The New York Times- Jan. 3, 2026
Victor Llorente for The New York Times
Ms. Graves, a mezzo-soprano, is an opera singer.
After more than 40 years of singing in opera houses around the world, I have decided to retire from the stage. My last performance will be as Maria in “Porgy and Bess” at the Metropolitan Opera on Jan. 24.
Millions of Americans retire every year, and in many ways I’m just like them. Retirement has long been framed as a binary: You work, and then you don’t. You give your life to a profession and then overnight you are expected to surrender your identity, your rhythm and your sense of purpose.
It’s time for Medicare, senior discounts, playing with the grandkids (I have two). We talk about it as a finish line, a cliff.
For opera singers, the challenges are unique.
I’m going to have to figure out how to deal with giving up a life’s work that has asked for my whole heart all the time. It is a profession shaped by the ideal that music can change the human spirit, that this work is a requirement for the health of our society and that it must be fueled by an inextinguishable passion.
I am also going to have to learn to live without the regular use of my vocal instrument on the stage after so many decades of obsessive cultivation, along with the loss of applause and acclaim from the many appreciative audiences that have supported me.
An opera career rests on years and years of intensive training and coaching, not only in vocal technique but in musicianship, acting, languages, different musical styles and repertory.
A career can climb and climb, then plunge back, and then climb in a whiplash rhythm.
I suffer from terrible cluster headaches, and taking ibuprofen once caused a hemorrhage of my vocal cords, which led to surgery. I had been scheduled for a tour and recording of “Carmen”; both were sadly canceled.
Yet coming back from surgery led to my singing at the National Cathedral after the Sept. 11 attacks, then an appearance on Oprah Winfrey’s show and an appointment as cultural ambassador by President George W. Bush.
Singers are tested by every performance, year after year.
We are trained to make it look easy. It is never easy.
We live through sacrifice, isolation and self-doubt.
Our careers hinge on subjective opinions that can make or break us.
Constant travel (if you’re lucky), fatigue and stress take an emotional and physical toll.
You rehearse for weeks, get sick or injured just before the opening and you’re out.
The income is unpredictable, which makes financial planning challenging.
It has been glorious and hard and heartbreaking, as life is for everyone.
As a Black woman, I felt the emotional and practical weight of pursuing life in a culture that often seemed foreign to me, or that saw me as foreign to it.
Many in the industry, especially in the beginning, asked me point-blank why I was in “this” profession and if I wouldn’t have been “better suited” for another genre of music.
Directors told me I was not believable in certain roles.
I felt constant tension between hope and doubt that I belonged in the audition studios, season planning meetings, donor homes, fancy clubs and boardrooms — places not designed with me in mind. Often there was no outright rejection but a silent reminder that I was a guest.
Growing up as a girl in southwest Washington in humble beginnings taught me to turn setbacks into fuel. It taught me to work with dignity even when no one was watching, to discover the discipline of the daily grind. Early on I learned about breathing and good posture, practiced scales and exercises to train my vocal cords and studied roles.
I was helped by so many — Ms. Grove at W.B. Patterson Elementary School, who said I had a pretty voice and gave me free voice lessons; my vocal teacher at Oberlin and then the New England Conservatory of Music, Helen Hodam, who loved me like crazy and sat in the front row next to my mother at my Met debut 30 years ago; the people at the Houston Grand Opera studio program, where for the first time I worked with great conductors, directors and professional singers and where I learned to love this life.
Why am I retiring now? I’ve sung professionally for more than 45 years, appearing in every important opera house in the world, and I want to make space for the next generation.
More immediately, I’m not as elastic in dealing with the constant traveling. I need more recovery time between engagements.
A worsening thyroid condition has made singing a challenge, along with the impact of menopause, which made my voice heavier and thicker.
I’m ending with “Porgy and Bess” because it carries profound meaning for me.
Generations of African American artists, including Leontyne Price, Simon Estes, Grace Bumbry, Todd Duncan and so many others, have sung it.
We all stand on their shoulders as they fought for dignity and respect in the industry. The Met run will also bring my career full circle. My very first professional contract was for a “Porgy and Bess” at Tulsa Opera.
Leaving a life on the opera stage is a particular kind of retirement, but I imagine others share the kind of hopes I have — defining the next chapter myself rather than allowing age, society and outside expectations to do so.
I will turn most of my attention to The Denyce Graves Foundation, which advocates social justice and mentors and trains young singers, including students at the historically Black colleges and universities.
I do not leave empty-handed. My heart bursts with gratitude and love. I leave with glorious memories, wonderful friendships, self-awareness, physical and mental stamina, respect for process, clarity of judgment, a deep sense of professionalism, a powerful work ethic and a deep love for this wonderful craft — and the knowledge that it’s time.
Denyce Graves, a mezzo-soprano, is an opera singer and founder of The Denyce Graves Foundation.