The Gift of Intermission
Actors are taught to keep moving. The next audition. The next callback. The next class. The next contract. Momentum can feel like survival in this profession. We celebrate busy calendars and packed résumés, often measuring our success by what comes next.
For a long time, I believed that too. But life has now asked me to step away from acting twice. The first time, I fought it, but this second time, I’ve welcomed it, and both have made me a better artist. The first break wasn't my choice. I graduated with my MFA just as COVID-19 brought the theatre industry to a standstill. After years of training, late nights in rehearsal rooms, and imagining what life after graduate school would look like, I stepped into an industry that had, almost overnight, gone quiet.
To make matters even more disorienting, my spouse and I moved to a small, sorta remote town in Utah, far from the theatre communities I had imagined building a career alongside. I remember wondering if all of that training had been leading toward... nothing. Cue existential crisis and nihilism.
It felt like the momentum I had spent years building had disappeared before I even had the chance to use it. But life has a funny way of redirecting us toward the things we didn't know we needed and I became an adjunct professor, teaching theatre and film. At first, it felt like Plan B; then something unexpected happened. I fell in love with teaching. I remember crying on a drive home realizing how beautiful film was through teaching it to non-majors. And teaching didn’t replace acting for me, it reminded me why I loved it in the first place.
Watching students discover a scene for the first time, wrestle with a character, or suddenly understand the power of storytelling forced me to articulate instincts I had never put into words. I wasn't just teaching acting. I was rediscovering it. Somewhere between lesson plans, classroom discussions, and directing student work, I realized I hadn't left my artistry behind. It had simply changed forms.
When I eventually returned to acting, I brought something with me that I hadn't possessed before. Perspective, patience, and a greater understanding of collaboration. Teaching had expanded my empathy, sharpened my communication, and reminded me that great actors are lifelong students, always staying curious and ready to grow. I returned to the rehearsal room not diminished by the break, but enriched because of it. That experience changed something in me.
So when life invited me into another season away from the stage, I recognized it. This time, the reason is much happier. I'm a new mom. For the first time in years, I'm not preparing for auditions or memorizing sides (though I am doing some unrehearsed Shakespeare in the park!). Instead, I'm learning how to soothe a crying baby in the middle of the night. I'm celebrating fine motor milestones like grabbing things and clapping, making time for stroller walks and “outside time,” and the unmatched feeling of a tiny hand wrapped around my finger.
This season feels profoundly different from the last. Becoming a parent didn’t just rearrange my schedule. It rearranged ME. There are moments when I hardly recognize the person I was before my daughter was born, and yet somehow, I feel more myself than ever. This pause feels deeper than the one COVID forced upon me because it isn't simply about stepping away from my craft. It's about becoming someone new. Oddly enough, though, I'm less afraid of it. The first time I stepped away, I worried I would lose my identity as an actor. Now I know better, because I know that stepping away doesn't mean I’m no longer an artist. It means my artistry is quietly growing in places no rehearsal room could ever teach.
As actors, we spend our lives trying to understand people. We study relationships. Conflict. Joy. Grief. Love. Loss. Hope. We search for emotional truth because audiences can tell the difference between circumstances we've imagined and circumstances we've lived. Motherhood has introduced me to emotional landscapes I couldn't have understood before. The fierce protectiveness. The vulnerability of loving someone so completely. The exhaustion that somehow coexists with overwhelming joy. The quiet grief of watching a baby outgrow yesterday's version of themselves. None of those lessons came from an acting exercise, they’ve come from living.
And isn't that what we're all trying to do as artists? Not simply collect techniques, but collect life. That realization has changed how I think about rest. Rest isn't simply sleeping more, although that would be very nice right about now… rest is allowing yourself to inhabit your own life without constantly wondering how it will affect your career. It's taking a hike. Reading a novel just because it sounds interesting. Learning to bake bread. Trying pottery. Gardening. Traveling. Volunteering. Having dinner with friends where no one talks about auditions. It might look like caring for aging parents. Recovering from burnout. Returning to school. Starting a family. Or simply giving yourself permission to breathe after years of chasing the next opportunity.
None of those experiences are detours from becoming an actor. They are part of becoming one. Our industry often treats careers as though they should move in one continuous upward line. But very few lives actually work that way. Careers pause. Families grow. Dreams shift. People change. Maybe we need to give ourselves permission to have seasons instead of constantly expecting momentum. Trees don't produce fruit every month of the year. Fields aren't harvested in every season. Even theatres have intermissions. Not because the story is over. Because everyone needs a moment before the next act begins.
Looking back, I don't think my career stopped during that time in Utah. I think another part of it began. And I don't think my career has stopped now because I'm home with my daughter. I think another chapter is quietly being written. When I return to the rehearsal room, whether that's months from now or years from now, I'll bring different stories with me. I'll understand love differently. Patience differently. Responsibility differently. Wonder differently. Just as teaching made me a stronger collaborator and actor, I have a feeling motherhood will deepen my work in ways I can't yet predict. That's the beautiful thing about this profession. Our greatest resource isn't our résumé. It's our humanity. Every season of living expands the stories we're capable of telling.
If you're in a season that feels slower than you expected, or different than you planned, I hope you'll remember this: Intermission isn't the end of the play. It's part of the performance. The lights dim. The audience stretches. The actors catch their breath. And when the curtain rises again, the story continues. Perhaps with even greater depth than before.