Raised by the Curtain

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Music has always been a part of my life. I come from a family full of talent. Everyone sings, everyone plays something, and harmonies were just a normal part of growing up. I got my first taste of performing by singing in church with my grandfather. I don’t remember being nervous, I just remember loving it. Eventually, that love found its way to the stage.

Crooked lashes? Check. Wig cap fully visible? Of course. The wig? Giving tumbleweed. But she gave it heart, and that’s what counts.

I was in sixth grade when I auditioned for Legally Blonde: The Musical. And to be honest, I only went for Elle Woods because my older sister, who was in high school, super talented, and a little too confident in her judgment, told me there was no way I’d get it. So obviously, I had to prove her wrong.

When the cast list dropped, I was at home. I opened it, saw Elle Woods: Megan Wright, and took off running around the house, turned on the soundtrack, and appropriately sang “Is that my name up on that list?” from So Much Better. I twirled around the living room for hours. Literal hours.

That moment is one I’ll never forget. It wasn’t just about getting the lead. It was the first time I realized what it felt like to step into something bigger than myself. Elle was strong and underestimated, bubbly and sharp. She knew who she was and didn’t let anyone tell her otherwise. Playing her made me feel seen and bold and like maybe I had something special to say too.

By the time I got to high school, theatre had become everything to me. I spent more time in rehearsals than I did at home. My closest friendships were built backstage, and the stage itself became the place where I felt most like myself. Theatre wasn’t just an activity. It was a community and a safe place to grow. And over those years, I got to take on some roles that truly shaped me.

Sister Mary Margaret in Sister Act

This show was pure fun. The music, the glitter, the cast. It filled me with joy. Sister Mary Margaret was soft-spoken, quirky, and full of unexpected spark. Playing her gave me space to grow into myself quietly. She reminded me that leadership doesn’t always have to be loud and that being different doesn’t mean being less. That role taught me how to love the parts of myself that don’t always take center stage.

Wendy in Peter Pan

Wendy was gentle and curious and wise beyond her years. Playing her was magical, truly. The flying rig, the fairy dust, the Lost Boys. But here’s what no one saw coming. During one of our shows, I got my finger stuck in the flight rig. Like, stuck stuck. Mid-air. In front of a live audience. I nearly sliced it off.

The crew had to get me down during the scene, and backstage was a blur of panic and problem-solving. Thankfully, a doctor in the audience came back and wrapped my hand so I could finish the show. I went back on with what looked like a glowing E.T. finger, powered through the final scenes, and went straight to the ER after curtain call for stitches.

And yes... this was the very next scene after the mid-show finger fiasco. Curtain goes back up… and there I am. Flat on the floor. Dead Wendy bird. Art truly does imitate life.

That night taught me that theatre is never perfect. Things go wrong. Things break. Sometimes you almost lose a finger. But you keep going. The show doesn’t stop just because things aren’t ideal. And somehow, that makes the whole experience even more meaningful.

Dot in Sunday in the Park with George

Dot was unlike any role I had ever played. She wasn’t the classic ingénue. She was layered and real and complicated. She wanted love and independence at the same time. She was strong, frustrated, romantic, and bold. Sondheim doesn’t give you the option to fake anything, and Dot didn’t either.

This role made me fall in love with a different kind of theatre. The kind that doesn’t rely on a big dance number or a flashy ending to make its point. It taught me to sit in silence, to lean into the gray areas, and to allow the audience to feel something deeper. Dot pushed me to discover parts of myself I didn’t know were there. She made me a better actor, but more than that, she made me a better communicator and a more thoughtful human being.

Velma Kelly in Chicago

Velma was my senior year role. My sendoff. And honestly, my revelation. She was powerful. She didn’t shrink. She didn’t ask for permission to be exactly who she was. Velma walked into every room like she belonged there, and playing her taught me to do the same. For someone who apologizes ten times a day without realizing it, Velma was the push I didn’t know I needed.

She taught me how to hold a spotlight and not flinch. How to walk confidently even if I was still figuring it out on the inside. She reminded me that strength doesn’t mean hardening yourself. It just means refusing to hide. I left that role feeling braver than when I started. And that feeling has stayed with me ever since.

Every role has given me something. They taught me how to listen, how to lead, how to collaborate, and how to pick myself up when something goes sideways. I learned how to understand people by stepping into their shoes. I learned how to respond in the moment, even when everything’s going wrong.

Even now, whether I’m holding a mic on the sidelines or speaking to a room full of strangers, I carry the lessons theatre gave me. The timing. The presence. The adaptability. The belief that showing up fully matters, even when the spotlight is bright and your heart is pounding. I carry that with me now—as a recent college grad finding my way, a pageant girl chasing the dream of Miss Georgia, and an aspiring sideline reporter stepping into the unknown with a full heart and an open mind.

There is something so beautiful about how becoming someone else, helped me become who i am.

I’ve learned to try again when plans fall apart, to laugh when things unravel, and to keep going, even if I’m not quite sure what comes next.

Even when the lashes are crooked.

Even when the flight rig nearly takes my finger.

Even when I’m playing a role I’ve never played before and I’m unsure of how to do it.

I show up.

I adjust.

I keep moving.

Because theatre didn’t just give me roles to play. It gave me the courage to live through the chaos, and still believe the story is beautiful.