I Was The Lead Singer Of A Legendary Rock Band. I Kept It A Secret For Years — Until I Got A Life-Changing Offer.

"I quit the band. I stopped listening to music and never spoke about it again, except when someone recognized me or I had a slip of the tongue."

I am sitting between my two teenage daughters at a Taylor Swift concert. From the outside, it looks like the perfect moment: a mother with her girls at the show of a lifetime, surrounded by screaming fans dressed in costumes from every era of Taylor’s musical journey.

But inside, something is wrong. A kind of dread rises in me as I watch the massive clock on the stage counting down the seconds until Taylor appears, as if her arrival and my survival are somehow linked.

The truth is, I don’t want to be here. I tried to get a friend to take my kids, but he insisted I go. “You have to!” he said. What I couldn’t explain to him — even to myself — was that I was certain if I went to this concert, something terrible would happen.

The clock strikes zero, and the crowd erupts. My two teenage girls turn toward me, smiling. I smile back and nod. Yep, having fun. But I’m not. A queasy cocktail of emotions explodes inside me, and the only thing I can do — short of running from the stadium — is collapse onto my seat.

Hidden below everyone else on their feet — cheering, dancing, and singing — I search through the gaps in the crowd like a small child looking for something that would help me understand what I was feeling. Finally, I glimpse the giant screen. There she is, bold and luminous, moving as if on top of a wave — 70,000 Swifties her ocean, carrying her spirit across the stadium.

I can’t believe I gave this all up.

I never dreamed of being on stage. If I had a dream, it was simply to get out of my childhood home and escape the abuse I experienced there. And if I could, help others escape too.

But one night, a simple comment from a stranger changed everything.

I was 23, and the only time I had ever let anyone hear me sing outside my childhood bedroom was the week before in that same karaoke bar in San Diego.

I felt elated by the man’s words. It was like my purpose had finally been revealed to me.

I went back to that bar every night after that. I’d pick a song from the large binder, take the mic, and stand in the dark corner underneath the stairs. There, hidden from view, I’d quietly delight in the sound of my voice — something I had never had the safety to do as a child.

People began to know who I was at the bar. I could see the excitement in their eyes when I walked in. I had never been seen or wanted before. My new love loosened my fear. I stepped out from the dark, and immediately doors began to open. I received an invitation to sing with Robin Le Mesurier — Rod Stewart’s guitar player — and then others.

Eventually, I became the lead singer of 10,000 Maniacs in 2002.

Being on stage was glorious. I felt alive. Free to be me. I was celebrated for having a big voice and a big personality, attributes that offstage — as a woman — got me chastised.

Being with the Maniacs was wonderful. The guys were great musicians, and Natalie Merchant had written incredible songs that gave voice to issues that too often went unaddressed in society: child abuse, addiction, alcoholism, and teenage pregnancy.

I also felt I was helping people. After gigs, fans would say things like, “You changed my life” and “The way you sang that song, it really touched me” and “It’s as if you knew what I had gone through.”

I did know exactly what they were feeling. When I would sing “What’s the Matter Here,” I felt empowered, like I was calling out to my mother, in front of all those........

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