Fine Is Not the Finish Line

Saturday.

Six hours of dance rehearsal ahead of me. A massive set that still needed paint before Dori, my scenic artist, comes in on Monday to put the finishing touches on it. With less than 24 hours’ notice, I sent an email to cast families asking if anyone might be available to help. It was the kind of day that might look manageable on paper — if I had the luxury of more time.

I didn’t.

Instead, I found myself at Lowe’s gathering supplies, trying to be as prepared as possible for the daunting task ahead. A behemoth of a set. A roller in my hand. Tech week breathing down my neck. My body reminding me — loudly — that I’ve been pushing harder than it prefers.

We start tech on Tuesday.

Lighting isn’t finished. Costumes are trickling in. Sickness has ripped through the cast and is still hovering like it’s looking for one more victim. It is absolutely not taking me down. I do not have time for that!

My back is flaring. My patience is thinner than I’d like. My standards are still high.

And still, I showed up.

Because that’s what this season has required: showing up when I’m tired. Showing up when I’m frustrated. Showing up when I’m questioning whether I’m asking too much or not enough. Showing up when it would be easier to lower the bar and let “fine” be good enough.

“Fine” has never been the goal.

When I stepped into this program, I assumed certain things would already exist. Discipline. Preparation. A shared understanding that excellence isn’t optional — it’s expected. I learned quickly that you don’t inherit culture. You build it.

That lesson became painfully clear last fall.

Two weeks before our play opened, my gallbladder ruptured. I was out. The show ultimately had to be cancelled. When I gathered the cast to share the news, I expected disappointment. I expected heartbreak. What I saw instead was something that told me far more about the culture than I was ready to admit: relief.

In that moment, I realized we were not operating from the same definition of commitment.

Not because they’re bad kids.
Not because they’re incapable.
But because no one had yet required more of them.

You can’t direct excellence into existence.
You have to build it.

My standard has always been: Discipline. Excellence. Achievement.

Not as a slogan — but as a baseline.

Discipline in the work.
Excellence in the art.
Achievement in the performance.

Young people will rise to meet expectations — but only if the expectations are clear, consistent, and non-negotiable.

This season has required more repetition than I anticipated. More reminders. More circling back. Off-book dates that weren’t fully met. Notes that had to be given again. And again. Harmonies rehearsed longer than expected. Choreography reviewed more times than I would have preferred. Not because the students can’t do it — but because the habit of doing it consistently hasn’t yet been built.

And that’s where the tension lives.

When I hold the line externally, resistance shows up. And when resistance shows up, the internal battle begins. I start to wonder: Am I asking too much? Am I misreading the room? Am I failing them somehow? It’s one thing to say young people will rise to expectation. It’s another thing to keep believing it when the rise feels unbearably slow.

But I do believe it.

I believe students are capable of more than “good enough.” I believe discipline can be learned. I believe excellence can be cultivated. And I believe that when the standard is clear, consistent, and modeled — not just demanded — they will meet it.

Holding that line has not been light work.

There is a physical cost to leading this way. My back has flared more this season than I’d like to admit. There have been days I’ve overworked because I didn’t trust help would show up. There have been nights exhaustion has settled into my bones while I’ve replayed rehearsal notes in my head, wondering whether I’m pushing too hard — or not hard enough. And the nagging in the back of my mind that maybe I should just quit. Give up. Walk away. That’d be the easiest solution.

There’s an emotional cost too.

Caring first is heavy. Carrying the vision before others can see it is heavy. Being the one who insists that “fine” is never the finish line — when “fine” would make everyone more comfortable — is heavy.

And still… I’m here.

Still showing up when I’m exhausted.
Still holding the bar steady when it would be easier to lower it.
Still believing they are capable of more — even on the days they don’t look like they are.

Not because I enjoy the pressure.
Not because I’m immune to doubt.
But because I refuse to let potential settle for mediocrity — in them or in myself.

I’ve learned that’s not stubbornness.
I’m discovering that’s conviction.

And then today happened.

I sent out a simple request for help painting this massive set. No dramatic appeal. Just an honest ask. I braced myself to do most of it alone — unsure if anyone would care to help.

Instead, families showed up. Parents and kids with rollers in hand. No speeches. No hesitation. They just worked.

My costumer arrived and elevated everything the way she always does. My scenic builder has been steady, day after day. My scenic artist is giving up her holiday. My choreographer is building magic while pregnant. My music director keeps pounding notes, giving up his lunch time to rehearse, while our auditorium manager is fixing tracks, working on lighting, and figuring out sound needs with precision. And a small handful of students have quietly stepped up in ways that matter more to me than they may ever know.

And maybe — just maybe — the shift is starting.

Yesterday felt like a corner turning. Today felt like reinforcement. The energy is shifting as the different elements come together and the reality of tech rehearsals and the performances set in.

In the middle of the exhaustion, something became clear:

I am not carrying this alone.
And change, however slow, is possible.

I don’t believe resistance means something is broken. I believe it means something is being built.

In my life, seasons that felt like everything was falling apart have almost always been the seasons that prepared me for something greater. I’ve stopped interpreting hardship as punishment. I see it now as refinement.

Maybe this season isn’t just about a show. Maybe it’s about culture. Maybe it’s about teaching young people what it means to work with discipline, create with excellence, and perform with pride. Maybe it’s about me learning how to build standards instead of assuming them.

Excellence doesn’t appear overnight. It has to be modeled. Reinforced. Protected. And sometimes fought for.

But it spreads.

I’ve seen glimpses of that this week. A small handful stepping up. A room starting to lock in. The energy shifting as the different elements come together and the reality of tech rehearsals and the performances set in.

Change is slow — until it isn’t.

We’re not finished. Tech week will test us. There is still so much more work to do. I’m still tired. I’m still pushing through the pain. I’m still fighting off the sickness.

But I’m still here.

And I believe something is happening — in them and in me.

Culture is being built.
Standards are being set.
Refinement is doing its work.

And I don’t believe I’m here by accident.

I believe the Lord has shaped my life through every hard season, placed me in rooms that stretch me, and entrusted me with gifts that aren’t mine to waste. I believe I’ve been called to this work — not just to direct shows, but to shape character, raise standards, and help young people discover what they’re capable of when excellence is expected and modeled.

So I will keep showing up. I will keep building this program. I will keep praying for guidance and support as I grow through this process with them. And I will keep holding the bar steady.

And I pray they rise to meet it — because I have no intention of lowering it.