I'm an actor & I'm not acting.

(a regular existential crisis)

WELCOME to my existential crisis. Desk treadmills & papasan chairs are available for today’s session, depending on how you’re feeling. (We can cut a hole in the chair if you can’t decide.) Now, a deep breath.

OK.

At least once a year, I panic about the state of my theatre career. It usually happens after I see a gorgeous piece of theatre or watch a friend I’ve done a show with kick ass in something new. Because I was once in a gorgeous piece of theatre—likely with one of those people—and now I am working in an office, and they are in another gorgeous piece of theatre.

Don’t get me wrong—I am SO proud of them. I am deeply grateful to be surrounded by a wildly talented community of artists, and it is an honor to watch them do their extremely remarkable thing.

But what the hell am I doing? I’m a solid audience member—if you ever need someone to initiate a clap or a laugh, g i r l call me—but I can feel that empty space inside that wants to be filled with what THEY’re feeling. I soak in as much peripheral joy as I can. I have joy, but I want THAT joy. Desperately. It isn’t jealousy. It’s just a feeling I recognize that I very, very, very much miss.

Obvious next step: Auditioning. (Right?) I don’t have to miss it if I get my shit together and audition. Problem: Maaaaaaaaaaaaan, do I hate auditioning. The hustle of it. The dismissal of a no-email “no.” How much time I waste just -refreshing- my inbox. Putting out my whole soul & realizing it is not, in fact, the soul they’re looking for. I’ve been told, “If you hate auditioning, maybe this industry isn’t for you—” but no one likes auditioning. We all just know we have to do it. (If this generalization doesn’t apply to you, disregard. You are one of the fortuitous few.)

But what if we didn’t have to audition? A professor of mine once said, “If what you want to do isn’t out there, create it.” If my anxiety cannot handle the working actor life, I will be someone who splits my life: stable office job during the day (that I like, tbh), and creating on my own time outside of that. Perfect. I start a virtual theatre company during Covid that I am immensely proud of, act, write, hold space for truly incredible stories, grow a community of amazing artists from all around the world, and when the world opens up—well. Zoom is a little tired, and everyone is tired of it. The TU board is eager to make our next move, taking time I feel strongly allows us to be strategic toward an opportunity we can fill with our best skills. And yet, I attend a couple of showcases and think—that could be me. Why isn’t that me?

This happened for a moment last year—on schedule—so I took an acting class to scratch the itch (and if I’m being honest, to see if I’ve “still got it”). It was GREAT. Came highly recommended, was in a group of really talented actors, and was reminded how well my skills hold up. I am, in fact, a good actor. Thank God. But I really care about slowing down into the character work, and this felt more like a weekly memorization test. After a few months, I called it.

So. Here we are. I’m still zealous to tell people I’m an actor & that I run a theatre organization before I tell them literally anything else about myself. I am honored to have a team that believes in the TU mission AND the actual greatest family/chosen family who believe in ME. And I know I’m still an actor in the moments between. (Tip: If you’re still asking your theatre friends what they’re “doing next” or when you’ll “see them on Broadway,” we don’t do that anymore. Please fuck off.)

Now, I tell myself that the story between stories—my story—matters. I’m trying to slowwwww down & let the gratitude taffy stretch and soften my soul. I am happy. Point, G. I’m in a healthy relationship (finally? what a concept). Point, G. Contrary to popular belief, art isn’t born solely out of misery. But I think I’m so used to being miserable that I don’t know what to do with my art now.

Wow. Just…realized that as I typed it.

There’s just a little space left in the happiness jar that my Artist identity fills. And whether it’s on a stage or at my piano or in a Word document, I seriously, fiercely, hysterically need to fill it.