“Break a Leg”
Tomorrow is opening night or afternoon that is.
Over the past week, I’ve heard the same two words more times than I can count.
“Break a leg.”
It’s funny, isn’t it?
One of the biggest moments of your life arrives, and people wish you physical harm.
Of course, I know what they mean.
It’s theatre’s way of saying, “Good luck.”
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the phrase carries a deeper meaning.
Every meaningful journey asks us to risk something.
When I left on a two-year trip after burnout, there were no guarantees. When I decided to write a Fringe show at 56, I had no idea if anyone would come. Even now, on the eve of opening night, I don’t know how audiences will respond.
There are no promises in creativity.
Only courage.
Perhaps that’s what “break a leg” is really acknowledging.
It isn’t wishing someone luck. It’s recognizing that they’re about to step into uncertainty. That they’re choosing to be vulnerable in front of complete strangers. That they’re risking failure in the hope of creating something meaningful.
The opposite of courage isn’t fear.
It’s staying safely on the sidelines.
Over the past few months, people have asked me if I’m nervous.
The answer is yes.
Very.
But somewhere along this journey, I stopped seeing nervousness as a warning. Instead, I started seeing it as proof that what I’m doing matters to me.
If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be nervous.
If this show didn’t mean something, I wouldn’t have spent months writing, rewriting, rehearsing, forgetting lines, remembering them again, and wondering if I was completely out of my mind.
Tomorrow, I’ll walk onto that stage carrying every lesson from the past few years.
Burnout.
Travel.
Grief.
Rediscovery.
Joy.
Not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve learned that our stories become most powerful when we’re willing to share them honestly.
So when people tell me to “break a leg,” I smile.
Because what I really hear is something much kinder.
“Go be brave.”
And tomorrow, that’s exactly what I hope to do.