The voice, the story, the song: Lizzie Estrada on singing from the heart

Can you walk me through a moment or performance that felt like your true debut in the classical world?
I think that moment would be here, during my second year at the Royal Academy of Music. At the beginning of the term, I was selected to take part in a competition representing the Academy. That came after a year of training with my teacher, Susan Waters. We had been working on how to convey the voice, how to tell the story of the songs—because when I first arrived, the focus had been entirely on technique.

Of course, technique also involves asking the question, “What are you saying?” but there was still so much to work on technically that it felt all-consuming. I was very focused on that at the time.

By my second year, as we prepared for the competition, I had a conversation with my teacher. She said, “You’re too humble. I think it’s your culture—it teaches you to be humble, to apologise, to say to your audience, ‘I’m sorry, I could’ve done better.’” That really made me think about myself and ask: what am I trying to say? Why should people listen? Why am I singing?

It became about being genuine, about accepting my sound and what I was expressing, and truly believing in it. So I went into the finals with that mindset. I smiled at people as I walked in, took a bow with my pianist, raised my head and started singing.

And I wasn’t afraid.

I think that was the first time I truly wasn’t afraid to look people in the eyes. It was magical—I still remember that detail clearly. I even looked at the panel, and one of them was mouthing the words with me, almost lip-syncing along. It felt amazing—singing without any fear, singing because I love it, singing because I had something to say and I knew exactly what it was.

It’s a completely different feeling on stage. It’s fun, and I think all of us musicians, all of us singers, have that one moment we always want to feel again. That’s what makes it so addictive.

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How do you prepare yourself before going on stage? How do you get rid of your jitters? Do you have a routine you follow?
I am going to be honest—I don't really have a set routine yet, because it really depends. It depends on the vibe, and on how everything feels in the moment.

I think one of the most important things before going on stage is asking yourself: “Are you prepared, or are you underprepared?” If you're underprepared, you’ll immediately feel it—like, “Oh my God, I'm not ready.” And then your mind starts racing during the performance, thinking about what’s next instead of focusing on the story you're telling. That doesn’t help the storytelling at all.

But when you're prepared, you think, “I know what I'm saying, I know what’s going to happen in these songs,” and then your focus shifts to what do I need to do—how to deliver it. So I think it really comes down to how prepared or unprepared you are.

As for routines—this is something small, but no matter how early the concert is, I sometimes can’t eat beforehand. Having space in my body, not feeling full or heavy, helps me feel calm. It makes me feel like I can control myself—like there’s nothing in the way. That really helps me mentally. If the concert is in the afternoon, I make sure to eat early so it's not too close to the performance.

Another thing that helps is silent practice. My vocal warm-ups are also slower when it's a concert. Normally, when you practise, you just want to dive into the pieces and your warm-up ends up being a rushed 10-minute routine. But when it’s a performance, I take more time—even from the moment I wake up or while I’m in the shower, I hum gently and slowly stretch my vocal cords. Little things like that really help me ease into it.

Could you share some of the challenges you’ve faced in developing your vocal range and stage presence?
I think it’s also very mental. I remember my teachers used to say I had trouble stretching my upper range, and it was mostly because I didn’t trust myself. I kept thinking, “I can’t sing that high anymore because my technique doesn’t support me well enough,” especially when it comes to the high notes. But so much of it is in your head.

It’s easier said than done, of course. Even now, I sometimes catch myself thinking, “Oh Lizzy, you can’t do that.” But then I remind myself, “What am I saying? I can do that. I literally just did it two days ago. Why wouldn’t I be able to do it today?” It’s about training your mind and your heart. I love singing, and I can’t let a note go wrong just because I’m nervous. I mean, if it cracks, it cracks—but you can’t let that live in your head for too long. You have to accept that these things happen, even in the biggest opera houses in the world.

When it comes to stage presence, I think it’s really about confidence—and gratitude. Gratitude that you have something to share, that you’ve been given this talent, and that you have something to say. You have to trust that you’ve done the work, that you’ve practised and prepared for this performance.

