It’s safe to say that around 80% of the world’s population has never been to an opera — and in many places, that number is even higher. Opera was never for everyone. It’s exclusive by design and has long signaled status. Yes, some love it for the music. But many fill the seats to be seen — donors, elites, local power players ticking off a cultural checkbox.

I remember, as a boy, my father dragging me to the opera house twice a month. We always sat in a private box. It made me feel special — above the crowd, literally and socially. That mattered to me once. It shaped how I saw the world, and myself. I’ve long processed that part of my upbringing. I was fortunate, sure. But I also see the illusion in it now.

Is opera a snobby pastime for the rich and fortunate? Yes and no. Like any niche, it can hold real passion — but it also feeds ego. It’s not for everyone. Every performer wants connection. But not every audience brings it. A standing ovation doesn’t mean much if it’s just social reflex. The performance has to land. It has to hit something real. Otherwise, it’s just expensive noise dressed in tradition.

But beyond the velvet seats and social rituals, there’s a harsher reality: opera is brutal. In Italy, you can be a corrupt politician and still get applause. But miss a note at La Scala, and you’re done. No margin for error. No grace for being human. The public will forgive corruption — but not mediocrity on stage.

Opera isn’t about free expression. It’s control wrapped in spectacle. You don’t scream your truth — you perfect a method. Project at the right angle. Regulate breath like a machine. Channel resonance through centuries-old architecture. It’s not spontaneous — it’s sacred, scripted ritual. Puccini will be Puccini. Verdi will be Verdi. Your job is to follow the ritual — not reinvent it.

That’s what makes it both gripping and suffocating. There’s beauty in that discipline — but also a cost. Most opera singers start training before they even understand their own voice. Technique comes before identity. Repertoire before emotion. You learn to honor the score before you know what you want to say.

The pressure to uphold legacy creates a double bind: emotion is expected, but only within structure. You’re meant to vanish behind the role. The voice isn’t yours — it’s a channel for something already defined and judged.

Mental health in opera is a quiet crisis. Perfectionism, isolation, self-erasure — all disguised as “discipline.” The body is trained. The psyche, ignored. Posture, breath, range — all perfected. Mistakes feel existential.

And the hierarchy reinforces it. Directors, coaches, conductors — everyone has authority. You wait for permission. Confidence becomes compliance. Show too much individuality, and you’re “difficult.” Show too little, and you disappear.

Some singers break through — choosing roles that resonate, grounding themselves through movement, or openly embracing imperfection. These aren’t rebellions. They’re survival tactics. They don’t shatter the form. They let air in.

Mental health stories in opera rarely make headlines. But behind the curtain: anxiety, vocal trauma, burnout. Many singers carry that weight in silence. The role demands presence — even when the self feels absent.

And that’s where the metaphor lands. The death of the opera singer isn’t just about fading tradition. It’s about people eroding inside roles they were taught to revere. When image overtakes experience, when structure crushes spontaneity, something hollows out. Slowly. Quietly.

That death isn’t always literal. Sometimes, it’s the moment a singer stops listening to their own voice — buried beneath someone else’s idea of perfection.

But something else can happen, too. A shift. A quiet decision to make space for the human behind the sound. To sing not for approval, but because it still means something.

As American soprano Renée Fleming said: “The moment you stop trying to be perfect is the moment you start being real.”