Working with my voice for many years has changed the way I relate to my own body.
For a long time, I thought of my voice as something that was just… there. Something I could rely on when I needed it, and that was it. Over time, I realized something else: as a voice actor, my voice shows up with everything. With fatigue. With the weather. With stress. With a bad night’s sleep. With what I’m carrying that day, both physically and emotionally.
My voice never shows up alone.
That’s why it’s hard for me to think of the voice as a button you press. In real voice over work, the voice gets tired. It tightens. It reacts. Some days it doesn’t cooperate the way you’d like it to. And that’s where this stops being talent and becomes craft.
My listening has changed too.
I don’t just listen for whether something “sounds good” anymore. I hear tension. I hear urgency. I hear shallow breathing. I hear fatigue hidden inside a perfectly delivered line. And I also hear something that matters much more: when a voice is truly present.
I don’t experience my voice as something that lives only in my throat. I feel it in my posture, in my breath, in my energy, in my mindset, in the years I’ve spent doing this work. My voice lives in my body, and in my history.
Some days, recording feels effortless. And some days, the real work is quieter: warming up, adjusting your breath, not pushing, giving it another take, knowing when to stop. Over time, I’ve learned having some rest is part of voice work too, even if it doesn’t sound impressive.
That’s why I think of the voice as a living instrument.
Because it changes. It learns. It wears down. It rebuilds. It develops nuance over time. Working with my voice has taught me to listen to it before I ask anything from it.
A voice carries intention, yes.
But before intention, there’s the body.
And the body is always saying something.
— Vero López Treviño
We built a professional audio studio specially for Vero. The room has been acoustically tested with dozens of clients around the world.
