The Ripple Effect of a Life in Theatre

Or: There’s Still Time, Baby

Last night were the 79th Annual Tony Awards.

For you non-theatre people, that's basically our Super Bowl.

For three straight hours, I sat on my couch smiling like an idiot.

And honestly? It felt wonderful.

One of the things I've been trying to do this year is document life honestly. Not just the hard parts. Not just the struggles, disappointments, grief, exhaustion, or uncertainty. Those things are real, and they deserve space. But so do the moments of joy.

Because life is both.

The world is hard. People are carrying heavy things. I'm carrying heavy things. But even in the middle of all that, there are moments of levity, light, wonder, and love. Last night was one of those moments.

For three solid hours, I sat on the couch completely captivated. I smiled. I laughed. I teared up. I sang along. I soaked in every second.

And somewhere during those three hours, I found myself falling in love with theatre all over again.

Not that I ever stopped loving it.

But sometimes life gets noisy.

The responsibilities pile up. The problems demand attention. The practical realities of adulthood start crowding out the things that once made us feel most alive. Before we know it, we're spending more time managing our lives than actually experiencing them.

Then something happens that reconnects us to who we've always been.

Last night was one of those reminders.

Every year during the Tony Awards, somebody inevitably gives a speech to "the kid at home." The dreamer. The young artist wondering if they belong. The person sitting in a small town somewhere imagining themselves on a Broadway stage.

And every single year, those moments wreck me.

Because I was that kid. Hell, I still am that kid!  

I remember what it felt like to sit in a theatre and experience that sense of awe for the very first time at 13 years old. I remember being completely captivated by what was happening on stage. I remember realizing that stories could move people. That lights and music and actors and costumes and scenery could somehow combine to create something larger than themselves. I remember turning to my mom at intermission during the first play I ever saw and saying, "THAT! I'm going to do THAT when I grow up."

One show.

One moment.

One decision.

A ripple.

Theatre has shaped every corner of my life. It has introduced me to some of my closest friends. It gave me a career. It taught me confidence. It taught me resilience. It taught me empathy. It taught me how to fail. It taught me how to get back up. In so many ways, theatre has made me who I am.

Whenever I visit New York, all of these feelings come rushing back. I become completely giddy, wide-eyed, and unapologetically in awe. I wander around Times Square and the Theatre District like a tourist every single time, despite knowing exactly where I'm going. I stare at marquees. I study Playbills. I sit in theatres and absorb every detail around me—the lights, the music, the overture, the smell of the theatre, and the feeling of sitting in that seat waiting for the curtain to rise. I soak up every second of it. There is still something magical about it all, and I never seem to lose the wonder.

Perhaps the thing I love most is that I still dream.

Even now. Even with my physical limitations. Even with my "new normal." Even with all the realities that come with getting older. I still imagine myself up there.

Allyson and I joke all the time about winning the lottery, buying an apartment in New York, seeing every show we can get tickets for, and spending our days wandering from theatre to theatre. But if I'm being completely honest, in my version of that fantasy, I'm auditioning too. Because I don't think that dream ever really dies.

I look at actors like Stan Brown who we saw in Water for Elephants making his Broadway debut at 61. Or Denis Arndt who in 2016, at age 77 made his Broadway debut in Heisenberg which earned him a Tony nomination for Best Actor in a Play. Or June Squibb receiving her first Tony nomination at 96!

And all I can think is: There's still time, baby. There's still time! Maybe that's delusional. Maybe it's hopeful. Maybe it's both. But I like it.

The older I get, the more I realize that theatre isn't just about performances. 

It's about people.

It's about ripple effects.

We tend to think our stories belong entirely to us, but the truth is that every one of us is standing in the middle of countless ripples created by other people. My mom took me to that first show. The actors, designers, technicians, directors, and musicians involved in that production had no idea they were helping shape a little boy's future. They were simply doing their jobs. They were telling a story.

But because they did, my life changed.

