The year I decided taking drama classes was an interesting one. I’d convinced myself it would be the perfect cure for my shyness - a bold, new way to “step out of my comfort zone.” The class was putting on a Greek tragedy, which felt, in hindsight, like an ambitious place to start. Everyone else had more experience, more passion and they all seemed to have an instinct for projection and presence; I was still trying to remember to breathe properly when speaking.

Rehearsals were a blur of trying to learn lines that just wouldn’t stick, poetic speeches that never went according to plan, and endless toga fittings. I spent most of the time quietly panicking about my cue lines and trying not to trip over my sandals. Our teacher, an eternally enthusiastic, although not soft, director with a fondness for shouting, insisted that true emotion came from surrendering to the story. I wasn’t sure I was ready to surrender anything except my dignity. It was around the second lesson, I had decided I had made a terrible, and embarrassing, mistake.

And yet, somehow, I went on, mostly because I couldn’t quit in the middle of an already started rehearsal, and on the night of the performance, something clicked. Under the stage lights, I forgot to be self-conscious. I delivered my lines, hit my marks, and for a few brief moments, I actually felt part of something larger - this ancient story, these people, this shared energy. When the curtain closed, the audience clapped, and I felt a rush of joy I hadn’t expected. I actually had fun!

I also knew, deep down, that I never wanted to do it again.

But that year taught me more than any acting technique ever could. It taught me how to stand in discomfort and not run from it. It showed me that courage doesn’t always look like confidence - sometimes it’s just showing up, voice trembling, and doing the thing anyway. I may have left the stage behind, but the lesson stayed with me: that even our most awkward experiments can become the moments that quietly shape who we are.