The One about My First Show.

Did you know that the first full-length production I ever did was Annie?

(That's Symba - one of the many dogs my family had while I was growing up. I loved this dog; we were able to pull him in and use him as Annie's canine-friend Sandy in the production. He was a good dog most of the time. However, during our second performance, he decided to test my patience: he ran right past me, off the stage and right into the audience. The next night, I put a piece of BOLOGNA in my pocket so he would stay with me onstage. His nose was buried in my pocket during all of "Tomorrow.")

Although I was actually trained classically and as a soprano (weird, huh?), I remember I used to sit in my room and play CDs and tapes and sing along with them for hours, trying to mimic the sound the singers were making - the ones I remember best are Celine Dion, Patsy Cline, Meredith Edwards, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston and... Michael W. Smith. Maybe I should accredit my low voice and alto tone to him. But if I was in any place but my bedroom or living room, my shyness took control of my performance. Nothing ever would come out of my mouth like it did in my safe havens.

Until one day, I had a breakthrough. Or what led to a breakthrough, anyway.

It was fall of 2002; I was in tenth grade, and I was fifteen years old. I wasn't in the theatre program at my high school - just choir. But my choir teacher insisted that I audition for Annie. I did, and when I was cast as Annie, I remember being so scared. At the exact moment that I felt that fear, the director walked over, stood right beside me, put her arm around me and said, "Now, we're going to have to work on getting you out of that shell. You can't be shy anymore." I couldn't forget those words during the rehearsals and performances, and the truth is, I will never forget those words for the rest of my performing career, at least.

I bring that up because the last few rehearsals I've attended of A Tale of Two Cities have brought about the start of an awareness of how long and hard I've been working on this craft. I've been addicted to theatre for almost nine years. (When I type that, it really doesn't seem that long, considering there are literally people whose first steps are taken on a stage.) I feel so lucky to be able to build my skill over and over and over with each show.

I talk about it a lot, I know. Those who know me well know that when I'm focused on something, my mind hardly - if ever - wanders from that subject. It is, as one could easily tell from reading previous blog posts or having conversations with me, one of the top three most important things in my life. (I'll let you figure out the other two.)

Now, some could look at that statement and scoff at it. What kind of quality of life is a life in theatre?

A damn good one, ladies and gentlemen.

I do not feel like I have missed out on anything in life. I have a lot of years ahead of me, yes, but so far, I have been thrilled with and grateful for the experiences that have been dealt to me (even the hard ones): motivation, respect, professionalism, ambition, care, honesty, health, regime, discipline, scheduling, creativity, commitment, happiness, absolute joy, pride, sadness, compassion, empathy and sympathy, acceptance, disappointment, heartbreak, friendship, priority, jealousy, hope, frustration, hard work, tolerance, social skills, you name it. And, as always, I can't forget to mention the people that I've been so blessed to meet and grow to love in my experience as a performer.

One day, I hope to be able to sit down - just for my own records - and specify each experience above and how theatre has been a part of that, but for now, maybe listing those things can help you understand how it is hard for me to look at my addiction and call it anything but a blessing.

Someone once told me, "If the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning is a stage, you were born to be a performer." I know I am not alone when I say this: what if you dream about it, too?