To my first love and my second home,

Oh, the stage: a fantastical world of wonder, filled with horses of a different color. It’s a magical place where candlesticks can waltz with feather dusters, where little boys can fly with fairies and where girls can be named Fred and no one minds. The stage brought the pride lands to New York City and sent New York City back in time. It gave the people of Anatevka a home, and a place where French revolutionaries could fight for their freedom. It gave me hope. I guess you could say, the stage was my first honey bun.

When I was little, I swore I’d be standing up there someday. I promised myself I’d stand there, hand in hand with a cast of however many kids it took, and we would all be smiling and bowing and putting on the best show we could. I swore to myself that someday, I would be standing on that stage.

When I was little, the stage was a promise. We held school concerts and dance recitals there, but it was never quite as magical as it promised to be. As I got older, and, therefore, closer to when that promise would be fulfilled, the excitement grew. I swore to myself I’d be on that stage, and the stage promised me a thrill like no other.

The stage delivered on its promise, one hundred times over. It promised me a thrill, but what I got was so much more than that. I got experiences, friends and memories that I will cherish for a lifetime. I started out as a fresh-faced 14 year old, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as they come, and by the time my love affair with the stage ended, I was a mentor, a big sister to those who had none (and to those who had been born with me there.) I entered the world of high school theater and found people to look up to, role models in friends I would never have had otherwise. Being a part of that community, being a part of the stage, I somehow turned into a version of my own mentors and became that role model to others.

I did not know when I signed up for that first play that four years could fly by so quickly. I did not cry on closing night because there was still next year. Of course, the following year, when those who had served as the “play parents” to us younger kids were graduating, closing night turned into a sob fest after the curtains closed. By my final closing night, I could not look at my friends —my family — without feeling tears stinging my eyes.

It is impossible to look back on my love affair with the stage without remembering the heartache when it ended, but it is also impossible to forget the good things. I will never forget the last minute choreography changes, the “technical difficulties” that left us in hysterical laughter on stage, or the constant dance parties held in the wings. I will cherish the backstage power naps in those brief moments of silence. Most of all, I cherish the friendships and the sense of family that comes along with stepping onto that stage. The stage was more than a place to put on a show; the stage was home.

From late-night rehearsals to full-cast outings, to flash mobs and thirty-second quick changes, the whirlwind that is high school theater left me with a full heart and open mind. And so I say to the stage, my first love, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are one man I won’t be washing out of my hair.