I am fussy, about my diet and straining my voice. I know, sounds

"I am fussy, about my diet and straining my voice. I know, sounds a bit over the top. But I'm not as bad as I used to be. These days I don't drink alcohol for five days before a show - very dehydrating for the vocal cords, and all that acid reflux. I used to ban it for a fortnight. Nightmare." – Katherine Jenkins

In these words, Katherine Jenkins speaks with the humility of one who understands that mastery demands discipline. She does not boast of her care or her caution; rather, she reveals the sacred responsibility that comes with devotion to one’s craft. Her voice, that divine instrument, is her gift and her duty. To protect it, she must guard her body, her habits, and her spirit. In confessing that she is “fussy” about her diet and her voice, she reminds us of a truth as old as art itself—that excellence is born not in ease, but in the daily labor of care. Her restraint is not vanity; it is reverence. She has chosen, as the ancients would say, to live as a servant of her calling.

In the temples of Greece, the singers and orators who gave voice to the gods and the people practiced similar rituals of preservation. The great orator Demosthenes, whose voice once faltered and failed him, filled his mouth with stones and shouted against the waves to strengthen his speech. He refrained from wine and indulgence, for he knew that his instrument—his voice—was the bridge between thought and eternity. In the same spirit, Jenkins abstains from alcohol, not from ascetic pride, but from knowledge. She understands the delicate balance between body and art, that a single careless act—a drink, a late night, a neglected rest—can cloud the clarity of creation. To maintain greatness, one must honor the vessel through which greatness flows.

Her mention of acid reflux and dehydration might seem ordinary in tone, yet beneath it lies a universal metaphor. The artist’s life, like the body, must remain free of what corrodes. To fill oneself with what drains or inflames—whether it be literal toxins or the poisons of distraction, ego, or overindulgence—is to dim the light of purpose. Her care for her vocal cords becomes an emblem of the soul’s discipline: what is fragile must be protected, what is sacred must be tended. The singer’s cords, after all, are the threads through which emotion becomes sound, and sound becomes beauty.

The ancients held that the breath was the spirit itself—pneuma, the divine wind that animates life. To a singer, breath is more than function; it is prayer. Katherine Jenkins, in her conscious abstinence and preparation, honors that ancient connection between breath and divinity. She refuses to desecrate the sacred air that flows through her with the dulling of alcohol or the imbalance of poor nourishment. Her “five days” of abstinence before each performance is not a superstition—it is a ritual of purification, a way of aligning body and spirit before stepping into the light. In every song she sings, she offers not just her talent, but her devotion to the craft that sustains her.

Yet even in her words, there is a touch of humanity and humor. She admits that she is not as severe as before, that she once forbade alcohol for a fortnight, calling it a “nightmare.” This reveals another kind of wisdom—the wisdom of balance. The ancients taught that the middle path is the truest path. The Stoics, the Buddhists, the philosophers of every age have echoed this truth: too much austerity starves the soul, just as too much indulgence weakens it. Jenkins’ evolution—from extreme restriction to mindful moderation—shows the maturity of one who has learned to balance discipline with grace. Her art is not built on self-denial, but on self-awareness.

Consider the example of Leonardo da Vinci, who spoke often of harmony between discipline and delight. He wrote that “the artist must care for his instrument, but not become enslaved by it.” Leonardo knew that perfection is sustained by joy as much as by rigor. Jenkins embodies this same ideal. Her care is not born of fear, but of respect for her craft; her moderation is not weakness, but wisdom. To sustain the voice, she must sustain the soul that carries it. In this balance lies the endurance of all great artists, for those who burn too hotly in pursuit of perfection often consume themselves before their time.

The lesson of her words, then, extends far beyond music. Whatever one’s craft—be it art, labor, thought, or love—the principle remains: discipline is the guardian of excellence, but balance is the keeper of joy. Take care of what is entrusted to you—your body, your mind, your voice—but do not let the care itself become a cage. Practice rituals that honor your gifts, whether that means rest before effort, stillness before speech, or simplicity before performance. In each act of preparation, you strengthen not only your skill but your spirit.

So let the wisdom of Katherine Jenkins be remembered as both gentle and profound. She shows that greatness is not achieved in grand gestures, but in the quiet, continual acts of respect we show to ourselves and to our craft. To nurture what is sacred within us—to protect the fragile instrument through which our purpose speaks—is not fussiness. It is devotion. And in that devotion lies the timeless secret of mastery: that the artist’s true strength is not in the sound she makes, but in the discipline and harmony that sustain the song long after the final note fades.