I love to tell a story. I’m a chatterbox by nature. When I left home for the first time, the one thing my parents missed most was the sound of me singing in the shower—followed, of course, by the usual complaints to shut up because people were still sleeping.
That’s something I know well: complaining, bargaining, questioning. Somehow, every conversation would come back to my passion for the arts. And then came the inevitable questions:
Why take the risk?
Why choose financial instability?
What’s the point of performing?
My answer? I’d rather live than be bored to death. I’d rather stand at the edge of a cliff, heart pounding, than live safely in regret. I don’t want to grow up wondering what could’ve been.
I excelled academically. I thought I’d be a mathematician or an English teacher—because I was good at those things. But repeating the same equation, the same essay format, the same standardized rhythm? It drained me.
Then I saw a flyer for my middle school’s musical. I auditioned. I got in. And I was hooked—not because I was talented, but because it was the first time I had to work hard for something I loved. I wasn’t the star. I followed directions in the ensemble. But I kept going: theatre classes, auditions, playwriting, directing, daily practice—chasing the people I admired.
Everyone pours themselves into something—money, success, intelligence. Mine is happiness. Not just for me, but for the audience who needs a laugh. For the young performers who share this fire. For the ones who are still afraid to leap.
So I leave you with this:
Theatre breaks the monotony of life, transforming habituation into healing through vulnerability and connection. It’s not comfort—it’s confrontation. Passion lies in making others feel, in daring to speak, in embracing fear. Theatre isn’t a choice; it’s a calling to awaken, to heal, and to never settle for silence.