During an education class when I was in cantorial school, we studied Howard Gardner's theory of multiple intelligences. My professor described the many frames through which people understand the world: kinesthetic intelligence, interpersonal intelligence, linguistic intelligence and then added, "I'm sure all the cantorial students here have musical intelligence."

I raised my hand and said, "I don't think I do." I'm a good musician now. But I don't think it's because of some natural gift. I think it's because I've worked relentlessly and have studied very hard. I was very good at school. In middle school, I was a straight "A" student. I went to states for the National Geographic Bee and won scholastic competitions in English and science. My strength was in the classroom, in books, and in tests, which came easily to me. I needed more of a challenge. So I leaned into music precisely because it was hard for me. I started taking voice lessons and auditioning for musicals and choirs, and by high school, I was taking extra Saturday classes in music theory and history. I have put in more hours practicing, studying, and refining my musicianship than I could ever count. I still take weekly voice lessons. I still practice. I'm still working to be better.

This week's Torah portion, Tetzaveh, brought that story back to me. It describes the artisans who created Aaron's priestly vestments as those who were chachmei lev, "wise of heart," imbued with spirit. We often read that as talent, as if their abilities were simply God-given gifts. But I don't believe in talent as something fixed or mystical. I believe in dedication, discipline, and passion. Of course, people have different strengths. But what matters most is the work.

Earlier this winter, I got a bad cold. When I recovered, my voice didn't. Twice, I warmed up for my voice lesson, and then when I tried to sing repertoire, almost no sound came out. I was still leading services, but I was struggling. After the second difficult lesson, my teacher sent me to an ENT who works with singers. For the first time, I had my vocal cords scoped, which is when the doctor uses a camera to take images of your vocal cords while you speak and sing.

The good news: My cords were completely healthy.
The bad news: they weren't closing all the way when I sang.

I received a diagnosis of muscle tension dysphonia, which means the muscles around the larynx grip too tightly, preventing the vocal cords from closing fully. It affects tone, clean onsets, the ability to sing quietly, and stamina. The doctor told me it's common and fixable, and that my voice teacher would be able to help.

So we went back to basics: voice therapy exercises including straw phonation, humming, and practicing releasing tension. I'm working on it.

But I was scared.

The voice I've carefully refined and honed for over twenty years suddenly felt fragile. The idea that I might need to relearn how to sing, while still needing to sing every week, was terrifying.

Last weekend, after a beautiful Friday night service where I felt strong and joyful, enjoying making beautiful prayerful music in harmony with Rabbi Rachel and Marissa Simmons, I woke up Saturday morning and knew I had pushed a little too hard. My voice was tired. And there were two bar mitzvah services ahead.

I did all my exercises and continued warming up in the car. But even as I arrived at temple, I knew my singing wouldn't be exactly what I wanted it to be.

But during the service, something shifted. I realized the most important thing wasn't perfect sound. It was being a steady presence for a nervous student. It was offering reassurance. It was helping them find their place in the Torah. It was guiding the room with calm and care.

I made it through both services with reasonably good singing.

And I found myself asking: What is a voice for?

I'm grateful that my voice is not the only gift I have to offer. I'm grateful there are many ways to show up for this community—through presence, through teaching, through compassion. My voice is a beautiful tool that deepens connection. But it is not the whole of who I am.

So I'll keep practicing and learning. I'll probably keep working on my singing forever. Maybe that's what it means to be "wise of heart," not someone born with perfect gifts, but someone who keeps showing up with dedication and spirit.

And in the meantime, we'll keep singing together.