After the Applause: A Reflection on My Senior Recital

The Moment It Ended

I walked off the stage with tired feet, a full heart, and the overwhelming sense that something truly beautiful had just come to life. My whole body felt the weight of the journey it had taken to get there—every rehearsal, every note, every quiet moment of doubt. My feet were aching, but I wasn’t ready to sit down just yet. I couldn’t wait to greet the people who came to witness this moment with me. I was smiling through the ache, hugging family and friends with a joy so big it made me forget the pain. (Well, almost—I was limping for two days afterward!) But it was worth every step. Because what happened that night wasn’t just a performance. It was a memory made, a dream realized, and a heart overflowing with gratitude, music, and love.

I wasn’t relieved when it ended—because relief, to me, is what you feel when something you didn’t enjoy is finally over. This wasn’t that. If anything, I felt a touch of sadness that the moment had passed… but it was wrapped in immense joy and quiet pride. I was proud of the result, proud of the work, and proud of the growth that had brought me to that stage. It wasn’t just the closing of a chapter—it was a celebration of everything that led me there.

What They Felt Moved Me

After the recital, someone came up to me in tears. She told me she couldn’t understand the languages I sang in—Auvergne (Occitan), German, English, and Spanish—but that she still felt everything the music was saying. That was my goal: to create an emotional journey that transcended language and reached straight into the heart. Her words reminded me why I sing.

Many others wept as well—my friends, my family—and I could see the pride and connection in their eyes. Some of my professors told me they were fascinated by the repertoire, especially the bambucos and the tiple, which they had never seen live. That meant the world. It reminded me that music can be both personal and educational, both a gift and a bridge.

To be honest, since it was my first time performing something this demanding, I expected at least a bit of vocal fatigue. An hour-long program of challenging repertoire is no easy feat. But I surprised myself. In moments of doubt, I anchored into my technique—"trust your body," "project," "fill the space." And it worked. I walked off the stage without a trace of vocal tension or strain. That alone felt like a major milestone in my journey as a classical singer.

I’ve learned that artistry isn’t just about the voice—it’s about how we manage our energy, our presence, our pacing. This recital taught me that preparation and presence must coexist. The technique is what allows emotion to soar safely

What I Learned About Myself

What I Learned About My Voice

Was it perfect? No. I made mistakes—some that had never happened in the practice room. I was nervous, and I felt the weight of my own expectations. In the past, I would’ve been hard on myself. But this time, I stopped and practiced something I’ve been working on: naming what went right. And there was so much that did.

I reminded myself that perfection isn’t the goal—presence is. Excellence comes from doing your best and showing up fully. That’s what I did.

Walking out to see my favorite people in the audience—my community, my home—was one of the most emotional moments of the evening. Sharing bambucos with them, especially with those unfamiliar with Colombian folklore, made me feel like I was offering both a piece of myself and a piece of history. It deepened my connection to my culture and reminded me why I do this.

I wrote my speech two weeks in advance. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anyone, so I thought I’d be composed when reading it. But the moment came… and I wept.

I wasn’t expecting to feel that much gratitude all at once. But when I stood there, looking out at my collaborators, my mentors, my family—I realized how much love I had been carried by. The words came out trembling. I cried, not from nerves, but from overwhelming thanks.

A Moment I Didn’t Expect

What I Would Tell My Past Self

I’d say: prepare. Prepare well. Start early. Create a plan that allows space for flexibility, for memorization, for joy.

I started planning a full year in advance, and I’d do it again. Preparation is what gives you confidence, and confidence is what frees you to make music. Don’t wait until you feel ready—readiness is built through consistent, loving work.

I’d tell myself: your community is everything. You don’t have to carry this alone. You are surrounded by people who believe in you, who will show up for your dream as if it were their own. Trust them. Let them help. Focus on what only you can do—your voice, your heart—and let others lift everything else. It will be beautiful.

What Comes Next

I’m so excited to share that I’ll be replicating this recital in Medellín, Colombia—the city that raised me—on June 13 at Beethoven Hall in El Palacio de Bellas Artes. Returning to perform in this place of childhood memories, with all the tools and experience I’ve gained, feels like a dream within a dream.

Something tells me it will be even more special this time. I’m hoping to be joined by very meaningful guests onstage—and I can’t wait to continue growing, singing, and giving back through this music.

Let’s stay connected.

If you enjoyed this reflection, consider subscribing to my Newsletter down bellow to follow my artistic journey, performances, and future blog posts. You can also watch my past and upcoming performances on my YouTube channel, where I share highlights from my work and music that moves me.

And if you’re in Medellín—I would love to see you on June 13 at Beethoven Hall. Let’s make more memories, together.