‘I’m brighter, happier and bolder since joining a school choir at 41’
Told she couldn’t sing as a child, Marina Fogle is now striking a positive – and more tuneful – note
At the grand age of 41, I did something I’ve never done before: I joined a choir. I’ve always loved singing but, until this summer, only in the shower. As one of the few not to get into my school’s choir, the message was loud and clear: you can’t hold a note.
As a result, I defensively pretended I was worse than I actually was, making the family laugh by screeching like an owl, purposefully out of tune.
I never thought I’d missed out on much until my son Ludo’s music teacher suggested he join his school choir. Some mornings, I’d slink in to watch them rehearse. Seeing them singing their hearts out lifted me in a way I never imagined music could.
As singing has become a bigger part of my children’s lives, I’ve seen their confidence grow. It’s a big thing to do a solo in front of a sea of adults, but they took it in their stride. I’d pushed them to be brave, to challenge themselves, and they’d thrived. As a mother, I thought: job done.
What happened next threw me. “Come and join the parents’ choir,” a friend suggested. Reflexively, I told her that I couldn’t sing. “It’s not about the singing, it’s about the experience,” she said. “You should try it out.”
That night I struggled to sleep, tossing and turning with the realisation that I was a hypocrite. Every day, I encourage my children to push themselves out of their comfort zone; every day, the experts I speak to on my podcast, The Parent Hood, teach me that the only way to get your children to behave in a certain way is by modelling that behaviour yourself. Here I was, doing the opposite. The next morning, I joined.
I felt like the awkward new girl the moment I walked into Anthea’s house. Then it got weirder: breathing exercises in which we grunted and puffed like a pack of rhino as we hung over, trying to touch our toes, like an awkward scene
from Fleabag. With the prospect of the headmistress leaving, an original score had been written, which they read like they were sentences, and burst into song. To me, it might as well have been in ancient Greek. I tried to follow the tune, way out of my depth, while working out how to make an exit.
But music is funny, you start singing and a kind of infectious euphoria envelops you, whether you like it or not. Somehow, a week later, I found myself back with the same group, in the same house, barefoot and grunting through the warm-up.
This is why the Rolling Stones still play Wembley –
it’s addictive
As the weeks progressed, I looked forward to rehearsals. On the days that were started with singing, I felt brighter, happier, bolder. These effortlessly musical women soon lost their scariness and friendships developed.
As the oldest of three sisters and the first of my friends to have children, I was always further ahead on the motherhood roller-coaster – the one my friends came to for advice. But with no one I could turn to myself. I suddenly found myself with a group of wise, honest, brazenly cool sisters who could give me the lowdown.
One bright Friday morning, my emotions were especially heightened. I’d just waved Ludo goodbye as he departed on his first residential school trip, three days camping in Dorset, and the realisation that he would not be mine for much longer dawned.
Later, we were singing about how “terms slipped into years and degrees, inches into feet”, when Anthea said: “You know it’s true, in a flash, they’re all grown up and they leave home. But in a flash they’re back again. Seriously, they don’t leave for long.” It was just what I needed to hear.
On stage for our performance, I was trembling, but as soon as the music started and the sound of my friends filled the church, that smile that had been lighting up my face since I joined the choir returned.
Having never performed before, I had never seen the reaction of an audience. A sea of 300 beaming faces overwhelmed me. My children, in the front row, grinned with pride, while our headmistress smiled through joyful tears. Applause filled the church and adrenalin roared through my veins. This is why the Rolling Stones still play Wembley, I realised – performing is addictive.
I also realised that what I always told my children was true: unless you push yourself, are bold and brave and try something new, you’ll miss out on so much that life has to offer.
Marina’s podcast, The Parent Hood, is available to download on itunes or wherever you get your podcasts from