I’ve been in a lot of rooms where people are pretending not to feel anything.
Meetings, rehearsals, backstage, in the booth. Everyone holding it together. Doing the job. Saying the right thing. Keeping the energy up. Staying professional.
But then there are those moments—rare, quiet ones—where something breaks through. When someone taps into something so real it cuts through the noise. They’re not “acting.” They’re just… being. And the room changes.
I’ve seen it in acting class, when someone hits a line during a Meisner repetition and suddenly they’re not performing it, they’re living it. I’ve seen it in tech, when a light cue hits just right and someone breathes like they haven’t breathed in days. I’ve seen it during a pre-show warm-up, standing in a circle holding hands, trying not to cry, trying not to laugh, trying not to feel too much, but doing it anyway.
And every time it happens, I think, this is why I’m here.
Not to put on a show. Not to manage a production. But to be reminded that we are not alone.
The Rooms That Teach Us How to Be
There’s something about a rehearsal room that holds space for a kind of humanity that’s hard to find anywhere else. Maybe it’s the routine, the weird exercises, the way people come in exhausted but still find something real to give. Maybe it’s the fact that we agree, without saying it, to be a little more open than usual.
I’ve tossed a stick around in a circle more times than I can count. Missed it. Dropped it. Laughed at how ridiculous it felt. And then, at some point, without meaning to, I found myself actually listening. Not with my ears, but with my whole body.
I’ve sat in circles where we were asked what three things we’d take to a desert island. Just a silly warm-up, right? But I still remember what I said. And I remember what I didn’t say, too.
And those Meisner repetitions? I used to think they were boring. Then one day I couldn’t stop crying. Because someone saw me, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
These moments aren’t about the play. They’re about the people. They’re about the little flashes of truth that sneak up on us when we stop trying to be impressive.
They’re not lessons. They’re reminders.
The Kind of Leadership I’m Learning
I used to think being a good stage manager meant being on top of everything. Nailing the schedule. Making the right call. Knowing the answer. Holding it all together.
Lately, I’m not so sure.
Lately, I think the best stage managers I’ve worked with weren’t always the ones who knew everything. They were the ones who made the room feel safe. Who noticed when someone was a little too quiet. Who didn’t rush the silence. Who stood at the edge of the chaos and somehow made it feel like we were going to be okay.
They didn’t need to prove anything. They just showed up, over and over again, with presence. With care. With patience.
I’m trying to be more like that. I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I get too in my head. Sometimes I try to fix things that don’t need fixing. But I’m learning that sometimes the most powerful thing I can do is just be with.
With the moment. With the team. With myself.
Why I Still Believe Theatre Matters
It’s hard to explain to people outside this world why theatre feels so essential. Why we keep coming back to it. Why it still matters, even when it’s messy or small or no one’s really watching.
But here’s what I know: there’s something sacred about a group of people agreeing to be present together. To listen. To watch. To breathe in the same space.
There’s something human about it that I don’t find anywhere else.
Not on screens. Not in emails. Not in most of the world I move through every day.
Theatre doesn’t just teach us how to tell stories. It teaches us how to notice each other. How to respond. How to be moved. How to stay in the room when it gets uncomfortable. How to try again the next day.
And I think that’s something worth holding onto.
Right Now, This Is Enough
The truth is, I’m in a bit of a tender place right now. Things feel uncertain. I don’t always know what’s next. I’m trying to figure out what kind of work I want to do, what kind of leader I want to be, what kind of person I’m becoming.
But when I close my eyes and think about the moments that have meant the most to me—the ones that stuck—I remember a dark theatre, a half-lit stage, a quiet circle of people just trying to be a little more honest than they were the day before.
And I remember that showing up, even when I feel unsure or tired or like I don’t have the answers, is sometimes the most important thing I can do.
That being with people is enough.
That listening matters.
That theatre still matters.
And maybe that’s all I need to know right now.
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