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.