Healing Through Theatre: How I Gathered the Courage to Audition for a Play After a 20-Year Hiatus

A few years ago, I decided that I wanted to try to do more performing. I know this may seem strange coming from an introverted librarian, but I do have a bit of a theatrical side (and definitely a dramatic side – just ask my husband!)

I naturally gravitated towards the arts as a kid.

I had always loved dressing up as a child – I would wear costumes out in public on a regular basis. My favorites were a bat costume and Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.

I grew up singing a cappella in church, learning how to read music and sing the alto part at a young age. And I loved to sing, whether it was church hymns or Disney princess songs, I just loved singing!

And speaking of Disney, I really wanted to be an animator for Disney when I was in 2nd and 3rd grade. I would practice drawing scenes from The Lion King when I had free time in school.

I took piano lessons for a few years and played the clarinet in junior high band.

I never took dance lessons as a kid, but I loved dancing (I mean, who doesn’t?) When I was a young teen, the popular artists of the time were Britney Spears, N’SYNC, and Backstreet Boys (shoutout to all my fellow Millennials!) I had this VHS tape called Darrin’s Dance Grooves, and I spent hours learning the You Drive Me Crazy Britney Spears dance (and had to manually rewind the tape every time I wanted to restart the dance!)

In high school, I tried out for a few plays and was part of the ensemble in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Rebecca Nurse in The Crucible.

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. I tried out for another play (I can’t remember which one) but I do remember the feelings of surprise and shame when I realized I didn’t see my name on the cast list.

Fast forward again to my freshman year of college. I was really excited about the chance to get involved in theatre and choir. I tried out for the Homecoming musical, Beauty and the Beast. For some reason all they had available were ensemble roles by the time I tried out. I remember there were a bunch of us trying out as a group, and we all had numbers pinned to our shirts. The casting directors watched us a few times and then called out the numbers they wanted to have continue on to the next round. Unfortunately, my number did not get called.

Okay, so theatre hadn’t worked out, but I still had a chance for choir. There were two main choirs, sort of like A-team and B-team choir. During my audition, the choir directors were very encouraging, and they told me I was actually very good at sight reading music. I was so confident that I would get a spot in at least one of the choirs that I almost couldn’t comprehend it when I didn’t see my name on either of the lists – I remember just staring and staring, trying to find my name, and again the terrible feeling of shame overwhelming me.

I was devastated. I don’t think I ever let on to my friends or parents how crushed I was. At that time in my life, I very much avoided outwardly showing my feelings. I was pretty good at pushing those feelings down and pretending everything was okay.

After that it felt like a switch flipped in my brain – I decided I was obviously not cut out for pursuing anything in art, theatre, or music – and so I just stopped trying. I convinced myself it was time to move on towards becoming an adult and getting a “practical” career (which at the time I decided was being a teacher – ironically that did not last very long!)

I really didn’t imagine that theatre would ever be a part of my life again… but life continues to surprise me.

Fast forward many years later, and I have a son, Calvin, who decides he wants to try dance – and it turns out, he’s actually really good at it! He does ballet and gets to perform at Abilene’s iconic Paramount Theatre. It’s a gorgeous theatre located downtown and it just celebrated it’s 95th birthday!

He’s also an amazing artist.

And when he starts taking piano lessons, it’s clear he’s pretty gifted at that too.

I was ecstatic – I could live vicariously through my kid and watch him get to live out my dreams! (A mom’s gotta dream big, right?)

I convinced Calvin to try doing musical theatre last summer (2024) with APAC. You had to be at least 8 years old to participate, and he turned 8 the DAY BEFORE the camp started – so I’m pretty sure he was the youngest participant there! The musical they performed was Shrek Jr. Every kid who signed up for the summer musical camp is guaranteed a part, but they still have auditions to see who gets what role. Calvin had auditioned for a speaking role, but didn’t get it – he ended up in the ensemble (AND as little Shrek, which wasn’t a speaking part, but was still really cool!)

I remember the day Calvin learned what role he got, he was disappointed. Despite this being his first musical theatre experience ever, and him being the youngest kid there, he felt like he had failed. I tried to explain to him that this was all part of the theatre process, and it didn’t mean he wasn’t talented, but that as he gained experience he might get more roles.

I didn’t want him to give up on something when he had so much potential. I didn’t want him to be afraid of failure or taking risks.

