I have stood on stages as a headliner, only to be treated like I didn’t belong there. I’ve been the bandleader—directing, arranging, hiring—yet still interrupted, lectured, and dismissed by male colleagues who assumed authority over me. I’ve witnessed the smirks when I introduced myself as both a flutist and vocalist. And I’ve faced the harsh reality that being brilliant is not enough when you’re a woman in jazz.

My name is Kaylene Peoples, and I have lived the paradox of being both visible and invisible in this industry. As a jazz artist, composer, flutist, and publisher, I’ve carved my own path—often out of necessity. Like many women in this field, I’ve faced discrimination, erasure, and exploitation. I was blackballed twice for refusing inappropriate propositions by label executives. My talent wasn’t the issue—my refusal to be controlled was.

This story isn’t unique to me. It’s the silent refrain of so many women in jazz, past and present.

What is a woman? What is talent?

We are the creators of life. Nurturers by nature, multitaskers by necessity. Our stages aren’t always lit by spotlights—sometimes they’re dimly lit kitchens at 2 a.m., humming lullabies to a newborn. Sometimes we’re comforting a partner after a long day, or working a second shift because the bills won’t wait.

And yet, some of us were given music. A voice, an instrument, a fire. And we brought it to the world. We trained, practiced, performed. We sang our truth into microphones and played our souls into concert halls.

But here’s the unspoken truth: to survive this industry, we’re expected to play along.

We look pretty.
We smile.
We’re professional, always.
But we’re not allowed to be imperfect. Not even once.

One misstep—a cracked note, a wrong dress, a “bad attitude”—and it can take years to get back into the game. This isn’t just a career. It’s a high-wire act with no net.

It’s a silent hell, sometimes.

And it’s not just the men. The judgment can come from anywhere. A fellow musician asking, “Why’d you sing that song?” A peer whispering, “That dress was a choice.” The backhanded compliments after a standing ovation.

But we take it on the chin. We smile. We keep going.

As a child, I dreamed of being on stage. I practiced for years. I took the criticism—sometimes helpful, often cruel. Usually from people who’ve never set foot on a stage.

Still, we soldier on.
Smiling.
Staying quiet.
Looking beautiful.
And killing it on stage.

We have to. Because if we don’t? It ends.

For generations, women in jazz—especially instrumentalists—have been forced to play beneath their brilliance. Jazz is freedom. It’s rebellion. It’s innovation in motion. But when it comes to women, jazz too often echoes with silence where their stories should be.

Take Astrud Gilberto, the iconic Brazilian singer whose breathy, refreshing yet understated vocals on “The Girl from Ipanema” helped launch Bossa-nova into global consciousness. She was thrust into the spotlight almost by accident, yet her performance redefined an entire genre. With understated elegance, she bridged Brazilian music and American jazz during the 1960s, becoming a symbol of cultural fusion. But while her voice captivated the world, her own country shunned her. She stood up to João Gilberto over royalties and was punished for it—robbed of both her earnings and her place in Brazil’s musical canon. Astrud’s contribution to music was extraordinary, but like so many women before and after her, she was erased from her own legacy.

I’ve written about Astrud’s story before (Schmooze Jazz Issue 2), and it struck a personal chord. As someone who champions Bossa-nova myself—both vocally and through flute—I know how hard it is to carry a tradition while navigating a world that tells you your voice is secondary. Through my own arrangements and performances, I’ve honored the genre’s roots while shaping it with my own sensibility. Yet even with classical training and a deep foundation in improvisation, I’ve found that being both artist and architect of my work is still questioned in ways that men never face.

Another truth-teller was Sandra Booker, a dazzling jazz vocalist, composer, and activist who fused technical brilliance with emotional depth. Sandra had the kind of voice that made people stop breathing—soaring, intimate, and fearless. She performed at Lincoln Center, wrote powerful original works, and became a beacon of authenticity in modern jazz. But offstage, she endured an unthinkable trauma—sexual assault by her husband, a producer. She spoke out. And the industry turned its back. Blacklisted, silenced, and marginalized, Sandra continued to create, even as she was forced out of the spotlight she rightfully earned. Her recent passing is a heartbreaking loss, and we owe it to her legacy to say her name and tell her story. Sandra Booker didn’t just sing jazz—she lived it, fought for it, and used it to heal others.

Women like Barbara Morrison gave their lives to the music and still had to fight for their place in it. Barbara’s voice—rich, bluesy, and full of soul—was a force of nature. She shared the stage with Dizzy Gillespie, Ray Charles, and Etta James, commanding every room with authenticity and depth. But she was more than a performer—she was a pillar of the community. Her work founding the Barbara Morrison Performing Arts Center in Leimert Park empowered generations of Black artists and preserved a cultural legacy the industry too often neglects. And yet, for all her accomplishments, she, too, faced the reality that women—especially Black women—are rarely centered, often overlooked, and constantly underestimated.