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This, too, is a crescendo. But instead of soaring, it threatens to swallow me whole.
When I was 21, I decided I wanted to be a conductor at the highest level. Inspired by my teacher and mentor, Robert Istad, I began studying everything I could. I watched videos, listened to recordings, and researched the backgrounds of the greats. But as I wrote down their names and dug into their careers, I noticed something unsettling. Every single one of them was a man.
So I searched harder, determined to find women who had blazed this trail. I found a few, but almost none had children. And if they did, it was never mentioned. Motherhood and conducting were not spoken about in the same breath. To me, the message was clear. If I wanted to be a conductor, motherhood had to be off the table.
I threw myself into the path I thought was required. I mastered repertoire, attended workshops, auditioned at the right schools, earned my doctorate, and secured a tenure-track position. I even let myself fall in love and marry, though part of me feared that relationships might derail my ambitions. But one belief remained firm. I could not be both a conductor and a mother.
As I taught at the university, the idea that I didn’t need children of my own began to feel cemented. I had formed deep bonds with my students, relationships that seemed to fulfill the “mentorship” side of parenting. I cared not only for their musical growth but for their well-being as people. I told myself that the choral program was my child—something I was nurturing and raising into maturity. In many ways, I convinced myself that conducting could fill the space of motherhood in my heart, especially because I felt it simply had to.
Then came 2020. For me, the pandemic wasn’t just “COVID times.” It was the year music broke up with me. Choruses were labeled “super spreaders,” and the ensembles I had built my life around went silent. My husband, Kevin, however, reminded me of something I had long dismissed. We could build a family. A year later, my daughter Corinne was born. No concert I’ve ever conducted could match the love I felt when I first held her.
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But the challenges were immediate. Corinne never took to a bottle, so I was constantly shuttling between classes and nursing. I feared leaking through my blouse while conducting. Sleepless nights became the norm, and my only time for score study came in the early morning hours after she finally went down. I battled postpartum anxiety and depression while trying to stand tall on the podium.
And yet, the deepest struggle wasn’t logistical. It was emotional. Conducting had always given me a profound sense of purpose, a feeling that I was exactly where I was meant to be. But as my daughter grew, rehearsals and performances often coincided with bedtime. Missing those magical rituals of singing to my daughter, holding her close, and tucking her in felt like failing another sacred calling. With sleep deprivation layered on top, I sometimes felt set up for failure. I was never able to give 100 percent to anyone—my musicians, my child, or Kevin.
The dissatisfaction I felt as both a conductor and a mother was unsettling, a gnawing misalignment I couldn’t shake. I often felt like the wrong person in the wrong place, a square peg forced into a round hole. I’d always heard that if you’re unhappy, it’s foolish to expect things to change without making a change yourself. Maybe a new conducting job would realign me, I thought. Maybe being a mother and a conductor would feel different somewhere else. At the same time, Kevin gently reminded me that giving Corinne a sibling felt like the right next step for our family. To the mother in me, that felt true. But to the conductor in me, it felt impossible. The inner conflict was brutal, pulling me apart from the inside. Finally, Kevin and I decided to leave it to fate: I would apply for jobs, and we would try for another baby. If a new position came through, then perhaps my career was meant to expand. If I became pregnant, then motherhood was calling me forward. Surely life would not hand me both at once. After all, I had never imagined that being a mother and a conductor could exist on the same plane; they had always felt like parallel tracks destined never to meet.
About three months later, we found out I was pregnant—just as my first interviews were turning into second rounds. Then came the invitations for in-person auditions, and with them, a wave of fear. My mind raced with questions: What would they think when I walked in with a seven-month bump? Would they judge me for not disclosing it sooner? Would they think I was reckless for applying at all? Worse, would they assume I couldn’t handle the demands of the job because I was pregnant? Or, perhaps the scariest question: What if they believed I could, and offered me the position?
Life pushed me forward, whether I felt ready or not. While eight months pregnant with my son, Bennett, I was named artistic director of the Choral Arts Society of Washington. Two months after his birth, we moved to Washington DC. Suddenly, I was in a new city, leading a major chorus, and mothering two very small children. The demands on my body, mind, and spirit were immense. It didn't matter if I thought I could do it or not. I had to—I pushed myself to.
I do not discount the struggles of fatherhood, nor do I wish to diminish the balancing act of male conductors with families. But the challenges they face are rarely acknowledged or brought into the open. I’ve heard countless tales of male conductors having children, then returning to the podium seemingly unshaken. And when women conductors have children, their stories are absent altogether.
But perhaps they shouldn’t be. People should understand what it means to be a “mom conductor.” Choosing repertoire while also researching the safest car seat. Attending board luncheons while worrying about what the kids will eat at daycare. Finishing a late rehearsal only to stay up later for midnight feedings. And always, the emotional balancing act: your child begging you not to leave for rehearsal, heartbroken that you’ll miss story time and cuddles. The guilt can be crushing, but then comes the priceless reward of seeing your daughter stand on a chair, waving her arms proudly, “just like Mommy.” Why shouldn’t we embrace that title?
The truth is, I have only managed this balancing act because of the unwavering support around me. Kevin has fully embraced my career, giving so much of himself as both father and partner. My parents have been an anchor of stability. And crucially, I now work for an organization that doesn’t just tolerate my motherhood but embraces it. The staff at Choral Arts anticipate not only my needs as a conductor but also my needs as a mother—putting my children’s and husband’s names on the backstage list even when I haven’t asked. They prioritize my family by being flexible and scheduling around naps and daycare pickups.
When I guest conducted for Berkshire Choral International in Berlin last year, I did so with the full support of knowing that my husband and children were part of the package. I had explained that my son would not take a bottle, making it impossible to leave the children behind. In hiring me, they anticipated that need and assured me the organization would cover travel for Kevin and the kids. On location, the entire BCI chorus and staff treated my family like their own, offering to play with the kids when I needed to study or rehearse. That kind of acceptance has made all the difference.
I want this to become the norm. For too long, women in classical music have been told, directly or indirectly, that they must choose between podium and parenthood. Some may decide not to have children, and I deeply respect and celebrate that choice. But others, like me, want both. We need more visible examples of women balancing motherhood with conducting, so the next generation knows it’s possible. Excruciatingly difficult, yes. But possible.
I know I am not the first conductor to raise children while leading from the podium. But for the young woman I once was, searching desperately for role models and finding none, I hope to be one more visible voice. Proof that it has been done, it can be done, and it deserves to be seen.
Marie Bucoy-Calavan is a conductor, educator, and mother who has appeared with ensembles nationally and internationally as a guest conductor. Currently serving as the Artistic Director of Choral Arts Society of Washington in DC, she is known for her visionary leadership of choral-orchestral works and innovative programming. Her work explores how artistry and motherhood can deepen and inform one another.
