Dedication is a disease, and I am sick with it. I’ve known since I was a kid that I wanted to be a performer for the rest of my life. It was woven into me like threads of a baby blanket, truly stitched into every fiber of my being. My desire to perform has become as essential to me as air is to a person’s lungs. Needless to say, it is my lifeline and my purpose.
Like any demanding career path, performing asks a lot of you. It not only requires fortitude within yourself to face immense rejection on a very regular basis but also the commitment to show up every single day to class or a lesson and give it the best you have. My passion became my sole focus, and though wonderful for a period of time, it turned sour rather quickly.
I have long believed that keeping your eye on one singular prize would lead to a win. Yet, after years of rejection, I needed to step out of my own way and realize that a life within those boundaries is not only unenjoyable but also impossible. My obsession with my career was so toxic that I’d restricted myself from almost every other passion or pleasure in life because of it.
At a certain point in my sophomore year of college, when I should have been spending time with friends and going to social events, I found myself alone, believing that I had to go all in on both my career and my social life. My auditions and performances grew increasingly disconnected from the world around me. Instead of channeling my current experiences into my work, I was reaching for old memories to conjure a sense of relatability.
Now, this isn’t me sitting here saying that it’s a bad thing to dedicate yourself so wholly to something. You’ll never advance in your career or grow creatively if you aren’t willing to work for it. Instead, you must learn to strike a balance.
When I went abroad to London in the fall of my junior year, I was quite literally forced to break my unhealthy habits and learn how to live in a totally different way. I had new experiences, I met people (now characters who I bring into my work), and I let myself truly experience the life around me. When I returned and began acting again, I felt as if I’d been granted a magic potion of experience and understanding.
Your dedication is admirable, and your drive and fire are inextinguishable, yet they are not the only parts of you. Performing is not my entire life anymore, and though that might sound sad to some, it’s been necessary for my own well-being. I’m finally able to view performing as special and fun again because it’s not the only thing I’m doing or seeking joy from.
With anything, it’s crucial to strike a healthy balance between your own joy and work ethic. Stop thinking of joy as a reward for your hard work and just simply live.