When people ask me how I "find" my voice again, the honest answer is... I listen.

I listen with my whole body—through my Clairaudient channel, which has been with me long before I ever knew the word for it. Sometimes I hear guidance as a whisper behind my heart, sometimes as music so clear it hums through my bones.

And sometimes, I remember that long before I was "The Starseed Coach," I was a little girl who just wanted to sing.

The first recording of my voice is a cassette tape my mom made when I was three years old, singing "Daisy, Daisy, a bicycle built for two." From that moment on, music was my home. I sang in front of the TV, in community theatre, and in front of packed auditoriums.

I didn't know then that I was a Clarion. I didn't know that my throat chakra would become both my greatest gift and my most vulnerable target. I didn’t know the universe would spend the next thirty years teaching me the same lesson in increasingly sophisticated ways: your voice isn’t yours in the way you think it is…it belongs to Source, an instrument of its truth.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The First Voice: Music as Prayer

My elementary music teacher saw something in me—something that only makes sense now in hindsight, knowing that her sister, Joyce DiDonato, would become one of the world's most award-winning Contraltos celebrated by opera aficionados. When I was ten, I had the opportunity to sing with Joyce. Even now, that moment lives in my body not just as memory, but as activation. I was touching something larger than myself, feeling how a voice could become a conduit for something divine.

By high school, I was making All-State Choir every year: a different vocal part each time, from Alto II freshman year to Soprano I senior year. To my knowledge, no other high schooler in my state has accomplished this since. I won the city's highest musical performance award. Scholarship offers came from both coasts for me to continue studying music at the collegiate level.

This was my first lesson in the Clarion imprint, though I wouldn't know the word for decades: when you're aligned with your transmission gift, doors open. The universe conspires to support your voice.

Ultimately, I chose the school that offered the most financial help…two hours from home. It wasn't my dream of attending Julliard or NYU, but I told myself I would make the best of it.

The First Silencing: When Dreams Don't Match Reality

My first year as a Vocal Performance major fell flat (no pun intended). I was drowning in the minutiae of advanced music theory, trying to learn how to keep time in odd signatures and taking diction courses so I could properly sing in languages I couldn't speak. I auditioned for productions and was simply listed as a “chorus member” each time. None of it felt like the love of music that had brought me there.

My dad didn't understand why I was struggling, why not getting a named role in a college Opera production felt like a death sentence. What will you do if this doesn't work out? If you can’t make a living from this? he asked. And slowly, I started to wonder the same. I started doubting myself, the power of my voice.

Then, fate rerouted me.

One day, I ran into a grad student on campus who had judged my performance at the high school state debate tournament the year prior. He asked if I had any interest in joining the campus team, that they had a freshman spot open up and he thought I would be a good fit. I said yes, and found myself shaking hands with my new coach the next day. Within a week, I was a fixture on the team couch in the Communications building, furiously memorizing talking points and laughing with my new teammates. By the following semester, I had dropped out of Vocal Performance entirely. Within a year, I'd become one of the top-ranked collegiate speakers in the country.

This is part of the Clarion's karmic curriculum: learning that simply having the gift of voice isn’t enough, that you need to find the right container to activate its power. The universe was showing me that my ability to transmit needed a different form.

My voice had found a new channel. The transmission was still there…it just sounded a bit different now.

The Second Voice: Words as Weapons

Speech and debate felt like coming home. By my junior year, I had won every single individual championship in the regular season, and had finished nationals ranked in the top 10 on my own, supporting our team to their highest-ever ranking of 4th place. I was named team captain my senior year, absolutely determined to crack the top three and win an individual championship of my own.

This was the Clarion energy in full expression—confident, clear, transmitting truth with precision and power. After finishing fall semester with a once again undefeated record, my success at the upcoming national tournament in April was all but a foregone conclusion. Mentally, I was ready to claim the title.

Physically, I wasn’t.

During winter break, I fell ill. I was tired, but chalked it up to “Senioritis”...though I couldn’t ignore how much worse I started to feel after Christmas. By the time I returned to campus in January, my throat was so swollen I couldn't speak, and I was sleeping twenty hours a day. A visit to the campus doctor showed I had an active mono infection, and it was a bad one. I lost thirty pounds, an impossible number considering my already small frame. Sorority sisters would bring me food and help with my laundry.

