What do you love doing?
When you’re by yourself, sitting in bed, what do you get excited about? What is undeniably irreplaceable in your life? As I write this, I turn to look at my wall and see my answer staring right back at me. My bedroom walls with posters of Broadway musicals and posters of my past productions make it so clear. I love theater. I love watching musical performances, being in rehearsals, or listening to show tunes when I get ready in the morning.
And yet, for years, I tried pushing it away.
Growing up, theater was always one of my hobbies. Sure, it’s been my most time-consuming hobby. However, I typically tell people that’s all it is. It’s a way to stay moving, and the cardio during dance rehearsals is excellent. It’s just something I do to pass the time. It’s just one of those things.
In my adolescence, I cringed at the term “theater kid.” I shied away from the title like it was something to gawk at. When I’d return home late from rehearsals in high school, my father’s face would twist as I walked through the front door. He’d look at my backpack, full of the notebooks and supplies I needed for the day’s first half. Then he’d let his gaze rest on the additional bags in my hand required for the second half of my day, full of scripts, dance shoes, and more.
At that point, he repeated the question he had always asked: “What do you gain from this?”
Similarly to how one day I stopped contracting my dolls as actors in the films I made on old laptops, my father was waiting for me to trade in my days on stage for something “real.” I had other pursuits to tend to, such as discovering what career I’d settle on or my next financial endeavor. Why was I spending every free moment singing or dancing? I didn’t have many seconds to spare, so shouldn’t they be allocated towards something productive for my future?
Even as a child, I had a surprisingly adept understanding of realistic life aspirations. Aside from the brief phase when I was convinced I could go to the Olympics for keeping balloons in the air for extended periods — and when my fifth-grade teacher told me I could one day be President—those two fixations were the only exceptions.
My fleeting dreams of being a singer, dancer, or writer were all silenced due to the undeniable fact that my parents insisted I needed something secure. If the thought ever popped back into my mind that maybe I could see a future in one of those spheres, I’d dismiss it immediately.
I thoroughly pleased them momentarily when I boasted about my newfound interest in becoming a neurosurgeon. Sometimes, they still bring up that phase, prompting my eyes to roll and me to explain again that I didn’t like neurology. I just liked Patrick Dempsey in Grey’s Anatomy. I just didn’t know the difference between enjoying the two when I was in middle school.
Like I dismissed becoming an author for lack of financial security, I dismissed ever pursuing the performing arts. Unfortunately, this only encouraged my parents to badger me about why I continued to engage in something they deemed unproductive.
I’m almost done with college, and I still willingly give each evening and weekend to stand on stage. In early February, I finished producing and acting in Shrunken Head Production Company’s musical production of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. For months this academic year, I’d spend hours a day learning material and postponing other responsibilities to perfect live theater.
There were instances where I’d spend twelve hours in the theater and come home, crumbling from exhaustion. Years of familial pestering caught up with me as I finally turned the weighted question onto myself: What did I gain from this?
The thought lingered until the opening night of our production. After taking my first round of bows, I had a profound revelation. At that moment, I realized that I had gained everything.
I gained a love for the space, people, and music around me. I gained resilience by knowing I would always figure out the choreography I kept messing up. I gained dedication in always returning home after being on my feet for hours to simply review what I had learned that day in the quiet of my bedroom.
I gained the knowledge that art has the power to move people in a way that logic never could. Theater has always taught me the power I hold as a moving part of a machine, one that is much more significant than I’d ever be on my own. Emotions are amplified, connections are fostered, and it’s almost as if a ball of light passes through me, everyone on stage, and every audience member.
For me, the theater is the one place where I’ve always felt like myself.
It wasn’t about feeling like the job I may one day decide on or that I was making money. It was about being me. There is so much external pressure from various places to monetize every hobby, shifting my motivations to create from love to profit.
It had reached the point where I felt discouraged and confused when my creative efforts stood alone, lacking external approval and financial compensation.
But some things are not meant to be capitalized on. Sometimes, the purpose lies in simply making life more vibrant, worthwhile, and our own.
Childhood passions have been framed to me as stepping stones my entire life. I will grow out of writing songs as I grew out of disliking onions. The time I spend with crayons will be replaced by making the “proficient in Microsoft Excel” on my resume mean more than four words.
Despite it all, my most recent production with my university’s student-run musical theater organization moved me. I can’t grow out of theater in the same way I can’t grow out of the freckle on my lip and the one beneath my right eye. It’s part of me.
Some passions are not phases, and some pastimes will not pass with time. Not everything in life needs a five-year plan or the potential to live on my LinkedIn. Some things are worth holding onto simply because they make me who I am. And for me, that’s theater. I will not grow up and leave this love behind.