A Journey Through Song and Grief
From the moment I began singing as a young girl, I dreamed of becoming a version of Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, or Celine Dion. By the time I reached my twenties, I found myself performing as a funeral singer, still holding onto that dream of reaching the spotlight. In 2004, I believed I had come tantalizingly close to realizing my childhood aspirations when I auditioned for “American Idol.” Out of tens of thousands of hopefuls, I advanced to the final 200.
I boldly shared with the producers that my most stable gig was singing at funerals, convinced that this experience would soon fade into my past as I embraced a brighter future. However, when the platinum-haired producer, his British accent dripping with authority, looked up from his cup of tea, I was unprepared for his words. “Stick with singing at funerals,” he said. “You can sing a lion to sleep… but you don’t have enough diva potential.” The weight of his statement hung heavy in the air, each word cutting deeper due to his posh enunciation.
As I processed his words, I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Memories rushed back of that gangly, passionate child who discovered that she could create beauty with her voice. I longed to fill arenas, yet here was this gatekeeper of Hollywood shattering my dreams and suggesting that my work as a funeral singer was the pinnacle of my potential.
My journey into funeral singing began at the tender age of 10, a moment sparked by the invitation of a music teacher. I vividly recall the nervousness coursing through me as I walked down the church aisle. But as my voice rang out—both calming and powerful—all of my anxieties dissipated. It felt as though my slight frame was transforming into something grander, more significant. Through the years, I gradually lost sight of the profound and sacred privilege it was to lend my voice to those in mourning—to allow my melodies to become their own, to articulate the feelings they could not yet express.
By the time I auditioned for “American Idol,” I had performed at hundreds of funerals, working closely with individuals nearing the end of their lives who would calmly request that I accompany them on the piano to rehearse the hymns they wanted at their memorial services. I often collaborated with the same organist, and we affectionately named our most requested repertoire “Standard Operating Procedure.” This included beloved pieces like “On Eagle’s Wings” (which we cheekily referred to as “Iggle’s,” in our Philadelphia dialect) and “Prayer of St. Francis” (or “St. Frank,” as we called it). For secular services, classics like “My Way” and “Hallelujah” reigned supreme.
I performed at funerals where not a single friend or family member was present, and at services filled with mourners draped in heavy coats that seemed to sag under the weight of grief. Some guests exuded scents of rain and perfume, while others stiffly distributed tissues with a solemn air. Children attended, some fidgeting restlessly, while others were transfixed by the atmosphere. Standing close to those heartbroken individuals, I often worried whether I could carry the immense emotional burden they bore. I had always favored singing at funerals over weddings, where I felt more like an accessory to blissful couples—or, at times, overwhelmed Bridezillas. In contrast, I found a deeper sense of purpose and connection when my focus was entirely devoted to comforting the grieving.