But nationals were coming, and I was convinced I could push through. I had already qualified my maximum number of events during fall competition—I just needed to shake the dust off of them. At our Spring Break team retreat, I struggled with memory lapses and time penalties while running my events. My coaches warned me these issues would cost me at nationals, but I assured them I was ready. My doctors had cleared me to travel. This was my last shot.

Reluctantly, they agreed I could compete.

I will never forget the posters dropping from the ceiling with the names of the 24 competitors advancing to National quarterfinals... event after event... and not seeing my name on any of them. While others were out celebrating, I sat in my hotel room and sobbed.

Later, I learned that I had gone over my time limit in a single qualifying round—exactly what my coaches had warned me about during our retreat. That one mistake kept me from advancing. But I couldn't hear their feedback then. I was too invested in the outcome to listen to their words of wisdom.

It felt like one cruel lesson after another: if I can't use my voice to sing, I could use it to speak—but that could be taken away too.

This time, the lesson was different. Sometimes your voice is taken not as punishment, but as preparation. Sometimes you have to lose what you think you are to discover what’s hiding behind the voice of Ego.

The Third Voice: Speaking as Service

Many years passed…years where I neither sang (save the occasional karaoke night with friends) nor spoke, though I did go on to coach other college students while serving as a Graduate Assistant for the speech team during my time at the University of Alabama. Eventually, I found my way to spiritual teaching, to channeling the Starchetype System, to building a community around helping others understand their cosmic purpose. I was transmitting again, but this time, it was divine wisdom rather than musical notes or persuasive arguments.

By 2021, I thought I had it figured out. I was The Starseed Coach. Clarion transmission in full effect. I spoke often about being a clear channel, about cosmic downloads, about serving as a conduit for higher wisdom.

And then, the Starchetype Quiz went viral. Over 100,000 people subscribed to my email list in less than a week, and that growth compounded into an overwhelming and terrifying reality of once again, finding myself being thrust into the spotlight.

To be frank, I was scared shitless. Because the more visible I became, the more exposed I felt.

Among hundreds of supportive comments on social media, one burrowed into my nervous system like poison: "You look like a pig! Oink oink, Star Piggy!" It appeared again and again, across platforms, from the same relentless source, reducing me to something grotesque and laughable.

This was the advanced Clarion curriculum: can you still transmit when transmission makes you a target? When your voice grows loud enough to attract not just those who need to hear it, but those who want to silence it?

Something inside me shrank. I kept showing up outwardly, but inwardly, something vital was retreating. Just like when my dad questioned what I would do if I failed all of my auditions, I found a way to make myself feel small.

The Third Silencing: When the Universe Takes Over

By 2022, the hateful messages on social media had become a daily reality. I decided to take a "break" from posting—a break that kept extending because the thought of opening myself to that cruelty again felt unbearable.

Then in 2023, the universe made the choice for me again: jaw surgery. Three months of literally not being able to speak. When I learned to speak again, my face looked strange and swollen, like a physical form of the cruel “Star Piggy” taunt I tried to erase from my memory. The very vessel I'd used to transmit wisdom felt foreign and broken. I shied away from being on camera or accepting interview requests. Even though my voice itself was healed, I didn’t want to use it.

Learning to speak again was humbling in ways I couldn't have imagined. The cruel irony wasn't lost on me: the person who'd built her life on speaking had been rendered literally speechless, then had to learn how to speak all over again. While staring at my mouth in the mirror, wondering when my surgically-acquired lisp would go away, I internalized a powerful tenet: when the Universe wants you to learn the truth of your gift, it will take it away until you remember who it belongs to.

