Minutes, hours, days, weeks. Blood, sweat, tears, emotions. Friendship, love, trials, hardship— these are just the beginning. To devote almost three months of your life to an artistic endeavor is a huge commitment, and honestly is enough to leave any normal human being feeling absolutely drained, emotionally and physically. Now that Cabaret, the musical that has consumed my life since the beginning of September, is over, I do feel drained. The hours that I had been devoting to Cabaret can now be focused on other things, like homework and other responsibilities, and it is comforting to know that I have time. But time is overrated. Not being busy is overrated. So when I woke up the morning after Cabaret had ended, dragging myself out of bed after only three hours of sleep, I did not feel comforted—I felt empty.

Thus, post-show depression was born. To anyone who has participated in any sort of performance endeavor, post-show depression has almost surely reared its ugly head. That empty feeling is accompanied by a sense of feeling lost, a “what am I supposed to do now?” The only answer that really matters to that question is “not the show that I sacrificed a portion of my soul to,” which means that this emptiness is inevitable.

Not every single person is susceptible to post-show depression, and that does not mean they didn’t put as much effort into the show as anyone else. They are the lucky ones.

But quite often, this depressing state is directly correlated with the amount of work you put into the show, however big a piece of your soul was sacrificed to the art. And art is selfish, it refuses to give back the portion of the soul you gave up, however big or small. It is a robin hood of sorts, taking what you are offering an abundance of and giving it to the audience. Ten weeks of devotion, hours of character and scene work, dance and music calls, one on one meetings with other members of the cast, constant thoughts about who your character is becoming, which in turn affects who you are becoming. You channel all of that, and give it up in performance. You are left with the memories, and undoubtedly you are changed. But it is not easy.

That alone is plenty to cripple a normal person, but the post-show depression is much worse when your performance is collaborative. Because when you walk away from rehearsals and performance, you are inevitably walking away from spending time with the people who made it possible. You will stay friends, lunch dates will be had and Snapchat streaks will begin, but none of that can replace the time you spent together making art. Because you not only give over a piece of yourself to the audience, but you give bits of yourself to every member of the cast, every member of the crew and every single person involved in the show. You rely on them, and they rely on you, and that creates a bond. You reveal a side of yourself to them that the audience does not see: the process is powerful.

So waking up that morning, it is easy to see why that empty feeling was so strong. But this was different than anything I had experienced before—this was overwhelming. Like nothing I had felt before. Because some experiences are so unique, that post-show depression becomes more than trivial, and becomes so painfully real that it almost cripples you.

Sometimes, when you devote ten weeks of your life to a production, you forget what life is like without it. Those rehearsals, which were the best part of your day, are now gone. You have to stop yourself from thinking about 1930s Germany and the Kit Kat Klub because you are so used to thinking like your character that it is hard to stop. When your professor mentions Paris, an admittedly small part of the show, you have to stop yourself from tearing up because you no longer have to think about Paris like that.

You no longer get to see those people you grew so close to every day. And when you do see them, you do your best to relive those fun moments in rehearsal when you should have been focusing but instead were laughing. Those moments are important.

And the relationships you had within the context of the show, which became so real, are no more. Those pieces of yourself that you gave up are gone.

But the emptiness does not last forever. Because once you past the grieving stage, you begin to realize that the part of yourself that was lost has now been restored. Restored by everyone who saw the show and was changed in any way by it. Restored by your fellow cast members and everyone who put any sort of effort into the show. And not only are you restored, but you are renewed, into the new person you have become because of your experience.

I had the pleasure of having these very personal experiences. I had the pleasure of working on an incredible show. I had the honor of collaborating with the most amazing group of people I could have asked for. Three months ago, I never could have predicted what I was getting myself in to. But I can certainly say to anyone who is afraid of post-show depression, just embrace it. Hold tight to the memories, and never let go. Love your cast members, and give your all to the role and to your performance. Yes, you will miss it, but the beauty in performance lies in its fleeting nature. The impact is seen in the change.

Thank you to the entire cast and crew of Pauper Players’ production of Cabaret at UNC Chapel Hill. You have all changed my life and helped me to become a better person, and I will forever be indebted to you. you are all beautiful creatures and supremely talented. Continue making art and changing lives. À bientôt.