Come with me backstage: it’s loud already when I walk in. Jessica has her hair in curlers, so she tries to smile at me while not moving her neck or head in my direction. Meredith’s voice emanates from the space behind me but I can’t see her; she is on the floor. A glowing makeup mirror is perched in front of her as she draws dramatic age lines on her face.

I sit next to Chris and we discuss the various virtues of Adam Driver and Jonathan Groff. Of course, this leads inevitably to the opening number of Hamilton being played — everyone raps along and my ADHD brain becomes incapable of comprehending the words coming out of Chris’ mouth even as I nod along in assent. Homework sits untouched in front of me, my burdensome Arts and Culture textbook open and, happily, ignored.

Sia arrives, breathless, carrying several absurdly-heavy-looking bags and costume pieces. We cackle and make faces at each other in the mirror as I help her put on an excessive amount of blush. She tells me that she’s been up since 5 that morning and that her day was stressful, and yet her laugh comes easily and her gracious smile is offered freely to everyone (for merely existing, it seems).

Seven-year-old Trip shifts nervously onstage and we try to set him at ease by letting him explore our one-room set, which he seems thoroughly impressed with. The tech guys in the back adjust light and add sound effects — a mechanical buzzer, a ringing telephone — as we run scenes over and over again. Jitters creep in as the approaching show starts to feel more real.

We sit backstage in a storage room, chilly, sipping coffee, laughing till we almost cry and then trying to make sure that our teary eyes don’t leak to ruin our carefully constructed makeup, we whisper-shout reactions and inside jokes, to distract ourselves from the frustration of dropped lines and the nervousness of upcoming cues. I snap a few pictures that only half-capture our fake-family-turned-real.

Participating in theater has always been this way for me — there is an undeniable bliss in losing yourself in something bigger than yourself, in working together with so many people to make something beautiful and real and delightful, in inviting others to share in the art you’ve created solely for the purpose of it being given away to an audience.

Tech week is insanity, most theater kids would attest. We embrace it, though. It’s a part of the experience that we love even when our feet ache — cursed high heels — and the night gets late and we’ve said our lines approximately three hundred times and we’re sick of the sound of our own voices.

We hope you come and share this thing we love this evening or Saturday (or, heck, both!). We hope you laugh and cry the way we have (every single practice, without fail). We hope you fall in love with the wonder and magic of theater.

Thank you, reader, for coming backstage with me. Thank you, audience, for being the reason we actors do what we do.

(Photo credits pending)