Maybe This Is Thriving

My Theatre 1 students are reading Our Town right now.

I love this play, but I also understand why a room full of teenagers might initially wonder what exactly they're supposed to find interesting about it. Because, honestly, not much happens.

People wake up. They make breakfast. They go to school and work. They come home. They do homework. They go to choir practice. They gossip about their neighbors. They fall in love. They get married. They have children. They grow older. They die.

That's pretty much it.

There's no villain. No enormous conflict to overcome. No spectacular plot twist waiting at the end of Act Two. Just ordinary people living ordinary lives in a little town at the beginning of the twentieth century.

Humdrum. Routine. Boring, even.

Basically, 99% of all human existence.

We've been talking in class about why Thornton Wilder would choose to write a play about that. Why put something onstage that looks so much like the stuff we spend our actual lives doing? Why should an audience care about breakfast or homework or chores or choir practice?

Of course, that's the whole point.

By the end of the play, Emily has died and is given the opportunity to return to one ordinary day of her life. She chooses her twelfth birthday, expecting to experience it again, only to discover how unbearable it is to watch the people she loves rush through moments they don't realize they'll someday desperately want back.

Suddenly breakfast isn't just breakfast. Her mother isn't just her mother standing in the kitchen. Home isn't just home. The ordinary wasn't ordinary at all. She just couldn't see it while she was living it.

And lately, I can't stop thinking about that.

Maybe because my own life has felt anything but ordinary lately.

The show Allyson and I directed opens this weekend, and somewhere during the process, I found myself confronting something I've been trying not to admit for a while.

There were moments throughout this process that reminded me exactly why I fell in love with theatre in the first place. Discoveries in rehearsal that lit me up something fierce. Moments when an actor found something we had been searching for and suddenly the whole scene came alive. Moments of connection and creativity that restored something in me I wasn't sure was still there.

There were beautiful moments.

Glorious ones, actually.

And there were also moments when I genuinely didn't want to show up.

Both things are true.

Because this isn't about one production. It's about something that has been building through several productions, several seasons, maybe several years. A mounting exhaustion around something I have loved for most of my life.

Not casually. Not as a hobby I picked up somewhere along the way. Theatre has been woven into almost every version of me I've ever known. I studied it. I teach it. I direct it. I perform it. I've built programs around it and spent years trying to help young people understand why this art form matters. I care deeply about the work.

Maybe sometimes too deeply.

Because when you care that much, watching other people seemingly not care can be maddening. When I'm surrounded by people who don't follow through, don't give the same effort, or seem perfectly comfortable settling for "good enough," something in me starts screaming.

I know everyone doesn't have to care about something exactly the way I do. I know my standards are mine. I know other people have lives and priorities and limitations I may know nothing about.

I know all of that.

And sometimes it still infuriates me.

Lately, the thing I love has increasingly started feeling like something I resent. That's scary to admit. And I think I've finally reached a point where I need some distance from it.

Not forever. Maybe. I don't know.

I'm trying not to write the obituary for a lifelong relationship while I'm still standing inside a particularly complicated chapter of it.

But I do know this: I love this too much to keep doing it in a way that's making me hate it.

Oof.

Maybe stepping away for a while isn't giving up. Maybe I don't have to prove my love for something by allowing it to drain every last ounce of joy from me. Maybe loving something and needing space from it can exist at the same time.

There's that damn And again.

Because theatre isn't the only thing that has felt heavy lately.

There have been some big feelings and some big situations, and things that I would normally classify as manageable have felt harder than normal. And when that happens, the voices in my head aren't particularly compassionate.

Why is everything so hard? Why can't you handle this better? Why aren't you doing more? You should be better at this. Maybe you're not as good as you think you are. And the always-helpful: You suck at this. My internal motivational speaker could use some professional development.

But here's what I'm beginning to notice.

I keep showing up.

Not spectacularly. Not triumphantly. Certainly not gracefully every time.

But I keep showing up.

I get out of bed. I go to school. I teach my classes. I answer the emails. I go to rehearsal. I solve the next problem. I come home. I try to be present with the people I love. I pray. I hope. I worry. I laugh. I get frustrated. I go to sleep far later than I should and wake up far earlier than I'd like.

