By all accounts, I should be elated. Triumphant. Ready to dance in the kitchen and post a proud little update. And yet, instead, I find myself crumpled in tears. Not the quiet kind, but the gut-deep sobs that come when something sacred is unearthed — something long buried.

Greater Auckland Chorus has done more than test my voice. It’s scratched open old wounds I thought were neatly bandaged. Memories I’d carefully packed away have come spilling out, uninvited. And I see her again — that young girl I used to be. The one who believed, with all her heart, that if she just tried hard enough, achieved enough, and was good enough... then maybe, just maybe, she’d finally be accepted. Acknowledged. Seen.

But the bar always moved. An B on a report card was met with a disapproving shake of the head: "You can do better than that." Second place in hurdles meant missing out on the team weekend — not because I didn’t try, but because it wasn’t first. Even the thrill of being accepted into the West Rand Youth Choir was quickly dimmed by, "Well, you’ll have to organise your own transport." And not long after, I was packed off to boarding school — three hours away, just weeks into the term. I never found the courage to try out for choir again in that new place. The silence wrapped itself around me like armour.

It’s taken me four months to get this far. Four months of stretching, breaking and rebuilding. Of showing up, even when every part of me whispered, “Why bother?” There were so many moments I nearly gave up. Moments when the old voices echoed too loudly, and I wondered if they were right — if I’d ever be enough.

But here I am. A little shaken. A little raw. But standing.

Because sometimes, the real audition isn’t the one for the stage. It’s the one where you show up for yourself — scared, scarred, but still singing.