This Is My Voice One Year on T

When I started taking testosterone last year, I was eager for the effects it would have on my speaking voice. I imagined talking in a voice that was low, smooth, soothing. But my high singing voice felt somehow sacrosanct. I didn’t really want it to change.

Maybe that’s because growing up listening to opera I was always drawn to the sound of countertenors — the highest of male voice types — like Anthony Roth Costanzo and Klaus Nomi. In that ethereal, almost genderless sound, I recognized myself.

What is it about the voice that carries such emotional weight? Such potential for self-recognition? The word “voice” is so tied up with identity as to be nearly synonymous with it. My writing has a voice. The cello, my primary instrument, is sometimes described as closest to the human voice.

All voices evolve over the course of a lifetime. Boys’ voices drop during puberty. Opera singers have noticed how their voices change during and after pregnancy. And menopause brings hormonal changes that can lower voices. Our voices can even fluctuate in pitch over the course of a day, depending on whom we’re speaking to, whether that’s a child or a friend.

When I started taking testosterone as part of my transition, I wondered not just how my voice would change, but also what that shift would mean. Would I be the same person with a different voice?

I’m a cellist-turned-critic but I’ve always sung for pleasure. It wasn’t until two years ago, though, at 26, that I started voice lessons with a countertenor. I was already thinking about taking testosterone, but before that I wanted to experience my voice, as it was, at its full potential.