Let's flash back to a time in my life where I was the most insecure: high school. I spent most of my formative high school years being an outcast. While the other guys wanted to play football or kick a hacky sack, I spent my lunch periods in practice rooms, usually by myself, listening to show tunes with my friends, Stephen Sondheim, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the like. Practice rooms listening to music turned into performing show tunes at the top of my lungs practicing for "auditions" coming up, as I told my drama teacher. Most of the time, that wasn't true. But, singing show tunes gave me a purpose. I could be transported from my insecure high school self to Tony, singing to Maria from a balcony. I could be Sweeney Todd, singing a haunting song to his barber tools. I could be Elphaba, wishing and hoping to one day defy gravity, which for my naive high school self meant graduating.

I wanted to write an article to my younger self, and to the kid that was belting Sondheim in the auditorium at lunch, for a grand total of no one, I want to say, wholeheartedly and unequivocally, that it gets better. You'll get your first role at the age of sixteen as an ensemble member in a production of Big River, and you'll have the time of your life. You'll also learn that theatre is therapeutic for you. That production, you learn that you do have some talent. You are better than all the people in your life who told you otherwise, at the time. You, then, discover the insatiable need for musicals. You're very aware of the societal implications of being a musical nerd (the stereotyping, the confusion, the gay slurs thrown your way by one certain individual in your high school that you, forever, will be grateful for, as you use them for inspiration), but you know that the biggest star of the show in your life is the words that great composers have that you translate into your own story.

Look at where you are now, past Evan. You've gotten to reap the benefits of playing a dream role in a musical you've held dear for years. You got to play the bad guy and do all the things you never thought were socially acceptable to do on a stage. You made connections with people who are so inspirational and so important in your life. You've found home. From Transylvania and doing the Time Warp again (and again, because one production of Rocky Horror is never enough), to 1960s Baltimore and the hustle and bustle of television at the time, to Chamberlain, Maine, where you make a girl's life a living hell and kill a pig, you've done a lot. But, past Evan, never let your flame diminish.

Work. Work your ass off. Through the successes you have, realize that the heartbreak is also a good learning tool. The "So close, but not close enough"s, the "I could do that part better"s and the "Oh my God, I'll never play that part"s are going to make you a better person, not just a better performer. Be thankful and grateful, past Evan. Thank your directors. Thank your stage managers. Thank your teachers, your mentors, your fellow co-stars, the people who usher for your theatre, the front of house, everyone. Past Evan, fail. Fail big and bold. Fall on your face frequently (and you will, believe you me), and know that it's all part of the process. When people ask you what religion you believe in, you'll glibly say that you're a believer in The Church of Stephen Sondheim and Latter Day Composers, and you'll say that because all the things you've learned as a performer, you've learned because of these composers and because of the stories that they have told and you've discovered. Everything happens for a reason, past Evan. The stories you've learned from Stephen, Andrew, Jason, Lin-Manuel, Richard, and Oscar are all stories you needed to learn at just the right time. To quote Jason Robert Brown, your hero, "tell me where's the challenge, if you never try. So watch me fly. I'm not afraid."

Don't be afraid, Evan.