And then it hit me – that’s exactly what I had been doing for years. As an Enneagram 1 (aka. Perfectionist) I had avoided or quit anything whenever it was apparent I wasn’t immediately perfect at it. I had given up on theatre and singing and a pursuing a career in anything I didn’t think I would be guaranteed to succeed at (like being an animator for Disney) – because of the fear of failure.

There’s a good reason to fear failure – it hurts. A lot. Especially if you’re the type of person that sometimes ties their self-worth to their achievements.

However, I knew that modeling risk-taking, especially a willingness to fail, would be extremely important for my kid. But it meant that I had to finally face some of my own fears and hurts that I had been avoiding for so long.

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cross with flowers at church entrance

40 Days of Lent and My Own Personal Season of Disappointment

It has been a rough couple of weeks for me. There have been numerous disappointments over the past month. Things that I took for granted would happen, and then they didn’t.

Things that were a pretty big hit to my confidence and self-esteem. Things that were a hit to my faith.

I’m not talking about your casual, run-of-the-mill disappointment. I’m talking about the devastating feeling of being punched in the gut when you learned the news. I’m talking about the kind of disappointment that requires a mental health day (or two) off of work. The kind of disappointment that makes you think, “what’s the point!?”

Why would God let this happen? Why did he keep ignoring my prayers? Did he just forget about me, or did he not care about me anymore?

It’s been interesting because this season of disappointment and doubt has corresponded amazingly well with the season of Lent, which began on March 2 this year: Ash Wednesday.

I went to my first Ash Wednesday service this year. In the faith tradition I grew up in, we just didn’t observe Lent. I had never even heard of it until I went to college, when suddenly people were talking about giving up caffeine or chocolate for the 40 days before Easter.

I think some people feel very uncomfortable stepping outside of their own faith traditions, but I have found it beneficial to keep an open mind, and see if there is a potential spiritual benefit in partaking in other faith traditions. Lent is not even that far of a stretch for me, it’s still a Christian tradition, just not the brand of Christianity I was used to.

At our Ash Wednesday service, we sang hymns together and had a time of private and public confession of sin. It was a time to focus on our mortality, and our thankfulness that Jesus died for our sins. It was a time to be grateful for the grace of God.

I thought about giving up something for Lent, but nothing seemed right. I started out the season of Lent with a lot of hope, but found myself unfortunately collecting disappointment after disappointment. Our church had created a podcast especially for Lent, where members of our church shared prayers and Scripture and recited the Lord’s Prayer together. Many people talked about how much they loved the podcast, and how uplifting and meaningful it was for them to listen to it each morning.

But I found myself less and less able to listen to it as the weeks went by. I felt like my faith was failing as I watched and waited (and waited some more) for my prayers to be answered. And then they weren’t.

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bouquet of flowers in vase

5 Years After Postpartum Depression

It’s 5 years out from the day I went to the emergency room for postpartum depression

July 26th will always be a significant date to me for that reason. In years past, it was always a day that filled me with guilt and shame. A day that reminded me of my ultimate failure as a mother. 

The lie that “I’m not a good mother” still tries to creep in every so often, especially today, but I’m getting better at recognizing it for what it is: a lie. 

5 years ago what I needed was to get help. I needed to go to the psych hospital and recover until I could be safe enough to be on my own. I gave up a week of my life with my baby so I could spend the rest of my life being the mother he needed me to be. It was the right decision. 

I’m thankful to my husband for having the courage to make the difficult decision to take me to the ER. It was scary and stressful, and I wasn’t in any state of mind to be at all helpful. I’m thankful for his background in mental health and for his experience with crisis work. I’m thankful he didn’t wait and hope I would get better on my own. 

I’m thankful for the person I’ve become because of this experience. I’m thankful for the opportunity to practice vulnerability with people, to share my story with others, and to make meaning out of suffering. 

I’m grateful for my postpartum depression being a wake up call to my obsession with perfection. I appreciate how this experience humbled me, how it helped me to realize that I’m not in control of everything, and how I learned that doing my best is oftentimes better than doing something perfectly. And everyone’s “best” looks different.

I’m grateful to be in a healthy place emotionally about this experience. I really feel like I hit a turning point last year, 4 years after the event. Honestly, I think it took about 3-4 years to really fully recover mentally from the depression. Healing is such a long process. 

I’ve said before that going through this made me a stronger person, but I am only stronger because I recognize my weaknesses and my shortcomings. And because I accept them. I accept myself.  

I’m grateful to have been writing on Threads of Anxiety for four years now, and look forward to more years in the future. 

Thanks for reading.