Then I do it again.

On Monday

And Tuesday.

And Wednesday.

And…

Nothing particularly cinematic about it.

And somewhere in the middle of teaching Our Town, I've started wondering if maybe I've misunderstood resilience.

I've always imagined resilience as something dramatic. Someone gets knocked down and rises again. Someone survives something impossible and comes out stronger on the other side. There's adversity, struggle, triumph, swelling music, credits.

But maybe most resilience doesn't look like that.

Maybe resilience is… dare I say it… ordinary.

Maybe it looks like getting out of bed when you're tired. Showing up when you're discouraged. Praying when you're not sure anything is changing. Loving people when relationships are complicated. Doing the work when you've lost some of the joy that once made the work easy. Going home, going to sleep, waking up, and trying again tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the one after that.

Maybe resilience isn't always getting back up after you've been knocked down.

Sometimes it's realizing you've been standing this whole damn time.

That doesn't mean continually running myself into the ground is some noble achievement. I'm learning that, too. Burning the candle at both ends, not sleeping enough, forgetting to eat well (or consistently), and pushing through everything because "I can handle it" isn't necessarily resilience.

Sometimes that's just survival.

And resilience shouldn't become an obligation to endure indefinitely.

Just because I can carry something doesn't mean I always should.

Maybe sometimes resilience means continuing. Maybe sometimes it means resting. Maybe sometimes it means fighting for something you love. And maybe sometimes it means loving yourself enough to put it down.

I'm still learning the difference.

Lately, I've developed a little ritual. When my brain gets particularly loud, I'll pull up what I affectionately call my "Jesus Playlist," hit shuffle, and ask, "What do You have for me, Lord?" And somehow, the songs that find me keep carrying exactly the reminders I seem to need.

Be grateful.

Trust Me.

Someday you'll understand.

I see you.

I haven't failed you yet.

One song reminds me that "thank you" isn't enough. Another tells me there is always something to be grateful for. Another reminds me that someday I'll understand things I can't possibly make sense of right now. Then comes the reminder that His eye is on the sparrow, followed by another that says He hasn't failed me yet.

I call those moments God winks.

Maybe someone else would call them coincidence. That's okay. I know what they feel like to me. They feel like being reminded, in the middle of an otherwise completely ordinary moment, that God is still there. He hasn't necessarily changed the situation. But He keeps meeting me in it.

And maybe that's part of resilience, too.

Maybe I haven't kept going entirely because I've somehow developed this extraordinary ability to carry everything life puts on my shoulders. Maybe sometimes I keep going because I'm being carried.

Some days I've got it. Some days God has me. Probably most days, it's a little bit of both.

At the beginning of this year, I chose THRIVING as my word.

I didn't want another year of merely surviving. I wanted more. More joy. More purpose. More connection. More abundance. More peace. I wanted to feel like I was finally moving forward instead of constantly trying to keep my head above water.

And if you'd asked me in January what thriving would look like, I'm pretty sure I would have described something considerably more impressive than this.

I probably would've talked about opportunities and accomplishments. Maybe a new job. Financial security. Creative fulfillment. Stronger relationships. Answers to prayers I've been praying for a long time. Some undeniable evidence that life had changed.

Something big. Something I could point to and say, "See? There it is. I'm thriving."

But what if I've been looking for the wrong evidence?

What if thriving isn't a destination somewhere on the other side of everything that's hard? What if some seasons of thriving still contain a hell of a lot of surviving? What if I'm not supposed to wait until everything changes before I recognize that something already is?

Me.

I am!

Quietly.

Ordinarily.

Without even realizing it.

There's a line from Holiday Inn that I've loved for years: "Every now and then, it's a good idea to pause in our pursuit of happiness to just be happy."

I've always loved that line. I'm not sure I've always lived it. Because I am very good at pursuing.

The next show. The next job. The next opportunity. The next accomplishment. The next answer. The next version of my life where everything finally clicks into place and I can exhale and say, There. Now I'm happy.

Meanwhile, life keeps happening.

