Stepping Into the Spotlight: Finding Courage Center Stage

Standing in the wings, right before curtain call, my knees would have buckled if I could even feel them. All those months of preparation, all that dancing through Ireland, and here I was, wishing I could collapse to avoid going on stage.

A cast member noticed and whispered, “I remember my first show. I could barely move. But someone told me, ‘You’ll be fine once you get out there.'”

Then I looked across and saw my stage husband making ridiculous, goofy faces at me. This man had been getting me through rehearsals with the same wit Alex had—exactly what I needed when I was taking myself too seriously.

And then it was showtime.

The girls had coached me beforehand: “Don’t look at the audience. You’re not supposed to look at people.”

But when those lights hit me and I stepped onto that stage, I did exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. I looked at every single face in that audience. I looked at them individually, drawing each one of them onto the stage with me.

I couldn’t see them, of course, but I looked to make connections wherever I could. I tried to spot people I knew, strangers, anyone who looked like they were having fun. Most probably didn’t even notice me hidden in the back row, but I noticed the ones who jumped up and started dancing. I danced for them.

It felt like I was saying to every single face, “If I’m here, you could be too.”

The Hand That Had a Mind of Its Own

During Super Trouper, something happened that I couldn’t control. Every time we reached the end, my hand shot up in the air. Pure reflex. Pure joy.

The girls were mortified. During rehearsals, as we walked off stage, Skylar would hiss, “You’re not the lead! You shouldn’t be posing. It’s not your concert. Nobody else is putting their hand in the air!”

I’d look around during the next rehearsal and sure enough, I was the only ensemble member standing out like that. But then we’d do it again, and my hand would go up by instinct. Again.

“Stop it,” Skylar would whisper as we exited.

But my hand had a mind of its own, claiming my moment, saying, “I’m here, I matter, I belong.”

Finally, during tech week, the director instructed the group to have fun at the concert and, by all means, make a fun pose at the end.

I laughed and said to the girls, “See. I’m allowed to be doing that.”

My girls were still perpetually mortified, so I had even more freedom to do what I was instinctively doing all along.

Middle-of-the-Pack Revelations: Tennis and Aliens

We did six shows over two weekends. For “Money, Money, Money,” we dressed as tennis players. For “Under Attack,” we became glow-in-the-dark, tennis-player-nightmare-aliens with fabric wrapped wherever we chose to light up under the blue lights.

After one show, a friend who’d seen Mamma Mia on Broadway in London blew my cover. “No tennis players,” she said, “And definitely no aliens.”

That’s when I knew this production was special. We weren’t trying to be Broadway—we were trying to be joy.

Alex’s review came after one of the weekend shows: “You weren’t the best and you weren’t the worst. You were right in the middle.”

At first, that stung. But then I realized—middle was exactly where I needed to be. I wasn’t trying to be the star. My goal was much simpler: get through the bows without looking like I was panting. That, to me, was a successful show.

And I’d done it. Six times.

The Virgin Award and the Meeting of the Wives

After the shows, everything came full circle. That’s when we’d meet the audience. Mostly people would say, “Great show. You looked like you were having fun.” (Secret code for: I never actually saw you up there.)

That’s also when we had the “meeting of the wives”—my stage husband’s wife and I (the soon-to-be-ex-stage-wife) finally met properly. It was such a funny moment, giving her back her husband—the man who’d gotten me through this whole experience.

At the cast party, they gave out brown paper bag awards, and mine was “The Virgin”—for my first show. When they announced it, the entire cast applauded.

Me. The 49-year-old mom who’d brought 75 people and couldn’t sing, act, or dance, but somehow I managed to do it all.

From Stage to Page to Something Bigger

The theater experience was over, but I couldn’t stop thinking like the girls. I couldn’t wait for the next show. I finally understood why they begged me to perform.

I wrote a rough draft about the experience—so many inside jokes, so many stories, so much that Alex wasn’t part of.

My stage husband and I planned dinner with our spouses. And there, we planned a trip to London for my 50th birthday.

All four of us went to see Mamma Mia: The Party. I couldn’t get enough—this show had gotten under my skin.

It was my last-ditch attempt to answer a question I couldn’t shake: What does it mean to live in the middle of life without fear?

I had no idea if the trip would answer that question, but I had to try—before the joy of the stage faded and left me wondering if I’d missed the moment.

That draft I wrote? At a writing conference, they told me I had a great idea, but I needed to be famous to write a memoir. I went home and tucked it into a drawer.

Instead, I started a blog. I went from the stage to the page, writing my way into a new version of myself, sharing weekly with anyone who wanted to read.

Self-doubt still showed up now and then—but life had already started demanding my next performance.

Next week: Gold lamé, chemo chairs, and the performance of a lifetime—when the show really must go on.