Rebecca P. Murray sang before she could speak and grew up listening to vinyl records on her own record player—long before she understood that sound itself would become her life’s work.
An audiophile from the very beginning, Rebecca blends theater, the social science of language, and applied behavior science to help leaders harness vocal presence, clarity, and confidence, so their ideas land and their influence grows in rooms where every voice matters.
Whether keynoting conferences, energizing teams, or coaching leaders on the rise, she transforms everyday communication into opportunities to connect, lead, and shine.
As the founder of Showcase Your Shine in the Pacific Northwest, Rebecca is passionate about strengthening team dynamics by refining the art of listening, presenting, and facilitating productive conversations.
A fierce advocate for Voice Equity, she treats it as applied intelligence—intentionally creating spaces where all voices are heard, valued, and invited to contribute—unlocking collaboration, trust, and shared wisdom.
Rebecca P. Murray sang before she could speak and grew up listening to vinyl records on her own record player—long before she understood that sound itself would become her life’s work.
An audiophile from the very beginning, Rebecca blends theater, the social science of language, and applied behavior science to help leaders harness vocal presence, clarity, and confidence, so their ideas land and their influence grows in rooms where every voice matters.
Whether keynoting conferences, energizing teams, or coaching leaders on the rise, she transforms everyday communication into opportunities to connect, lead, and shine.
As the founder of Showcase Your Shine in the Pacific Northwest, Rebecca is passionate about strengthening team dynamics by refining the art of listening, presenting, and facilitating productive conversations.
A fierce advocate for Voice Equity, she treats it as applied intelligence—intentionally creating spaces where all voices are heard, valued, and invited to contribute—unlocking collaboration, trust, and shared wisdom.
As an adolescent, I became a fan of The Carol Burnett Show. My siblings and I were allowed to stay up past our bedtimes, sprawled on our beanbag chairs in front of the TV, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
As an adolescent, I became a fan of another program infusing characters and music—and this one was downright hilarious: The Carol Burnett Show. My siblings and I were allowed to stay up past our bedtime to watch each week. Ironically, my young life’s most significant world-stopping trauma happened on the heels of a Carol Burnett episode. Comedy and tragedy are forever intertwined in my brain.
On a balmy summer evening in 1973, my siblings and I sprawled out on beanbag chairs to watch Carol and her uproarious cohorts. As Carol tugged her ear to say “good night,” my mother walked into the living room, turned off the TV, and braced herself against a wall.
“I have something to tell you about your father.”
Dad had taken his life with a gun, alone in a hotel room.
I don’t recall coming together as a family at that moment. Instead, we retreated to our rooms, and I stared at the ceiling as tears soaked my pillow. In the morning, it was life as usual.
We never talked about Dad’s death as a family, and I never told my friends.
“Don’t talk about it,” became our family motto. I carried a deep-seated belief that allowing myself to talk about Dad might kill me. Which evolved into, “Avoid talking about anything painful.”
Instead, I focused on being strong, intelligent, funny, and independent. I wore that independence as a badge of courage, and you could hear it in my voice. Confident, capable, humorous, but at times, lacking substance and authenticity.
Which served me well… to a point.
Processing old grief is intensely painful and complicated work. I visualized my grief as a bleak, sad room at the end of a dim, narrow hallway. Dark. Silent. Still. The thought of entering it was terrifying.
Much later in life, I realized that hiding from grief was not serving me well. Here I was, encouraging clients to tell their story with authenticity—while I still had not done the work to tell mine.
In 2018, I made the tough decision to walk into that dark room and explore the pain hidden under the cobwebs of time. I called this the start of my million tear year because I finally allowed myself to feel the pain of the man I’d loved and lost. I travelled across the country to find his grave site. Standing there in the pouring rain, I vowed to keep the best parts of him alive through stories. Stories of how he lived in the world, not the story of how he left it.
It was then that something unexpected happened: my voice changed. Not the sound of my voice itself, but the authenticity, delivery, and, more importantly, how it was received by audiences.
I could finally embrace this intense grief as part of what makes me unique, allowing me to tell stories with more emotion, passion, and humor. Through accepting the memories I’d stored in that dark room, I learned to let the light in—to balance the dark.
This is the art and balance of all great stories.
My never-wavering personal affirmation is this: Your voice is your influence. And when you reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve silenced, your story, your truth, and your vocal influence expand in ways the world can feel and hear.
As an adolescent, I became a fan of The Carol Burnett Show. My siblings and I were allowed to stay up past our bedtimes, sprawled on our beanbag chairs in front of the TV, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Ironically, my young life’s most significant world-stopping trauma happened on the heels of a Carol Burnett episode. Comedy and tragedy are forever intertwined in my brain.
On a balmy summer evening in 1973, my siblings and I sprawled out on beanbag chairs to watch Carol and her uproarious cohorts. As Carol tugged her ear to say “good night,” my mother walked into the living room, turned off the TV, and braced herself against a wall.
“I have something to tell you about your father.”
Dad had taken his life with a gun, alone in a hotel room.
I don’t recall coming together as a family at that moment. Instead, we retreated to our rooms, and I stared at the ceiling as tears soaked my pillow. In the morning, it was life as usual.
We never talked about Dad’s death as a family, and I never told my friends.
“Don’t talk about it,” became our family motto. I carried a deep-seated belief that allowing myself to talk about Dad might kill me. Which evolved into, “Avoid talking about anything painful.”
Instead, I focused on being strong, intelligent, funny, and independent. I wore that independence as a badge of courage, and you could hear it in my voice. Confident, capable, humorous, but at times, lacking substance and authenticity.
Which served me well… to a point.
Processing old grief is intensely painful and complicated work. I visualized my grief as a bleak, sad room at the end of a dim, narrow hallway. Dark. Silent. Still. The thought of entering it was terrifying.
Much later in life, I realized that hiding from grief was not serving me well. Here I was, encouraging clients to tell their story with authenticity—while I still had not done the work to tell mine.
In 2018, I made the tough decision to walk into that dark room and explore the pain hidden under the cobwebs of time. I called this the start of my million tear year because I finally allowed myself to feel the pain of the man I’d loved and lost. I travelled across the country to find his grave site. Standing there in the pouring rain, I vowed to keep the best parts of him alive through stories. Stories of how he lived in the world, not the story of how he left it.
It was then that something unexpected happened: my voice changed. Not the sound of my voice itself, but the authenticity, delivery, and, more importantly, how it was received by audiences.
I could finally embrace this intense grief as part of what makes me unique, allowing me to tell stories with more emotion, passion, and humor. Through accepting the memories I’d stored in that dark room, I learned to let the light in—to balance the dark.
This is the art and balance of all great stories.
My never-wavering personal affirmation is this: Your voice is your influence. And when you reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve silenced, your story, your truth, and your vocal influence expand in ways the world can feel and hear.
