Disposable by Design: When Quitting Is Framed as Growing Up.

 Disposable by Design: 

When Quitting Is Framed as Growing Up.

Myself and Michael Newnham with Orchestra Toronto(April 16th 2024)

The season of cheer is on its way out — and what a season it was. This year, I’m grateful to have spent Christmas with my family and friends. Last year was different. I was in a holiday production that, while musically enjoyable, triggered intense illness anxiety. Life is short, and you only get so many opportunities to be with the people you love during this earthly existence. I’ll give up other holidays for music, but Christmas is a hard one to surrender.

This season, I spent much of my time singing in long-term care homes, which I find deeply fulfilling. My final caroling gig of the year was on December 23rd with my regular choir. Somewhere between homes, during a break, I was asked a series of questions by a fellow chorus member — questions I haven’t stopped thinking about.

That's What She Said..

People often ask me what it’s like to make a living as a musician, and usually I don’t mind answering. Most of the time, the questions come from genuine curiosity. This time, the conversation went something like this.

“Are you making a comfortable living?”

No. About half of my income comes from singing. The rest comes from teaching.

“Aren’t most opera singers part of Equity?”

I’m not. And every person I’ve ever asked about joining has strongly advised against it — at least if your career is based in Canada. Unless you have quasi-guaranteed work with one of the seven major houses. Especially when hiring Canadians in lead roles is not exactly a priority at most of them.... And that’s all I’ll say about that.

“Why does working in Canada make the difference?”

Because there simply isn’t enough work. Not for the number of singers competing for roles at those seven houses, and certainly not for those of us hustling regionally.

And then came the question that stopped me cold:

“So when are you going to do something else?”

On the surface, it followed logically from the conversation. But what she didn’t realize was that what she was really asking me was this:

When are you going to quit?

Not if.
When.

What fascinates — and frustrates — me about the arts is how clearly they predict what happens to other careers. For much of the 20th century, many opera companies and symphonies employed full-time choruses, offering stable salaries, benefits, and pensions. In Europe, soloists were often engaged as part of permanent ensembles, allowing them to build long-term careers within the Fach system and develop repertoire sustainably over time.

Those structures didn’t vanish overnight. They eroded slowly — death by a thousand budget cuts. Public funding stagnated or declined, production costs rose, and profit-driven logic increasingly shaped decision-making. In their place emerged the dominance of short-term contracts and independent contractor work.

The contractor model promises freedom and flexibility. In reality, it often delivers instability dressed up as opportunity. You may be paid well per contract, but you shoulder your own taxes, benefits, pension contributions, and long-term security. You’re told you can make more money this way — assuming you’re willing to manage an endless paper trail of receipts and build your own financial safety net. What this model truly does is shift institutional risk onto individual workers.

It’s my personal belief that this shift — not laziness, not overspending, not avocado toast — is what truly dismantled the middle class.

When I say the arts are a predictor, this is what I mean. Artists were among the first workers told that loving your job should be compensation enough. That insecurity builds character. That instability is simply the cost of doing what you love.

That model didn’t stay in the arts. It spread — into academia, journalism, education, healthcare, tech. Tenure eroded. Staff positions became contracts. Benefits disappeared. Hustle became a moral virtue.

So when someone asks me, “When are you going to do something else?” what they’re really asking is when I’ll give up my happiness in exchange for survival. When I’ll accept that stability matters more than meaning, and that adulthood requires sacrificing work that asks for dignity, purpose, and joy in return.

The arts didn’t fail.
They were used.

They became the testing ground for a labor model that has since spread everywhere — one where devotion is exploited, security is optional, and choosing happiness is framed as irresponsibility.

And if artists — once considered essential to culture, community, and identity — can be reduced to disposable contractors, then no profession is safe.

An die Musik

I love my art with my whole being. When I try to imagine a future without it, my body knows before my brain does — I fall apart. It feels like betraying the little girl who sang with all her heart, because singing was never a choice. It was who I am.

I am looking for other work. I have to. But I’m looking for work that still leaves space for my voice, for the thing that makes me feel alive. I don’t want a life where my passion becomes a footnote.

A life without it is not one I recognize. And it’s not one I care to live.