I WAS THIRTEEN WHEN MY CHOIR MASTER STARTED TOUCHING ME IN THE NAME OF MUSIC – ANONYMOUS LADY SHARES SAD STORY

My name is I have asked to remain anonymous. I was thirteen when I joined the youth choir at church.

We called him Uncle Chuks. He was in his late thirties, always in neat white shirts and black trousers, with a gentle baritone voice that made every hymn feel personal. When he conducted, it looked like he was shaping the music with his hands. I wanted to sing the way he taught clear, strong, full of feeling. I wanted him to notice me and say I had real potential.

The first time anything felt strange was after a midweek practice.

Everyone else had gone home. I stayed to work on my solo for Sunday. Uncle Chuks said my voice was still “holding back,” that I needed to relax my whole body to let the sound come through properly. He locked the choir room door said it was to keep distractions out then stood close behind me.

His hands rested on my waist at first. Then they moved slowly, pressing against my stomach and lower, holding me against him. I could feel his body pressed to mine.

“Sing from here,” he said softly. “The voice needs space to breathe. You have to let go completely.”

I stood very still. My heart was racing.

He didn’t move his hands away quickly. He just held me there, speaking quietly about breath control and resonance, as if it were a normal lesson. When he finally stepped back, he smiled the same warm smile he always gave and said, “You’ll feel the difference next time. Trust me.”

On Sunday I sang better than I ever had. People told me it was beautiful. Uncle Chuks hugged me in front of the choir and said, “See? That’s what happens when you open up.”

After that, every extra practice followed a similar pattern.

He would lock the door.

He would stand behind me again, hands on my waist, then sliding up or down always over my clothes saying it was to “free the sound” or “connect the breath.”

Sometimes he would press closer, his body against mine, breathing near my ear while he told me to relax, to let the music flow.

He never removed clothing. He said that would “interrupt the spirit.” But the touching always lasted longer than any normal singing lesson should.

“You’re special, Ada,” he would say. “That’s why I’m showing you the real way. Most girls aren’t ready for this level.”

I hated it, but part of me kept going back. Every time my voice improved, every time the congregation clapped, every time my mother said “God has given you a gift,” I wondered if maybe this was just part of becoming better. Maybe this was what it took.

I was fourteen when he tried something more.

One evening after rehearsal he said, “Tonight we need to go deeper.” He led me behind the piano, took my hand, and tried to guide it somewhere I didn’t want it to go.

I pulled away so fast my arm knocked the keys a sharp, jarring sound.

He looked startled. “Ada, calm down. This is just ”

“No,” I said. My voice shook, but it was clear. “I’m not doing this.”

He tried to laugh it off, that small uncomfortable laugh. “You’re taking it the wrong way. It’s about the music turned and walked out. I left the door open behind me.

I quit the choir the following week. I told my mother I didn’t feel like singing anymore. She was disappointed. She said I was wasting a talent. I didn’t explain why.

Uncle Chuks left the church a few months later. They said he moved to another branch. Later I heard quiet stories mother girls, other whispers, parents who finally spoke up.

I still sing sometimes, alone in my room with the door closed. Simple songs. Never the ones he taught.

I don’t know if my voice is as strong as it once was. I don’t mind.

What matters is this:

No one gets to touch me and call it teaching.

No one gets to decide what my gift costs.

Not ever again.