feared, was a double-edged sword. While my lower voice reinforced my male identity, I could barely sing. I was in a painful musical limbo, with a tiny range that cracked into embarrassing pubescent squawks on any high note.

Watch | Asher Maclaren sings Der Leiermann while he was transitioning: