My Dearest, Musical Theater,

Let me tell you a story of a little girl.

She was only about seven years old when she decorated her parents’ fireplace with colorful paper chains and dreamed of the musical productions she wanted to put on with her friends (which never happened because she couldn’t get her friends on board). She came from a family whose home was always loud and full of music. She’d make her dad play Brian Setzer’s “You’re the Boss” over and over in the car so she could imagine herself singing with a big band in front of an audience. Music made her feel unstoppable.

This little girl found an outlet for her passion when she began playing French horn in band in middle school. There, she discovered her love for musicals and music scores and would go on to perform in soloist festivals in high school. She sang in blues bands and talent shows and anywhere else she could get high off the rush of performing. I tucked that little girl away when I went away to college to play softball, knowing that I could always come back to her later.

Slowly, though, I built a wall of anxiety and doubt around that little girl in my heart. The more time I spent away from music, the more I believed that piece of me was unimportant, a position in this world that I should step aside and let more talented people fill. Everyone in my family did musical theater while I was away at school, and when I’d come home to see them in their shows, I could feel her peeking out of a small window in her cell, wondering what her life would be like if years of anxiety hadn’t convinced her that the world wasn’t wide enough for her to play a role.

The summer after I graduated college and moved back home, my mom was cast as Madame de la Grand Bouche (the wardrobe) in Davis Musical Theater Company's production of Beauty and the Beast. She told me they needed more people in the ensemble and after some serious hesitation, I decided I’d take a shot at it. In the weeks leading up to rehearsals, I had panic attacks from worrying about all the possible things that could go wrong for me on stage. The idea performing had been tainted by years of replaying the same worst-case scenarios in my head to the point where I couldn’t even remember what it was like to enjoy what I once lived for.

I spent the first weeks of rehearsals feeling like I didn’t belong there, that I was a fake. I know it’s technically “just community theater,” but there were people in our cast that I was once awestruck by as an audience member. I had convinced myself that I couldn’t do something like this with my anxiety, but found out there were so many others like me overcoming their fears for the love of performing. I feel safe talking about and working through my struggles with the people around me who deal with the very same issues I thought I was alone in.

Our opening night was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I walked onto stage at the beginning of the show feeling like I was going to hurl from nerves. Every bit of anxiety melted away after the first few minutes of the show as I looked around me, realizing I was on stage with my friends, getting to entertain people for the two and a half hours of their life that they’ve dedicated to us. Tears welled up in my eyes during our last number that night. I felt the same passion that the little girl with the paper chains did as she sang in her dad’s car, the one who wanting nothing more than to entertain people and make them happy.

When the lights came up after our bows, my friends and castmates came up and hugged me, congratulating me on getting through my first performance. My favorite hug came from the owner of the theater who looked at me with sincerity and pride as he said, “Congratulations, you’re no longer a theater virgin.”

My dearest, musical theater, thank you. Thank you for both the happiness and mental breakdowns, the inside jokes and awful memes, all the little things that have brought our cast and crew closer together. Thank you for giving me friends that I now can’t imagine my life without and for the people that have influenced my life in ways that I haven’t even become aware of yet. Thank you for showing me that my anxiety and my passions can coexist.

And most importantly, thank you for helping that little girl sing again. You’ve given her a new place to call home.

Sincerely,

Kara