When I was a teenager, I wanted to sound like Emma Stone. Her low-pitched, husky voice carried an unnameable allure. And given all the compliments my friends paid whenever someone was sick — “Do you have a cold? Your voice sounds all raspy and sexy” — it felt gender-acceptable to covet her unique timbre.The husk, I learned, was something Stone achieved through colic; constant crying and screaming as a baby had resulted in nodules and calluses on her vocal cords, physically transforming her voice forever. When I learned that’s why Stone sounds like that, I tried to damage my voice by screaming relentlessly at any suitable opportunity — concerts and high school basketball games, mostly. Many of my friends were journeying forward into their idea of womanhood by undereating; I was trying to escape womanhood altogether. But all of us were teenage girls with our own methods of injuring ourselves into creation.There are, of course, less hostile ways to change your voice. A “voice” is the result of an intricate physical process, the vibrations of your vocal cords being shaped and amplified by the acoustics of your body like strings on a guitar. Your throat, mouth, nose, and sinuses are all sound holes, and you have more power to control which you use — and how you use them — than you might think.Testosterone thickens and lengthens your vocal folds and grows your larynx. When you start T, these physical changes might manifest in a scratchy throat or hoarseness. (When I first started T, my well-meaning white coworker recommended I check out his Indian in-laws’ miracle cure of hot water and turmeric to “clear that right up.”) Eventually, though, you’ll crack and screech your way to a lower-pitched voice.Pitch is only part of the equation, though. If you do your best impression of a frat bro, you’ll probably notice that you’re slackening your jaw, opening your throat, and speaking from your chest. If you try to queen it up, you’ll notice you’