Act I: The Role I Didn’t Want
I didn’t want the role I got.
There’s no cute or noble way to say that. When the cast list for The Tempest came out, my name was there—but next to a character I hadn’t even considered. I smiled politely, nodded, and squeezed out a “thank you” when people congratulated me, but inside, I was sinking. Not in a Shakespearean, storm-at-sea kind of way; more in a quiet, disappointed, I’ve-failed-again kind of way.
I blamed myself for not nailing the audition and sank into a low-grade funk. And then came the guilt. I knew this was a role other people had wanted. Talented, eager actors who might’ve brought it to life in ways I couldn’t see yet. So why was I upset? That question ate at me. How could I be sad about getting something others were hoping for?
No one accused me of being ungrateful, but I did, over and over in my head. I imagined what someone else would’ve done with this part. How they might’ve cherished it. How they might’ve made it sing. And yet here I was, quietly disappointed. Already feeling lost on Prospero’s island.
Act II: The Temptation to Vanish
I wanted to decline the role. I spent hours quietly wrestling with the idea of pulling a literal Ariel and vanishing into thin air, slipping away from the cast without a trace. I figured I could blame my schedule, claim exhaustion, and make a quiet exit stage left.
And I almost did.
But I didn’t.
Not because I had a change of heart or fell in love with the role overnight. I stayed because I didn’t want to be seen as someone who quit. I didn’t want to answer the “why” or seem selfish for walking away just because I didn’t get what I wanted.
So I stayed out of something more complicated than passion. I stayed out of pride, guilt, and maybe a little fear. Some part of me believed that even if I didn’t feel chosen, I could still choose to show up. That finishing what I started mattered—even if the skies never fully cleared.
Act III: Feeling Shipwrecked
What followed were weeks of trying to connect and make meaning out of something I hadn’t chosen. And I learned something kind of crushing: I act best when I care deeply. And with this role, I just…didn’t.
When I love a character, I pour everything into them. I’ll sit with their sorrows, chase their wants, and imagine their world until it becomes my own. But with this role, I was the stranded ship master stuck on unfamiliar ground, with no compass pointing north. Maybe that makes me a bad actor, but it’s the truth: I didn’t care, so I couldn’t act. Rehearsals came and went. Others made progress. Meanwhile, I floated in place, hoping Prospero’s divine powers would force me to move forward.
But somewhere between read-throughs and tech week, something shifted. Not a storm, not a spell—just a quiet persistence. I kept showing up. I kept trying. And maybe that didn’t unlock magic, but it kept me afloat long enough to reach something that resembled contentment.
ACT IV: Finding the magic anyway
By opening night, I still didn’t feel transformed. But I did feel proud. Proud that I’d found small truths in the text. That I built chemistry where there hadn’t been any. That I stood onstage even when the winds weren’t in my favor.
No, I didn’t conjure storms or break spells. But I did something harder: I kept going. I gave the role what I could—steadily, imperfectly—and maybe that was the magic all along.
It wasn’t a role that left people rushing to congratulate me after the show. And that’s okay. Truthfully, that kind of spotlight always made me squirm anyway.
But it was a role that taught me how to show up even when I didn’t feel ready. A role that reminded me commitment doesn’t always look like fireworks. Sometimes, it’s just choosing to stay on stage.
Act V: Calmer Seas
We talk a lot in theatre about dream roles—the ones that click immediately, that feel meant to be. But The Tempest reminded me that not all roles come with that built-in love. Some you grow into. Some you never fully fall for, but still carry with you.
Even now, part of me wonders what it would’ve been like to play someone else. I probably would’ve been happier, I’ll admit.
But at least I didn’t walk away. Maybe that’s the story I needed. Not one of perfect alignment or theatrical destiny, but of resilience—of proving to myself I could stay afloat. So my words aren’t meant to say you’ll suddenly fall in love with what you didn’t want to do. But you can grow to appreciate that you didn’t quit. You can be proud that you stuck it out, even when it wasn’t easy.
The Tempest ends with forgiveness, with characters finding peace after chaos. My ending was less dramatic—no spirits freed, no families reunited—but still, a kind of calm. A steadiness in knowing I honored my commitment. That I gave what I could, when I could.
I weathered my own storm. And that matters, too.