JUST BREATHE

A Letter To My Younger Self

By Camille Zamora

I once had the surreal pleasure of attending a women’s conference hosted by Arianna Huffington and Mika Brzezinski at Arianna’s divine home. Guests included Katie Couric, Ali Wentworth, Valerie Jarrett, George Stephanopoulos, Dean Ornish, and Joe Scarborough (a few good men punctuating the girl power), and conversation centered on the theme of Thrive: Redefining Success Beyond Money and Power.

The heady discussion centered on how we, as women, define “success.” This felt like a particularly poignant thing to consider during this moment of immense (and long-overdue) upheaval in the power corridors of our various creative industries. Much of our conversation centered on the idea of authenticity, and on what advice we would share with other women, and/or with our own younger selves.

What were you doing when you were 25 years old?
I was living in NYC in a two-bedroom apartment with five opera singers, working as a nanny and wondering when the bucking bronco of my young soprano voice would start to behave and allow me to sing Mozart the way I heard it in my head. I spent a fair amount of time worrying that the last thing the world needed was another entry-level soprano, and that maybe I hadn’t done the right thing in selling all of my earthly belongings and moving from Texas to NYC in pursuit of an opera career. And I wondered if I would ever find a way to reconcile my passion for this beautiful, ancient art form of opera with my passion for social justice work.

How did that experience influence who you are today?
In the simplest of terms, that time in my life toughened me. It taught me to concentrate, via the exercise of memorizing an aria while my roommate was practicing a different aria with ear-shattering brilliance in the same room. It taught me to enjoy simple pleasures. And it taught me to generate my own light in the darkest of spaces. Literally. The apartment we shared was one of those desperately depressing, low-floor apartments with only a few small windows, all of which opened onto airshafts, making it impossible to tell whether it was noon or midnight. One of my roommates, a headstrong German soprano, countered the gloom via her tradition of candlelit breakfasts: dark German bread and strong coffee accompanied by flickering tea-lights and laughter and conversation. It was a tradition that we all soon adopted—some of the brightest breakfasts ever, and in the dimmest possible space.

What were you doing when you were 25 years old?
I was living in NYC in a two-bedroom apartment with five opera singers, working as a nanny and wondering when the bucking bronco of my young soprano voice would start to behave and allow me to sing Mozart the way I heard it in my head. I spent a fair amount of time worrying that the last thing the world needed was another entry-level soprano, and that maybe I hadn’t done the right thing in selling all of my earthly belongings and moving from Texas to NYC in pursuit of an opera career. And I wondered if I would ever find a way to reconcile my passion for this beautiful, ancient art form of opera with my passion for social justice work.

How did that experience influence who you are today?
In the simplest of terms, that time in my life toughened me. It taught me to concentrate, via the exercise of memorizing an aria while my roommate was practicing a different aria with ear-shattering brilliance in the same room. It taught me to enjoy simple pleasures. And it taught me to generate my own light in the darkest of spaces. Literally. The apartment we shared was one of those desperately depressing, low-floor apartments with only a few small windows, all of which opened onto airshafts, making it impossible to tell whether it was noon or midnight. One of my roommates, a headstrong German soprano, countered the gloom via her tradition of candlelit breakfasts: dark German bread and strong coffee accompanied by flickering tea-lights and laughter and conversation. It was a tradition that we all soon adopted—some of the brightest breakfasts ever, and in the dimmest possible space.

If you could write a letter to your younger self, what advice might you share with her?

Dearest (younger) Camille,
Hello from the future!
I write to you—my smaller, more nervous younger self—to remind you that in life, as in opera, the key thing is to pause for a moment to take a good, deep breath.

You may feel right now that “success” is defined by how many accolades you receive. But I’m going to tell you that it’s not about the accolades at all, but about authenticity. And a direct line to your most authentic self comes, as parents tell their toddlers mid-tantrum, when you just stop and take a deep breath. Simple as that. Just breathe.

A deep breath will connect you to your core, to who you really are, and to what you really want to do, share and communicate. With your lungs re-filled and your blood re-oxygenated, you’ll be able to project your voice with firm understanding and clarity of intent. You’ll find that your respiration (from Latin “spiritus,” meaning both breath and soul) allows for inspiration. You will be freed up to take risks, to try various tunes until you find the one that you really love. And if your singing brings occasional tears—of joy or sorrow or both—then you’ll know you’ve chosen the right song.

So please, girl, just breathe. Gently, with joy and compassion and the sheer sensual pleasure of feeling your body alive, vibrant and centered. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Yes. Just like that.

With love,
(The future version of yourself) Camille

P.S. You don’t know it yet, but your TX-to-NYC transplant will indeed work out, and you’ll go on to sing great music with great colleagues in great spots from Italy to England to Africa, and together with your beloved pal Monica Yunus, you’ll found Sing for Hope, which will go on to become the country’s largest “arts peace corps.” Oh, and incidentally, when you graduate from Juilliard, there will be a little baby in your belly graduating with you, and that will definitely require some deep breaths. But that’s enough information for you for today. I don’t want to spoil all your future surprises.

Adapted with permission from an article by Camille Zamora in the Huffington Post.