Where My Spirit Lives

For years, I've always made a distinction between making a living and making a life.

Making a living is the work that pays the bills. It's the job, the responsibilities, the practical side of adulthood that keeps the lights on and provides stability. It is necessary, honorable, and something I am grateful to have.

But theatre has always been something else.

The workshops, talks, mentorships, coaching sessions, and rehearsals I say yes to are what I call making a life.

The truth is, most of these opportunities are not financially rewarding. More often than not, the transportation, meals, preparation time, materials, and other expenses cost more than whatever honorarium I receive. If I looked at it purely from a financial standpoint, many of these engagements would make absolutely no sense.

Yet I keep saying yes.

Because they feed something that money never could.

After more than three decades in theatre, I have reached a point in life where my body constantly reminds me of its limitations. The health challenges of the last few years have changed many things. There was a time when I could simply step onto a stage and tell a story myself. These days, performing is no longer as easy as it once was, and sometimes not even possible.

But whenever I find myself in a rehearsal hall, a classroom, a workshop venue, or simply sitting with young artists discussing a script, something changes.

I feel alive.

For a few hours, I stop thinking about medications, procedures, aches, limitations, and all the things my body can no longer do. Instead, I find myself talking about objectives, relationships, character choices, storytelling, truth, and imagination. I watch young artists discover things about themselves. I watch confidence bloom. I watch dreams slowly take shape.

And somehow, in helping them build their journeys, I am reminded that mine still has meaning too.

Maybe that is why I continue to accept these opportunities whenever I can. Not because they are profitable. Not because they are convenient. But because they remind me that I still have something to give. Something to share. Something that might help another artist take one more step toward their dream.

Of course, reality eventually catches up. Resources are limited. The higher-paying performance gigs that once helped support these passion projects are no longer as plentiful for me. There are times when I simply have to stay home because I can no longer afford to keep saying yes to everything, no matter how much my heart wants to.

And that part hurts.

But I remain grateful.

Grateful that after 31 years in theatre, I still get invited into rooms where stories are being told. Grateful that people still believe there is value in what I can offer. Grateful that despite everything, the fire never really went out.

So while my body allows it, while opportunities still come, and while there are young artists willing to listen, I will continue making a life whenever I can.

Because at this stage of my journey, these workshops, talks, rehearsals, and mentorships are no longer just projects.

They are reminders that I am still here.

Still learning. Still sharing. Still serving.

And if I am fortunate enough to have a little more time, I hope there will be a few more stories to help tell, a few more artists to help guide, a few more rooms filled with laughter, discovery, and dreams.

A few more chances to make a life.

The Problem Was Never Her Outfit

There’s something deeply unsettling about how quickly society can turn a simple moment into a debate about morality, decency, or “invitation.”

All I saw was a young woman wearing clothes appropriate for a walk or jog - comfortable, practical, normal. Someone trying to catch up on her steps, get some movement in, maybe clear her mind after a long day. Nothing provocative. Nothing outrageous. Just a person existing in public.

And yet, someone commented that her “attire” was an invitation for men to disrespect her.

What made it heavier for me was that the comment came from her own grandfather.

An older man who probably believed he was speaking from experience, concern, or protection. But instead of protecting her, what he was really doing was passing down the same harmful mindset generations before him normalized - the idea that women must constantly adjust themselves because some men refuse to control themselves.

And I found myself calling that mindset out.

Not because I wanted to disrespect an elder. Not because I was trying to start an argument. But because some beliefs should no longer be excused simply because they came from an older generation.

We cannot keep teaching girls that their safety depends on how much they cover themselves while avoiding the deeper conversation about accountability and respect.

Think about that.

We teach girls how to dress carefully, walk carefully, speak carefully, go home carefully, post carefully, exist carefully.

But how often do we teach people - especially men - that respect should not be conditional?

That decency is not dependent on what someone is wearing?

That a woman walking down the street in shorts is not asking for attention, comments, harassment, or judgment?

Some people disguise these remarks as “concern” or “protection,” but concern stops being concern the moment it shifts accountability away from the offender and places it on the person simply existing.

And honestly, that’s the exhausting part.

Women are expected to carry the responsibility for managing the thoughts, reactions, and lack of discipline of complete strangers. If something happens, the first question too often becomes: “What was she wearing?” instead of: “Why did someone think disrespecting her was acceptable in the first place?”

That mindset is the real problem.

Because decent people do not suddenly lose respect for another human being because of shorts, sleeveless tops, or fitted clothing. A decent person sees someone exercising. Someone walking home. Someone trying to live their life.

If clothing alone is enough for someone to justify disrespect in their mind, then the issue was never the clothing.

It was the mindset.

And maybe that’s the conversation we should finally start having more openly.

Not about controlling women’s clothing. Not about teaching women to shrink themselves further. But about teaching accountability, discipline, empathy, and respect loudly enough that women no longer have to treat public spaces like survival courses.

At the end of the day, all I saw was a young woman going for a walk.

The fact that someone else - even someone older, even someone from her own family - saw an “invitation” instead says far more about the mindset they were raised in than about the young woman herself.