July 3, 2004.
I was standing onstage with the Boston Pops Orchestra, under the direction of Maestro Keith Lockhart, preparing to sing “La donna è mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto.
Friends and family had traveled to be in the audience. The atmosphere was electric. And there I was, a banker from Vermont, about to sing with one of the most celebrated orchestras in the world.
How on earth had I gotten here?
I’d recently placed second in the inaugural POPSearch Competition, created by the Boston Pops Orchestra. The winner would sing at the orchestra’s famous Fourth of July concert on the Esplanade. My prize was the opportunity to perform at the indoor concert the evening before.
It was magical.
The orchestra, the audience, the sheer exhilaration of making music at that level. I remember the experience with tremendous affection.
But something else happened that evening.
At the reception following the concert, Maestro Lockhart made me promise him something.
That I would never stop singing.
I’ve never forgotten that moment.
You see, I already knew there was something missing from my life.
I had built a successful career in banking. I’d worked hard, advanced professionally, and established the kind of career that most people would consider secure and respectable.
There was nothing inherently wrong with that life.
Except that it wasn’t the life I wanted.
Deep down, I’d known it for some time.
The Boston Pops competition hadn’t created my dream of becoming an opera singer. It had simply made that dream impossible to ignore.
And now, standing at a crossroads, I had a decision to make.
I could return to the comfortable, predictable life I’d built.
Or I could find out what might happen if I actually pursued the life I’d been imagining.
I chose the latter.
From the Boston Pops to a Horse Stable
Four months after singing with the Boston Pops Orchestra, I was mucking stalls.
Literally.
I’d walked away from a successful banking career and taken a job at the horse stable where I’d been studying dressage.
I’d spent years dealing with one kind of bullshit. Now, at least, I knew exactly what I was shoveling.
And frankly, I was happier.
I was riding horses, cleaning stalls, and trying to figure out how on earth I was going to make a living singing opera.
I wish I could tell you that I had a brilliant plan.
I didn’t.
But something extraordinary had already begun unfolding.
That October, I’d had the opportunity to record the first act of a new opera composed by Lorin Maazel.
It was an unusual opportunity, and I certainly couldn’t have anticipated what would come of it.
Then, in December, an email arrived.
From the casting director at the Royal Opera, Covent Garden, in London.
They were preparing for the world premiere of Maazel’s opera in May 2005 and needed someone to cover a role.
There was just one complication.
Very few people knew the music.
As it happened, I was one of only two people in the world who knew that particular role.
And suddenly, the fellow who had been mucking stalls in Vermont was headed for one of the world’s great opera houses.
Had I Completely Lost My Mind?
When I first walked into the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, I was scared shitless.
And excited beyond words.
Both feelings existed in equal measure.
Here I was, preparing to cover a role in the world premiere of a new opera by Lorin Maazel.
I wasn’t the principal performer. My responsibility was to rehearse, know the production, and be prepared to step in if needed.
But I was there.
Inside Covent Garden.
And you might imagine that this experience finally convinced me I’d made the right decision.
It didn’t.
I was still wondering whether I’d completely lost my mind.
I’d walked away from a successful career, traded financial security for uncertainty, and somehow found myself in London working on a world-premiere opera.
What exactly was I doing?
I didn’t know whether I could build a sustainable career in music. I didn’t know what opportunity might come next.
But I was discovering something important.
You don’t have to be certain you’ve made the right decision to keep moving forward.
Sometimes you simply have to be willing to find out.
New York City. Starting From Scratch.
In July 2005, one year after that magical evening with the Boston Pops, I moved to New York City.
I had no professional engagement waiting for me.
No established career in the city.
No guarantees.
I’d sung with the Boston Pops. I’d worked on a world-premiere production at Covent Garden.
And now I was starting from scratch.
Again.
There was something almost comical about it.
I’d gone from banking to a horse stable, from a horse stable to the Royal Opera House, and then to New York City, where I had to figure out how to build a professional life in one of the most competitive performing arts environments imaginable.
But I’d come this far.
And I wasn’t about to stop.
Eventually, an opportunity arrived.
I was cast in an Off-Broadway production called The Music Teacher, a play featuring an opera within the story.
The book was written by Wallace Shawn, and the music was composed by his brother, Allen Shawn.
Yes, that Wallace Shawn.
The actor from The Princess Bride.
“Inconceivable!”
And yes, I actually said it to him.
He roared with laughter.
I had the extraordinary pleasure of working directly with both brothers, and the experience became another unforgettable part of my journey.
Not so long before, I’d been sitting in a bank office in Vermont, wondering whether I would ever have the courage to pursue my dream.
Then I was cleaning horse stalls.
Then I was at Covent Garden.
And now I was working with Wallace and Allen Shawn in an Off-Broadway production.
None of it had happened according to some carefully constructed master plan.
But it was happening.
I was working professionally as a singer.
And I did.
I had pursued the dream I’d been carrying for so long.
Not because I had conquered fear.
Not because everything had fallen neatly into place.
And certainly not because I’d known how the story would unfold.
I simply stopped ignoring what I already knew about myself.
What I Know Now
Looking back, I don’t believe the most extraordinary part of this story was singing with the Boston Pops, working at Covent Garden, or appearing Off-Broadway.
Those were remarkable experiences, and I treasure them.
But the most important thing happened long before any of those opportunities could become part of my life.
I made a decision to listen to myself.
To acknowledge that the life I’d built and the life I wanted weren’t necessarily the same.
And to do something about it.
I didn’t have to become fearless.
I didn’t have to know how everything would work out.
I just had to begin.
Of course, that wasn’t the end of my story.
Life would eventually take me in directions I could never have imagined, including more than two decades in healthcare leadership.
And today, I find myself contemplating possibility and reinvention once again.
But that’s a story for another day.
For now, I want to leave you with something I’ve come to believe deeply:
Perhaps the greatest act of reinvention isn’t becoming someone new. It’s allowing ourselves to become more fully who we’ve always been.
That’s part of why I created Extraordinarily So.
Not simply to tell my story, but to make room for yours.
Because I believe extraordinary lives are being lived, imagined, and created all around us.
Sometimes they begin with an enormous decision.
Sometimes with an unexpected opportunity.
And sometimes with the quiet realization that we’ve been ignoring something important for far too long.
So let me ask you something.
What dream have you been carrying quietly inside you?
And what might happen if you finally gave yourself permission to pursue it?
I’d love to hear your story.