I’ve been asking myself a lot lately why the hell I would chase my ultimate dream of becoming an actress and a singer, given how difficult it is to become successful enough to sustain yourself in such a career. Finally, I have taken the time to articulate a long-winded answer:

I have always wanted to be a singer for as long as I can remember. When I was younger and people asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, I always said a singer. I was little and cute, so no adult was going to give me a lecture about choosing a career that’s guaranteed to financially support me.

As I got older, (I’m talking 9 years old) I began to realize just how hard it is to be a famous singer, so I came up with a plan. When I turned 16, I was going to get my license, drive to wherever American Idol was, and I was going to win. (That was the best I could come up with at 9 years old.) I forgot about my American Idol pipe dream probably as quickly as I had thought of it, but I never lost my passion for singing and performing. If anything it had transformed into a love for theatre after my 8th grade year.

McGuire Middle School was putting on a production of High School Musical junior, and despite my bad luck with school productions in the past (I wasn’t even cast in the musicals 6th or 7th grade) I decided I was going to audition for the lead female role of Gabriella—and by the grace of God, I got it. That show became the most important thing in my entire life for those few short months. I was so damn excited that I even changed my profile picture on Facebook to a photo of Vanessa Hudgens.

I will never forget the moment on opening night when the house went dark, and the audience grew silent. I stood quietly backstage and waited patiently for a horrendous amount of nerves to settle in, but they never did. There was not one, single butterfly in my stomach. I remember being so calm that I turned to my voice coach and asked her “Why am I not afraid right now?”, to which she replied “Because you worked too hard to be afraid.” Ever since that performance, I’ve never been able to stand backstage without getting nervous.

After High School Musical, I had found my niche, my identity. Theatre gave me a chance to essentially play pretend onstage, and I was a sucker for the dramatic. I began spending my summers in Wisconsin so I could be a part of Chequamegon Children’s Theatre.

My passionate romance with theatre grew even stronger when I got to my junior year of high school. It felt like God was really shaping my life for the decision to make performing an actual career. I had gotten into Encore (an acapella varsity choir at school), our fall play Get Smart, our one act competition The Whole Shebang, and I even landed Mrs. Banks in Mary Poppins—my biggest role in a spring musical yet.

By the end of eleventh grade, I had received an ‘Honorable Mention’ award from Hennepin Theatre Trust’s Spotlight Education program for my portrayal as Winifred Banks, an award from our director as Best Actress in one act, and a “Rising Star” award given to me by the senior drama captains. After all the successes, my mind had been made up. I knew this was the career for me. Then came the ultimate test: senior year.

The director that had been leading the theatre department thus far was not going to be returning that year, so everyone was essentially starting over. Romeo and Juliet had been chosen for the fall play. I auditioned for Juliet, and was given the role of the Prince. While I was slightly disappointed, I kept my head high because I knew I still had the whole year ahead of me. In the end I came to love my role—I got to storm onstage and practically scream out these monologues as I broke up fights and made royal decrees.

Then for the competition one act, we had been given the most amazing play called Murder’s by Poe. The story features plotlines and characters from Edgar Allen Poe’s greatest works as they all spend a stormy night in a hotel in the middle of nowhere. Our tiny cast of 6 gave it everything we had, and unfortunately didn’t make it past the first round of competition. When the results were given, we were completely dumbfounded—I don’t think our school had done so poorly in years. I remember asking my director if it’s possible that the judges did the scoring system backwards on accident. I remember watching my peers work so hard and give great performances, and for a split second I wondered if I was the weak link that kept us from advancing. Once again, I found myself face to face with confusion, and disappointment. I took a deep breath and shrugged it off, telling myself “It doesn’t mean anything.”

When springtime came around, it was announced that the musical was going to be Guy’s and Doll’s. At the time I knew absolutely nothing about ‘type’, so I auditioned for both Adelaide and Sarah, because I wasn’t sure which one I’d be better at (and I wanted to strengthen my chances at getting a lead.) Then came the third, and definitely the worst setback of the year: Instead of Adelaide, or Sarah, I was given the role of General Cartwright.

I was crushed, to say the least. About a thousand other things that I haven’t even mentioned had gone awry that year, and I was desperate for a win. Guys and Doll’s was going to be my last school musical. After three years of paying my dues, working my way to the top, I was given a character that appeared onstage twice, and sang in one chorus song. I had spent the last four years watching seniors have their Big Moment on that stage, and I had been dreaming about the day when it would be my turn.

“I wanted to get over my disappointment almost immediately.”

