As much as hair, eye colour and facial features make up the identity of a person, so does her voice.

Recently I went through a period of losing my voice. I was always that kid deemed ‘carrier of strep throat.’ Any sickness almost always knocks out my voice first, leaving a sore throat in its wake.

But this time was different. I wasn’t sick – no gland inflammation, no fever or soreness – but certain registers of my voice weren’t sounding as they normally did. Over the course of a week, I was losing parts of my voice.

As a performer, I make my livelihood through my voice, so of course an incident like this sets off alarm bells. I was on ‘crack-down’ mode: I put my head under the towel to steam my throat every morning; I cut back to one very small cup of coffee in the morning; I wouldn’t have even a sip of alcohol; I even started taking antacid pills thinking acid reflux could have been the sneaky culprit to my vocal troubles. But nothing was working. And my voice continued to fade.

One of my colleagues said, “It’s most likely vocal fatigue,” to which he added off-handedly, “In lieu of vocal chord transplant surgery, you just need to shut up.”

That got me thinking – if I were to have such a procedure, a total replacement of those two delicate chords, my voice would change completely. Who would I be with a different sounding voice?

I should dial back for a second. Vocal chord transplants, or voice box transplants are relatively new, the first procedure being done in the United States roughly three years ago. The surgery is still in its pioneering phase with the application geared towards cancer survivors who have had to have their voice boxes removed.

But can one conceive a day when, perhaps, like any other physical augmentation surgery, voices could be altered? In the same way that one may want a thinner nose or fuller lips, could this thought ever encompass having a different voice – changing one’s Alto raspiness for a (perhaps more desired) dolce, first Soprano sound?

I consider my voice to be a large part of my identity, even when I war with it. Though more often than not, it serves me well in my craft, I do not have the chords of steel that some of my colleagues possess. I cannot yell and scream through a performance, go to the bar, belt karaoke, and then show up unscathed for the next day’s matinee. But I know those that can. And of course, in my darker thoughts, I envy them and consider my biology a failing.

On the other hand, my sound is my brand. I don’t love talking in such marketing terms but there’s no denying that it is just as much part of my “product” as any other physical trait. Yes, there is a margin for talent and interpretation of a role when being considered by casting agents, but the way I sound is equally part of that consideration. I am a woman with a low voice, and while I may look younger than my actual age I’m certain no amount of drawn-on freckles or cute pigtails could put me in the running for even the oldest of the von Trapp children. The way I sound is part of who I am.

I think we all have moments of staring at our reflection in the mirror and imagining some physical alteration. However you feel about the issue, I conceive that many of us, male and female, have considered a new nose, a different waistline, tighter skin around the eyes – but how many of us have ever considered a new voice?

There is so much psychology wrapped up in the way we sound. Literally, when we are tense, defensive, or more emotional, our voice sounds tight as the surrounding muscles contract to suppress our feelings. Alternately, when we freely laugh or cry our sound is full in resonance and volume. Or, metaphorically, when we use the term ‘voice,’ we speak about our representative self and its value or impact on society.

Clearly, one’s voice is considered intrinsic to an individual.

Much like desiring a thinner nose, I often times wish I could sing a first soprano line with ease and power. But like that classic Twilight Zone episode where the patient’s bandages are removed and upon seeing her reflection as a beautiful woman she screams in horror, I cannot imagine opening my mouth and emitting a foreign voice. How would I reconcile the difference between the voice I’ve had up until this point, the voice I think in, the voice I dream in, and then hear a completely different sound express my thoughts and dreams? How would my personality then be altered by the discrepancy? Who would I become on the inside if I didn’t recognize my sound on the outside?

As for my disappearing voice, it turns out I was going through extreme vocal fatigue and rest was simply the only cure. Still, I am intrigued to know how we might react as a culture should ‘voice alteration’ ever be as easy to procure in the future as any other cosmetic treatment out on the market today.