It’s all about trust and enjoyment. As simple as that sounds, it’s not always easy. But as long as you have the passion to sing and to share the message of the composer—the story written in the score—then yes, it all comes from that.

When you are on stage, how do you show off your vocal skill while also telling the story of the song emotionally—evoking its emotions at the same time?
When preparing this kind of material, you usually start by reading the text—the poem. If it is an art song, you read the poem first, then look into the composer's life: what they were going through, how it might have connected to the piece. But of course, you’re not going to sing it from their perspective alone—you sing it in a way that connects to your own life.

So if I'm singing a happy song, I might think about how happy I felt going to a cat café—something as simple as that. Or if I’m singing a sad song, I might draw from the memory of a relative’s death, or the feeling of longing for home, because I’m far away and don’t get to visit often. It could be about a mother’s love, or how much I miss my brothers and playing with them, or the feeling of completeness when we were all together—now it's just my mum and dad at home. Things like that.

It’s about finding your own reasons in these songs. And sometimes it’s hard, because you have to choose the clearest memory you can. Whenever I perform, I imagine I’m speaking to someone in the audience. That can be hard to do with an actual audience in front of you, so I imagine someone special to me, sitting at the back of the hall. I sing to them. If it’s an intimate piece, I keep eye contact, I stay there, and I hold that space.

Then the audience understands: “She’s speaking to someone she loves, someone dear to her.” And that’s the beauty of art songs. There’s no one else on stage to help you. You need to have the clearest image of what’s happening in the song—what you’re saying. Some art songs are very narrative-driven, and I love that. The text paints the picture for you: “The air is cool,” or “The breezes are flowing through the bushes.” These are images you can easily visualise and place yourself in.

Other songs are more like storytelling—you’re not in the story, you’re the narrator, and you have to know the difference.

As for opera, when I did my first production as part of the chorus, the images were already there in the setting. No matter how bare the set might be, the scene gives you context. And you have the other characters around you. You have someone to speak to—unless you’re told to narrate to the audience. But even then, you’re still surrounded by the scene. The action is happening, and you’re in it.

I think that’s the main difference in opera—it’s easier to connect because everything is in place. As long as you understand the text, you can fit into the scene and express the story clearly.

With art songs, it’s more personal. You pull all the emotion directly from your own experience. That’s what makes it original and intimate. You can claim the song as yours—not because you sang it the way the composer intended, but because you gave it life. You gave your life to the song. It’s no longer just the composer’s story—it becomes yours too.

Are there any composers that feel like home to you?
Filipino folk songs. Singing in your own language feels like home. Filipino songs are just beautiful—truly beautiful. They're ours. We can say they're ours. It’s our language, our story to tell.

So Ernani J. Cuenco will always be a star. Francisco Santiago, Lucrecia Kasilag—they’re so much fun to sing. And as much as I can, I’m trying to bring them here too.

What words of encouragement would you like to offer young Filipinos hoping to pursue classical vocal performance?
Trust yourself. And if you ever start to doubt yourself, ask the questions: “Why are you singing? What are you singing? Who are you singing for, and how does it make you feel?” Hold on to the reasons that remind you why you chose this craft in the first place, and why you committed to it in the beginning.

If you ever find yourself with access to resources—or if you're ready to seek them, whether financially or otherwise—then trust yourself. You can do it. Also, don’t be afraid to ask for help. If you dream of studying outside the Philippines, it’s really hard. It is. You’ll need to lower your pride and ask for support, because no matter how young or determined you are, this isn’t something you can do entirely on your own. And that’s okay. I accepted that.

It’s really about having a reason, trusting your gut, nurturing your passion and having the grit to keep that passion growing and going. Be ready to grow—not just as an artist, but as a person. Singing is very personal. It’s emotional. Once you learn how to connect your music to your life, it’s very magical.

It might be sad sometimes, but it’s magical. You’ll find yourself chasing that feeling of singing freely—of saying something and meaning it, of being heard and understood by your audience. No matter what language you're singing in, that connection is magical. And once you’ve experienced it, hold on to it. It will keep you going.

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