“Identify the loudest voice of fear in the room—and do that.”

The advice came from my virtual personal growth coach. After years of intentionally working on inside things, I was surprised to realize how quiet the room had become. The once-crowded space—filled with self-doubt, worry, and anxiety—now held only a few lingering voices.

The ones that remained? Still gigantic. But I rarely think about them—until something triggers them and they suddenly get loud.

That’s what happened recently while shopping at my local grocery store. I ran into another singer/songwriter, and we found ourselves talking shop right there beside the milk section. He was sharing about a recent cruise he’d taken—one where he had the chance to submit one of his songs to be performed on board. But then, mid-story, he surprised me with a question:

“Would you want to go on a cruise?”

Before I could answer, my heart began to pound. My palms got sweaty. I felt panicky and trapped.

The word “cruise” is a trigger for me. It evokes one of my deepest fears: being surrounded by nothing but open water, with no land in sight. I’ve never seen the movie Titanic—and I never will.

The silence between us grew awkward as I hemmed and hawed. He asked again, eagerly, a few more times—clearly imagining I might enjoy the same music opportunity he’d just experienced. My hesitation was admittedly odd. Who doesn’t want to go on a cruise? But one thing I’ve noticed after years of inner work: I don’t second-guess my truth as much. I’ve made peace with who I am.

So I decided to be honest.

“My brother drowned in our farm pond when I was little,” I said. “I don’t know if that’s why, but to this day, the thought of going on a cruise terrifies me. My husband knows not to EVER surprise me with one.”

He nodded. We stood quietly. He took it in with tenderness and respect.

Just then, another local shopper we both knew walked up. The moment shifted, and we wrapped up our conversation.

As I walked away, I realized something:

I used to shrink in moments like that—unsure if my story was too much.

But this time, I stood in it.

I named my truth. I let it breathe.

And in doing so, I reclaimed a little more of my voice.

Compared to what I used to carry, it felt like progress.

That grocery store conversation didn’t just stir old fears—it reminded me how certain stories live deep in our bodies, waiting to be called up again. Some fears are anchored in memory. Others are tied to who we are becoming.

And sometimes, they overlap.

Some fears I’ve shelved for now—like being on a boat without seeing the shore or riding a train through the Canadian Rockies. They’ll wait.

But a new fear had been growing, and getting louder: finding a new piano teacher.

With the London Symphony Orchestra project on the horizon, I sensed it was time to up my game. Two highly recommended classical pianists had come into my orbit. I scoured the internet for videos of their performances, listened to podcast interviews, and admired their brilliance.

I was eager to learn from them—until it came time to press “Send.”

Suddenly, a new loud voice was shouting at me.

Who do you think you are? You’re not classically trained anymore. They live in a different universe. You don’t belong there. They’ll know you’re not THAT good.

That’s when I had to talk back.

“Frances, yes—these pianists move in a different universe than you. But that doesn’t negate your universe.”

That single sentence became my lifeline. I just needed a little push to leave the room of fear and walk back into the land of possibilities.

Because I knew: the greatest growth often hides behind the scariest doors.

So I took a breath, pressed “Send,” and waited.

It was late December when I sent the emails.

Fast forward to April 24—just two days before my 59th birthday—I pulled into the driveway of my new piano teacher.

Her home was nestled back off the road, hidden behind a long line of pine trees. It immediately reminded me of our old family farm in Gardners, Pennsylvania. Willow Springs Farm.

That’s where I lost my brother, Nathan… in the pond… the accidental drowning. That single, life-altering event had become the bedrock of my songwriting career. Processing that grief has shaped much of who I am.

But years have passed. Something in me has changed.

Thanks to the work I’ve done through the Portraits of White journey—the album, concerts, and book—I have a new relationship with grief. I no longer feel swallowed by it. Instead, I can look back with more clarity and less pain—almost like I’m standing outside of it now. Almost.

Still, in that moment—pulling into the driveway, spotting the willow tree (yes, a willow!), the well-kept gardens, the towering trees, and the woods gently calling beyond the house—I was overcome.

My throat tightened. I nearly gasped out loud.

How could it be that my new piano teacher lived in a place so strikingly similar to Willow Springs Farm?

How amazing that, just days before my 59th birthday, I was coming full circle—facing a new fear with open hands.

Speaking of open hands—one of mine, though technically “open,” had been severely injured just a week before my piano audition.

On April 15—yes, tax day—I was transporting a stray cat we had grown very attached to. We named her Little B, short for “Beautiful.” She had given birth to three adorable kittens in our woodpile, but eventually moved them to the window well—almost as if she wanted us to see them. She clearly longed to be near us.

That day, while transferring her from her carrier to a cage at her new home—a safe farm where she and her kittens could live safely—she bit me. Badly.

She had slipped through the farmer’s hands, and as he knelt on the barn floor, trying to keep her from bolting, she dug in–claws and teeth–and wouldn’t let go. I could see he was in pain. Neither of us expected what happened next.

I reached to hand him a pair of gloves–though it was already too late–when she turned and sank her teeth into my pinky, as if I were a stranger threatening her life. I yelled. She yowled back.

I had never heard a cat scream like that before.

Blood poured from my hand, soaking my clothes, shoes, and the cat crate. I couldn’t even see the puncture wounds at first—there was just too much blood. I had never seen so much of my own.

The farmer looked at me with concern and asked if I was okay with the sight of it. Through choked sobs, I said, “Yes—I was a farm girl.”

Then he asked if my finger was okay.

“Yes,” I replied again. “It’s my heart that’s breaking.”

“I know,” he said, in the most tender voice one could ask for.

I was afraid Little B would escape into the mountains behind the house, never to return. He was sacrificing his hands—his safety—for her.

Later, surrounded by cats in his house, as I was trying to rinse off the blood from my hands, he told me, “We love cats here.” I could tell.

Still, leaving Little B and her kittens at a new place, after the trauma, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

The bite was so severe I headed straight to a medical clinic. I sobbed all the way there and inside the clinic. I wasn’t sure if I was crying from the pain in my finger—or the ache in my heart.

And I couldn’t play piano. At all.

My long-awaited audition with the new teacher was just a week away.

I was tempted to cancel.

But something in me said: Go anyway.

I let my teacher know I might not be able to play much with my right hand—or even at all—but that I’d still like to come. I spent days practicing with just my left hand, determined not to lose momentum.

I thought of another one of my aunts—not Aunt Norma, but Aunt Ruth. She played the piano by ear and navigated it like it was her best friend. After surviving breast cancer, and with a very swollen arm and fingers, she eventually adapted to playing with only one hand. And she did it beautifully.

If she could play one-handed, so could I.

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So there I was: injured finger, broken heart, and all—sitting down on the piano bench in my new teacher’s home. A cat scampered across the yard during my lesson—a sight to behold through the large glass window behind the piano, overlooking the quiet, tree-lined haven that surrounded the house.

I felt at home.

The two hours flew by.

And at some point during the lesson, I looked around and realized:

The loudest voice in the room was gone.

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Further Reading & Listening
Pond Beside the Barn – song & story here
Aunt Norma’s Piano – read here

Not every fear completely disappears—but some no longer roar. They learn to listen instead of lead.