It’s my senior year of high school. I am dressed in a green 1930s-inspired midi dress. My lips are plastered with a striking shade of sapphire lipstick. My short platinum blonde hair—typically worn frizzy and unstyled—is curled to perfection. I stand backstage and fidget with the hem of my dress as I wait, impatiently, for my cue.

When the moment strikes, I launch myself forward onto the stage. I run to meet my co-star Collin at our planned destination: downstage center. Our eyes meet. I smile. He gestures for me to bow first. I grab fistfuls of my long dress and curtsy, like the sweet Nevada girl I am (well, technically, the girl I was during our hour-long production of Crazy for You). Cheers erupt. Life is good. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, that curtsy marked the beginning of a long mourning process.

I knew that with that curtsy, I was parting ways with my performing arts studio, but I didn’t account for everything else I would lose on that fateful night. Vocal warm-ups, tap lessons, improvisation games, itchy costumes, hairspray—mundane things that I took for granted—vanished from my life. 

The summer that followed my senior-year musical was a sweaty whirlwind. I lived in my Kentucky childhood home and worked two jobs. When I wasn’t working, I spent my free time daydreaming about Boston. At that point, I had committed to Emerson and was ready to leave my small, hot hometown.

Then, suddenly, I was a freshman at Emerson College. I was not great at making friends, but I started to meet fellow freshmen in my classes. As I met more students, I noticed a trend: many Emerson students, like myself, had also been involved in high school theatre. Emerson is a liberal arts school with a variety of theatre-related majors. Therefore, I knew that there would be theatre students on campus, but I hadn’t anticipated such a large population of “ex-theatre kids” like myself.

As I reflect on my freshman year, I can’t help but wonder if these students also mourned their discarded theatre careers. As I struggled to feel settled at Emerson, a “theatre grief ” took hold of me. I was in an unfamiliar city, majoring in Journalism—a subject that I knew very little about. On top of that, I hadn’t considered how the loss of theatre would affect my daily life. When I was performing, I felt like myself—comfortable and confident. Without theatre, I was anxious and lost. When I returned to Kentucky for winter break, my mom was surprised, and concerned, at my changed demeanor. I spent all of December, curled up in bed and feeling like a disappointment. For many years, I struggled to appreciate myself.

Despite the praise I received for musical theatre and academic accolades in high school, it was never enough to satisfy the terrorizing self-conscious voice in my head. I thought that by leaving Kentucky and theatre behind, I would shed that debilitating inner-voice too. Unfortunately, I felt the same, if not worse, at Emerson. To cope with these feelings, I alternated between sleeping and rewatching recordings of old theatre productions. 

First, I watched my favorite high school shows, including Crazy for You and Curtains. As I pressed play on each video, I experienced a feeling of instant relief. For once, I was proud of myself. The toxic inner voice was silenced. Watching these musicals, I felt more comfortable than I had my entire first semester. Slowly, I worked my way through this depression. I realized the positive impact theatre had on my mental health, while not always focusing on the loss, and I decided to reclaim my theatre kid past. I submitted an audition package for Emerson’s theatre auditions.

Although I wasn’t cast in a show, I received callbacks and instantly felt more self-assured. Today, I fully embrace musical theatre as an emotional outlet. My roommates and I recently performed Heathers: The Musical in our common room. It was unrehearsed, chaotic, and, despite the morbid plot of the dark comedy, incredibly fun. We also saw Into the Woods at Emerson’s Colonial Theatre together. All in all, musical theatre emphasizes the importance of community. Whether it be at a performing arts studio in Kentucky or in a Piano Row suite, interpersonal connection is an essential part of mental well-being. I have grown to understand that my work does not define me. I am not a writer or performer. I am Claire, a person who is worthy of self-love no matter what I accomplish.