The Hardest Show I’ve Ever Done

Theatre is an amazing medium. It allows an audience to experience something greater than themselves. A film may move you and stir all the feels, but when you’re in the same space — breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, watching something unfold live in the very second it’s happening — it hits differently. There’s something about knowing it will never happen exactly like that again.

Yesterday, I closed two shows. Two completely different casts. Two different rooms. Two different creative journeys that have consumed my life in very different ways. And I could only be in one place for the final bow.

One of those shows was Footloose at Mesa High — my day job, my students, the program I’m pouring everything into. The other was Blithe Spirit — a different cast, a different theatre family, another story I’ve poured myself into. I wanted to be in both spaces. I wanted to hug both casts, stand in both circles, soak in both last moments. But theatre doesn’t always allow for that kind of symmetry.

And if I’m being honest, Footloose is by far the hardest show I’ve ever done — in the hundreds of productions I’ve been part of as an actor or director. The hardest in the “everything feels impossible and I’m not sure how this is all going to come together” kind of way. It stretched me as a leader. It stretched our program. It stretched my endurance.

It was the magnitude of the responsibility. The moving pieces. The technical demands. The pressure of wanting it to be excellent — not just good enough. Managing frustration. Navigating setbacks. Adjusting to last-minute curve balls. But it was also internal. When you’re building something — really building it — you feel every crack. Every slow rehearsal. Every quiet audience. Every question in your own head that whispers, “Is this working?” Leadership doesn’t come with a volume knob. You feel it all at full capacity.

I’ve directed complicated shows before. I’ve navigated tight timelines and ambitious visions and even tighter budgets. But this was different. This one carried the weight of the program I’m building, the standard I’m setting, the culture I’m trying to establish. That changes the stakes.

And then Monday happened.

The night before our final dress rehearsal. Two days before opening. And it was the worst train-wreck rehearsal I have ever experienced. Not “rough around the edges.” Not “we’ll clean it tomorrow.” It was the kind of rehearsal that makes your stomach drop. The kind where the leadership team looks at each other and silently asks, “Do we even have a show?”

We talked through every scenario. Do we let them fail? Do we open with something that doesn’t meet our standard? Do we push opening night back? It wasn’t dramatic — it was terrifying. Because every show hits a point where it feels like it’s falling apart. That’s normal. What wasn’t normal was how late we were in the process… and how unready it felt with only one rehearsal left to fix it.

And then Tuesday happened.

I don’t know how to explain it other than this: a theatre miracle. Proof yet again that God likes me best, I guess. Overnight, something shifted. Focus sharpened. Energy aligned. Confidence landed. It was a completely different show. A completely different cast. They were on fire. And from that moment on, they only got better. Opening night — better. Thursday — better. Friday — off-the-charts. Saturday matinee, when energy usually dips — better. Closing night — better still. So good that we all wished we had another weekend just to keep riding the wave.

Theatre is so weird.

You pour your heart and soul into a project, surrounded by people working their guts out toward the same goal. You spend an insane amount of time with this group of humans and before you know it, you practically become family. You learn and grow and play and discover and sweat and cry and keep plugging away, trying to get the show as perfect as possible.

And then, after all of that, you invite friends, family, critics, judges, and complete strangers to come see what you’ve built.

It’s kind of like having a child — you get to show off your baby. You love it. You’re proud of it. You want people to love it and accept it as much as you do. Some will. Some won’t. You want everyone to see it, but not everyone will. And you try not to take it personally when they don’t come. You tell yourself they’re busy. Something came up. It’s not about you.

The emotional roller coaster continues. One night the audience fuels you with laughter and applause and you feel unstoppable. Another night they’re quiet and you wonder if the show is flat… or if you are. One night there are fifty people out there. The next you’re sold out. The night after that, somewhere in between. The ebb and flow never really settles. And through all of it, you try to give every single audience the best show you have.

It’s crazy. Emotional. Exhausting. Rewarding. Wonderful. Insane.

And then one day, it’s over.

The final performance. The last bow. And immediately, it’s time to tear it all apart. The set comes down. Costumes get cleaned and put away. Props return to their scattered homes. The stage goes bare again. You walk away feeling loss and gratitude and pride all tangled together.

Then you collapse. You catch up on the things that slipped through the cracks — homework, housework, yard work, kids, laundry, the friendships you haven’t texted back. And in the quiet moments, scenes and songs drift back into your mind. The most random memories surface and you smile. For half a second you think, “I’ll see them this weekend.” And then you remember.

The show is over.

And eventually, you move on to the next one. And you do it all over again.

Standing in front of my students last night, I told them how proud I was. Not just of the product — though it was extraordinary by the end — but of the process. Of the resilience. Of the way they refused to let Monday define them. Of the way they kept choosing excellence when it would have been easier to coast.

I told them I believe the best is yet to come. Not just for this program. Not just for the next show. For them.

The discipline they built here. The courage they found here. The confidence they discovered. The way they learned to rely on each other. The way they learned to rise to a standard. Those things go with them. That becomes part of who they are.

I thanked them for trusting me to lead them. For giving this show everything they had. For reminding me why I love this art form so much.

And I meant every word.

Because what made this show the hardest wasn’t just the logistics or the curve balls or the near-miss panic before opening. It was the weight of what we’re building. A culture. A standard. A belief that we can rise to meet something bigger than we thought we could handle.

This season deepened my faith. Faith in God, yes — because I still can’t explain Tuesday any other way. But also faith in myself. In my instincts. In my leadership. And in these kids — who proved, night after night, that growth can happen faster than fear.

I am proud. I am grateful. I am tired in that satisfying, earned-it kind of way. And I am more determined than ever.

Theatre is so weird.

You build something beautiful knowing it won’t last. You tear it down. You walk away. And somehow, you’re already dreaming about what’s next.

And I suppose that’s why I keep doing it.