There are very few places that are as magical as the stage where I held my first curtain call. One day it could be the office of a company that regulates how often people are allowed to pee and another day it could be the sunny and grassy field of a kickball game. Its flexibility reminds me of an idea that most of us are told when we are little: anything is possible with a little imagination.

It’s like that episode of Spongebob where Spongebob and Patrick are playing in the cardboard box but for them it’s a treasure island, a racecar, a parlor in the wild, wild west.

Before the fifth scene in the first act, I remember hiding behind the curtains in the wings, trying to sneak a peek at the audience. How’s the crowd? Are they laughing? Are they having fun?

We weren’t supposed to eat in the theatre but my friend Spencer always brought Nutella and pretzels and we used to stuff our faces while waiting for our next scene. Once, we got carried away and he came on stage with chocolate all over his face. It’s a good thing that he was playing a poor person anyway so it fit well with his character.

The real magic, however, is when I finally get on stage. The lights are blinding and I can’t even see the audience. It’s typically hot and I am typically sweating from every corner of my body. The microphones are always malfunctioning and I can barely hear what’s going on around me. There will always be something wrong but there’s this air about the whole place. I feel powerful and important and tall, which is saying a lot because I’m a pretty short, little girl. I can’t help but smile. My mind goes into autopilot as hours of rehearsals have engraved the character’s being into my subconscious.

Like all of the other theatre kids, I am very protective of the life of the stage. Even though I have crossed the threshold of my life to a period in which people are supposedly supportive or at least respectful of my decisions, the contrarians, the doubters, the skeptics, all manage to get around to the same question: What is the point?

I guess, in all honesty, there may not be one. The four hour rehearsals for six days of the week, the bruises from failed attempts at choreography, the emotional exhaustion of empathizing with someone that doesn’t exist anywhere but on paper – all of it seems to point to nowhere but an empty vacuum of time.

Yet, at the same time, as I look back upon the dozens of productions that have welcomed me with open arms over the past 5 years of my life, I can see that I have built a solid foundation and family with the most creative minds in the world – with scientists, philosophers, engineers, writers – all of which recognize and realize the importance of that creativity that manifests itself right on stage.

I guess there’s never really a point when it comes to love. At the end of the day, there’s only one thing that matters about this place: the sound of a happy audience, getting onto their feet and applauding for all of the hard work that we did.