I've spent so much of my life waiting for the next big thing that I'm beginning to wonder if I've misunderstood which parts were the big things.

Maybe the life I'm waiting for isn't somewhere out ahead of me.

Maybe it's Tuesday.

Maybe it's standing in a classroom talking about an old play with a bunch of teenagers.

Maybe it's driving home after rehearsal with Allyson.

Maybe it's laughing at something ridiculous with my kids.

Maybe it's a text from a friend.

Maybe it's sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing productive.

Maybe it's a prayer whispered when I'm too tired to come up with anything eloquent.

Maybe it's the song that comes on when I hit shuffle.

Maybe it's breakfast.

Homework.

Choir practice.

Work.

Home.

People living and loving and struggling and trying and getting up tomorrow to do it all again.

Maybe the ordinary parts aren't the things happening between the important moments.

Maybe they're the actual thing.

And maybe, while I've been waiting for God to do something extraordinary, He's been showing up in the ordinary all along, whispering through my headphones: Look again.

Look at what you have.

Look at who's still here.

Look at what you've survived.

Look at who's carrying you.

Look at Tuesday.

That's what Emily finally understands in Our Town. She doesn't ask to return to the greatest day of her life. She doesn't choose her wedding or some spectacular achievement.

She chooses an ordinary day.

And only after losing it does she understand how extraordinary it was.

I don't want to have to lose mine before I notice it.

That doesn't mean I'm suddenly satisfied with everything. There are things I desperately want to change. There are prayers I desperately want answered. There are relationships I want to strengthen, circumstances I want to leave behind, opportunities I hope will come, and parts of myself I'm still trying to understand.

I still want more, and I think that's okay. But maybe I can want my life to change AND refuse to miss the life I have while I'm waiting.

Maybe I can be exhausted AND resilient. Maybe I can love theatre AND need to walk away from it for a while. Maybe I can struggle AND still be growing. Maybe I can be surviving AND, somehow, still be thriving.

Tonight, the curtain will go up.

It always does.

The audience will come in. The lights will dim. The overture will begin. People will walk onto a stage and tell a story we've spent weeks trying to build.

And eventually the curtain will come down.

We'll clean up.

We'll go home.

We'll wake up the next morning.

Life will continue.

Ordinary life.

And we'll do it again. Another performance. Another curtain call. Eventually another show. Another rehearsal process. Another opening night that will feel enormous while we're standing inside it and ordinary once it has become something we remember.

Maybe that's where the real story has been happening all along.

Not only in the opening nights or the big announcements or the accomplishments or the moments when everything finally works out, but in all the days surrounding them. The rehearsals no one sees. The drives home. The conversations in hallways. The frustrations. The laughter. The tiny discoveries. The moments I almost missed because I was so focused on getting to whatever came next.

All those unremarkable days when I thought nothing particularly important was happening. I was showing up. I was loving people. I was praying. I was hoping. I was hurting. I was learning. I was becoming. I was living. And somewhere inside all of that ordinary living, resilience was quietly growing without me even noticing.

Nine months ago, I chose THRIVING as my word for the year.

I thought by now I'd have more evidence.

Maybe I do.

Maybe I've just been looking for the wrong kind.

I was looking for changed circumstances when perhaps I should have been noticing a changing perspective. I was looking for breakthroughs while God kept meeting me in songs on shuffle. I was looking for extraordinary moments while teaching my students a play begging me to pay attention to the ordinary ones.

Apparently, it took me nine months to begin understanding the word I chose in January.

I thought thriving would be something I'd recognize because my life would look different.

Maybe I'm beginning to recognize it because I’m finally learning to look again.

I'm still tired. I still want things to change. I still don't know what's coming next. Tomorrow morning, I'll wake up and there will still be work to do, relationships to navigate, prayers I'm waiting to have answered, and parts of my life I wish looked different.

But maybe that's the point.

The curtain doesn't have to come down on one life before another one begins.

This is the life.

The ordinary one.

The unfinished one.

The one I'm living right now.

And I don't want to miss it.

Maybe the life I've been waiting for has been happening all along.

Maybe this is thriving.