Behind closed doors I was shocked, hurt, and still in complete disbelief that I was never going to have that Big Moment. Publicly, I wanted people to think that I had taken the blow with grace. I was also a co-theatre captain that year, therefore I was afraid that if I spent too much time focusing on my disappointment, I wouldn’t be this shining example of “team player” that a student leader is supposed to be. It was really important to me that no matter how I felt about my part, the rest of the cast could go into this show feeling happy and excited to get to work.

Furthermore, I felt like I had to suck it up because I was aspiring to be a professional actress, and actresses go through rejection constantly. If I couldn’t handle losing one, little role in the suburbs of Minnesota, how was I going to survive in New York? Also, I had a lot of respect for our new director—if they didn’t think I was right for a lead, did that mean I didn’t have any talent to begin with? I began to fear that I wasn’t talented or strong enough for my own dreams, and New York City was going to eat me alive.

I gave myself roughly four hours to be disappointed and pissed off, and after those four hours I was posting a statement to my finsta along the lines of “I was disappointed at first but I’m over it now and excited to take on my last show!”, which was a bunch of bullshit. I just kept telling people that I was alright, I was excited, and rejection is “what real actresses go through anyways, so I appreciate the good practice”, in the hopes that those feelings would manifest in myself.

Looking back, I realize I didn’t give myself enough room to breathe. I was in a rush to thicken my own skin so that I could make the pain of feeling knocked down go away. I put all this pressure on myself to find a resolution, any kind of answer as to why all of this was happening. The one thing I did know, was that at some point in my life I was going to be thankful for all these trials. I was under the pretense that, since I knew I was going to be thankful someday, I should therefore know exactly what I was supposed to do to get there, and do so as soon as possible. Do we ever know what the hell we’re doing when we find ourselves in trying times? No, we don’t. Why I thought I should just magically know what to do, I don’t know.

Eventually, the time came when I gave my final bow on the Lakeville South stage. In that moment I wished that I could feel something along the lines of “I’m going to miss this,” and give it a silent, grandiose goodbye like something you would see in a cheesy movie, but I walked off that stage feeling nothing at all. Everyone had done an amazing job, and I was really proud of the work my friends and I had put into making it a great show regardless. I had hoped that by the time I was done playing General Cartwright I would have embraced the role, and figured out why I was supposed to be thankful for the experience as I mentioned before. That never really happened, as much as I wanted it to.

My silent, grandiose goodbye to CCT. Mary Poppins, 2017.

Shortly after graduating, I went back up north to participate in my very last show with CCT, where I was cast as Mary Poppins. After months of ups and downs, I finally got that Big Moment I had always dreamed of, just not on the stage I thought I’d be on. Getting to play Mary was one of the best experiences I’ve ever had onstage. Telling a story that encourages people to open their hearts, chase their dreams, and never doubt their ability was the message that I so desperately needed moving forward.

I still had some mixed feelings about my decision to go to AMDA. I feared that I could be wasting time and money only to have my dream crushed, but I went anyway. I’m not going to say it was because I had completely rediscovered my strength and decided to soldier on. I went because, despite everything, I wasn’t ready to give up. Honestly, the idea of giving up and finding a whole new path seemed scarier than actually giving my dream a shot. And, as Mary Poppins taught me, “anything can happen if you let it.”

During my freshman year at AMDA, I finally began to find all these little reasons to be grateful for the hardships I’d faced during senior year. The new director we had received back home demanded a certain level of responsibility and professionalism from us that AMDA was demanding of me now. Anytime I had to deal with a tough teacher, I knew how to take the notes they gave and keep my ego out of it. It took me forever to realize this, but all the rejection I had faced last year had made me a little resilient. Whenever our instructors would have blunt conversations about how hard the business is, I didn’t feel discouraged, I felt ready. A part of me understood what they meant. By the grace of God, I had learned not to expect too much but to give it my best shot anyways.

It’s been two years now, and I’m so happy to say I finally understand why all of that happened, what God wanted me to take away from the Great General Cartwright. I had to learn that my dream comes with lots of heartbreak and hard work, but it will be worth it. I had to learn that at the end of the day I would much rather be trying and failing over, and over, and over again than to give up all together. I had to learn that when I don’t get the part I was hoping for, it doesn’t mean that I’m not good enough for it, it just means that wasn’t my time. I also had to learn that there will be other roles and other musicals. My time will come.

All of this being said, I’m ready to give the next two weeks of demos (which is a performing conservatory’s version of a final test) absolutely everything I’ve got. And I promise I’ll do a much better job at keeping you all up to date.

-Ken