By the time I thought I had fully healed from my surgery, 2024 brought its own curriculum: my beloved cat died, and with him went a piece of my heart I haven't recovered. A business partner I'd trusted scammed me out of a significant amount of money while I was vulnerable and grieving. My brand new car started displaying a repeated mechanical defect making it inoperable, trapping me in an ongoing legal battle with the manufacturer that continues to drain my energy and resources. My husband had to travel out of state for ten weeks of job training, and I found myself alone with all of it—the grief, the financial betrayal, the legal stress, the persistent feeling that everything I'd built was somehow cursed or falling apart. The realization that no matter how I advocated for myself, how many people I spoke to about treatments, tests, diagnostic codes, warranty provisions, travel policies, how many phone calls I made or emails I sent… nobody was truly LISTENING to me. While I do often like to joke “the eighth house is strong with this one” when I find myself in whacky situations beyond my control, this time, something felt different. Like a cat without claws, my ability to fight back–to speak my own truth–had vanished, replaced with a resigned exhaustion I never knew I was capable of feeling. 

By the end of last year, I barely recognized myself. The confident voice that had once transmitted cosmic wisdom with certainty now questioned everything. Was any of it real? Was I just fooling myself? Had I ever actually had anything valuable to say?

The Return: Voice as Channel, Voice as Compass

When I feel truly disconnected from my channel now, I return to the one place that has never lied to me: music. But not as a performer. As a witness.

One of my most potent activations is listening to Anna Fedorova's rendition of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, opus 18. When I watch her fingers move across the keys, I see the Clarion current moving through her—her body dissolving into a state of uninterrupted transmission, energy becoming sound. The interpretation, the effortlessness, it's all there, but I have to wonder how many times Ms. Federova had to learn the same lesson of overcoming self-doubt, of not being “good enough” or feeling worthy to play such a beautiful masterpiece on the world stage.

In the second movement, the pivotal change from C minor to E major inevitably opens and softens something inside of me, saying "it's ok to be imperfect... if only perfection was allowed, this piece of music wouldn't exist."

I know she's had to fight for that voice. I know she's doubted herself. I know the shape of that silence. And still…she plays.

The Clarion Contract: Transmission as Sacred Duty

Here's what I'm learning as I sit in my own Clarion Illumination Phase right now: our Starchetypes aren't just cosmic job descriptions, they're soul curricula. Each time we think we've mastered a lesson, life presents us with a more advanced version of the same test.

For Clarions, one of those core karmic contracts involves "authentic self-expression"...the ongoing challenge of expressing our truth without fear of judgment, finding our voice when it gets lost, and learning to transmit not just what sounds good, but what's actually true.

The Starchetype System teaches that Clarions often struggle with "receiving criticism and feedback". We can become overly sensitive, taking negative responses personally, which can lead us to avoid authentic expression altogether. My inability to sit out senior nationals and take the advice of my coaches? Check. That "Star Piggy" comment from 2021? Every now and then, it makes me hesitate before I speak, second-guessing the value of what I’m about to say.

But here's the deeper curriculum I'm just beginning to understand: maybe the breakdown isn't the problem. Maybe it's the point.

The voice that's emerging from these years of challenge doesn't sound the same as it did at any previous stage. It's less certain, more raw. It admits that success can be traumatic, that growth can be brutal, that sometimes the universe strips away everything you think you know so you can discover what Source has to say instead.

I may never sing again in the way I once did. My voice may not return to the precision it had on the speech circuit. But what I have now is something I didn't then: a sacred, lived understanding of what transmitting really means.

It doesn't mean certainty. It doesn't mean polish. It means truth, delivered through whatever channel is available—sung, spoken, written, whispered, or simply held.

I'm writing this during the peak of the Klaxon Illumination Phase, when my Clarion energy is supposedly at its strongest. And maybe it is. Maybe admitting that I've lost my way multiple times is the most powerful transmission I've ever made.

The voice doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to be real… to remember that whether it's singing "Daisy, Daisy...", competing on a national stage, transmitting cosmic wisdom, or vulnerably whispering about moments of uncertainty…it's all the same sacred act of transmission.

If you're struggling with finding your own voice right now—if the gifts you once trusted feel foreign, if you're questioning everything you thought you knew about your purpose—please know that you’re not failing. You're simply learning how to carry your unique melody, even when life insists on writing it in a minor key.

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_{Written during the Klaxon Illumination Phase (June 6-17), when Clarion energy is at its peak. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can transmit is our willingness to be beautifully, imperfectly human.}