Solo Stages: Finding My Voice and My Independence Through Estrangement and Travel

This is an image of stale bread, and it represent estrangement and staying in the past.

The Power of Distance

I boarded the plane to Italy with two carefully packed, stylish hat box suitcases—small enough to manage with my service dog, Big, by my side, but smartly filled with everything I needed. I chose a mix-and-match travel capsule in my favorite classic styles, along with the four performance gowns I’d need for the stage. Just three pairs of shoes made the cut: a neutral pair of heels for singing, crisp white slip-on sneakers, and dependable black flats for all the walking. Packing light was intentional—but not just for convenience. It was symbolic. I’m learning what to carry, and what to leave behind.

Traveling solo while carrying the invisible weight of estrangement feels a bit like singing an a cappella recital in the dark—you’re never sure who’s listening, yet every note rings louder because there’s nothing to hide behind.

Estrangement isolates by definition, but it also invites an unexpected companion: space. When the usual family echoes fall silent, distance offers a clean acoustic for new truths to resonate. In that hush, I’m learning there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely—and the journey from one to the other begins the moment I fasten my seatbelt and let the world shift beneath me.

Italy: A Solo Journey, Not a Lonely One

Sunrise paints the Lombardy sky blush-gold as church bells toss their morning greetings across tiled rooftops. Cobblestones tap back a rhythmic counterpoint to my footsteps; espresso machines hiss like tiny dragons in every café doorway. Here, outside Milan, life moves in 6/8 time—lilting, melodic, seemingly unhurried.

Well… mostly unhurried. Except when the Italians are driving.

On these narrow village streets, they zoom like Formula One racers, gesture with their entire souls, and have zero patience for my careful, American-style road habits. It rattles me—raises my anxiety—and reminds me that just because something looks peaceful doesn’t mean it feels peaceful. The same is true of grief and estrangement. Calm surfaces often hide frantic undercurrents.

When I first arrived, I put my trust in Siri—my digital co-pilot. Let me tell you: Siri is flawed. She sent me in endless circles through the streets of Verano, repeatedly guiding me past my Airbnb without ever quite landing me there. At one point, she even sent me the wrong way down a one-way street. And just when I think I’ve figured out the traffic patterns, the Italians randomly change the direction of the roads. No warning, no mercy. They leap into the street shouting “NO!” while I white-knuckle the steering wheel and try not to cry. I’ve had to turn around so many times I’ve practically made it into a sport.

But in between the missed turns and misunderstood road signs, I’ve found a strange kind of strength. I don’t melt down—I reroute. I don’t give up—I circle back. Every time I make it to a new destination, even if I arrive with frazzled nerves and an apologetic smile, I feel a little more grounded. Estrangement taught me that life rarely follows a straight line. Italy is just reinforcing the lesson—with roundabouts, detours, and all.

The Stage as a Mirror

Performing has always been my compass. When the house lights dim, the stage reflects back exactly who I am in that moment—tremors, triumphs, and all. This season, my voice is different: richer in the lower register, silkier up high, flecked with the patina of life lived loudly.

Technically, I’m reconnecting breath deep into my body—thank you, devoted voice teacher! Emotionally, I’m singing from scar tissue as well as muscle. Estrangement stripped away familiar harmonies, leaving solo lines that once felt exposed.

Now, I stand in a small teatrino, singing to an audience while a large Renaissance tapestry hangs behind me like a silent witness to every note. It’s not just a backdrop—it feels symbolic. Centuries of beauty, history, and survival woven together, reminding me that even what’s worn and weathered can still be stunning. My sound isn’t smaller for standing alone; it’s fuller because I finally occupy every inch of it.

What Estrangement Taught Me About Standing Alone

Estrangement is a brutal gift wrapped in barbed wire; you unwrap it carefully or bleed. The gift, once revealed, is fortitude. I didn’t choose the silence, but I do choose what I build in its place. I no longer reach out. I honor the boundaries that were set, even though they hurt. I don't send emails or messages anymore—I send love silently and live forward.

Instead of chasing reconciliation, I lean into relationship with those who choose to stay. I’m surrounded by an extraordinary circle of friends—both here in Italy and back home—who offer me space to speak or stay silent, cry or laugh, reflect or escape. There is no pressure. No judgment. Only grace, compassion, and the gift of being seen.

In Italy, nobody knows the missing pieces of my biography, so I’m free to introduce myself as whole. That freedom shows me I am complete, even if the story contains torn pages. Independence isn’t the consolation prize; it’s the main stage—and I’m discovering I love the spotlight.

Reclaiming Joy and Strength on My Own Terms

During these two weeks that I have been here, I have laughed so hard over lunch and dinner—real, soul-deep laughter that caught me off guard in the best way. I’ve shared meals that nourished more than my body; they fed my spirit.

I walk medieval lanes alone, yet never feel abandoned; the accordion busker provides a soundtrack, the breeze turns pages of my score. I’ve been nailing phrases, lines, and lyrics in the pieces I’m working on—songs that speak directly to where I am now, not who I used to be. I’m not chasing high notes or show-stopping cadenzas anymore. I’m delivering emotion, truth, and connection. Sheer acting, storytelling, and sincere entertainment—that’s where I shine now.

There was a time I lived for the opera stage. I’ve done the shows. I’ve worn the gowns, sung the arias, and felt the rush of the overture swell behind me. That part of my life was beautiful—and it’s finished. Not because I can’t do it anymore, but because my body, my heart, and my spirit are leading me forward. I still love those grand moments. But I don’t need them to define me now.

This new season is about choosing. Choosing what fits. Choosing what matters. Choosing joy, authenticity, and forward motion. I’m not clinging to the past—I’m curating my future. And I love it.

Conclusion – Finding Harmony in Solitude

I used to fear singing solo, on stage and in life. Now I recognize the hush before my first note as sacred, not scary. Traveling thousands of miles from home hasn’t muted the ache of estrangement, but it has tuned it—giving the pain a purpose, shaping it into art.

Discovering me, loving me, being me—that is the purpose I’m achieving. Before I left for Italy, a Bible verse reminded me that I already have the victory over all of this in Jesus. It is already finished. I don’t have to strive for healing—I just have to walk into the space He already prepared for me.

And with that truth, I realize something even harder: I can live fully without her in my life. Life continues, even in the shadow of a death—whether literal or emotional. Living in the past is like stale bread left too long on the counter. It’s dry, tasteless, and no longer nourishing. Eventually, you have to throw it out. Not because you didn’t treasure it once, but because it can no longer feed the life you’re meant to live now.

As Paul says in Philippians 3:12, "Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me." (NKJV)

If distance is my new accompanist, then independence is my key signature. And the melody? It’s hope—steady, resilient, wholly mine. Because healing doesn’t erase pain; it conducts it into harmony.

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