I think about Debbie Dankel, my junior high drama teacher who cast me in my first play Is There a Doctor in the House?, and gave me my first opportunity to step onto a stage as “Lester Goodby.”

I think about Kevin Dressler, my high school drama teacher, who once told me I had no talent and would never make it as an actor.

Looking back now, it's funny how life works. Those words could have crushed me. They could have convinced me to quit. Instead, they lit a fire. Somewhere deep inside me, a stubborn little voice responded with two simple words: 

Watch me.

For better or worse, I've spent much of my life trying to prove those words wrong.

Years later, when I won my first ariZoni Award for acting, I actually thanked him in my acceptance speech because he unknowingly gave me a gift. He taught me that somebody else's opinion does not get to define my potential. He helped cultivate the work ethic, determination, and resilience that have served me well throughout my entire career.

Not everyone who changes your life does it by believing in you. Sometimes they change your life by doubting you.

I think about Sue Anne Lucius, who gave me my first directing opportunity and unknowingly changed the course of my professional life forever. Because of Sue Anne, I learned about educational theatre. Because of educational theatre, I met Joey Johnston. Because of Joey, I was given an opportunity to teach. Because of teaching, I found a calling that has brought meaning and purpose to my life for more than a decade.

Ripples.

Everywhere I look, I see ripples.

I think about the countless artists, mentors, collaborators, students, designers, technicians, stage managers, musicians, directors, and friends I’ve been fortunate enough to work alongside throughout my career who have shaped me along the way.

I think about Angel. Dori. Aurelie. The "Dream Team,” and the countless productions we've created together, the challenges we've overcome, the laughter we've shared, and the friendships we've built. Some of my favorite memories in life exist because of theatre and the people theatre brought into my world.

I think about the students whose lives have intersected with mine over the years. I think about former students who are now performing professionally. Students who discovered confidence. Students who found community. Students who found themselves. Students who simply found a place where they belonged.

And I realize that the ripple effect never stops.

The same way my mom changed my life by taking me to a play, maybe something I do changes someone else's. Maybe a role. Maybe a conversation. Maybe a rehearsal. Maybe a piece of encouragement at exactly the right moment. Maybe simply creating a space where a young person feels seen. I may never know. But I know those moments matter because they mattered for me.

None of us become who we are by ourselves.

We are all standing in the middle of someone else's ripple effect.

Someone inspired us. Someone believed in us. Someone opened a door. Someone gave us a chance. Someone saw something in us before we saw it in ourselves.

And now, whether we realize it or not, we're creating ripples of our own.

That's the part of teaching that I love most.

And if theatre has taught me anything, it's that art matters. Stories matter. People matter. Connection matters.

Near the end of the broadcast, they announced that nominations are now open for the 2027 Excellence in Theatre Education Award. Without thinking too hard about it, I immediately posted on Facebook that I was beginning my campaign. Why not? Somebody has to win. Why couldn't it be me?

Do I think I've single-handedly transformed the world? Of course not. Do I know extraordinary theatre educators who are changing lives every single day? Absolutely. But I also know how deeply I love this art form. I know how much I believe in its power to change lives. I know how much of myself I pour into my students, my productions, my classroom, and my community.

And if I somehow found myself sitting in the audience at the Tony Awards one day surrounded by the artists I've admired for decades, the little theatre nerd inside me might actually explode. I would almost certainly take far too many selfies. I would probably embarrass my family.

And I would love every second of it.

But that's a future-me problem. And honestly? It's one I'd be thrilled to have.

For now, I'm just simply grateful.

Grateful for the art. Grateful for the people. Grateful for the journey. Grateful for the opportunities. Grateful for the friendships. Grateful for the ripples.

Life is hard. There is no denying that.

But life is also beautiful.

And today, I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge that.

Because even in the middle of the challenges, the disappointments, the struggles, and the uncertainty, life is still filled with wonder. Life is still filled with possibility. Life is still so, so good.

And theatre?

The theatre will always be my home.