I used to love introducing myself to people. I loved it because they inevitably asked what I did, and I gleefully got to tell them that I worked in theater. People who had no connection to the theater field reacted with surprise or excitement: “Oh! Wow!” “That’s so cool!” “I acted in a play once!” I genuinely loved being able to tell people about my work and why I loved it. So many people simply tolerated their jobs, but I loved mine. I felt like I was living the dream. When a prestigious mid-sized theater hired me to be the Managing Director prior to the pandemic, I felt elated. I had been working towards this job my whole life. I looked forward to tackling the challenges of running a mid-size company (always the hardest size) and evolving as a leader. I didn’t know then that the job that I had coveted for so long would eventually crush me. 

My second week on the job, our Finance Director came into my office and said we didn’t have enough money in the bank to make payroll that week. I intellectually knew cash flow issues were often a problem at theaters, but this was the first time that I was the one responsible for handling it and I had no idea what to do. Many emergency meetings and sleepless nights later, we managed to find the cash…at least for that week. The stress of almost always not being able to make payroll became a constant presence in my mind and body. It took over most of my brain space and I felt my role morph into that of a penny counter. Our cash problems consumed me. And then, six months later, the pandemic hit. 

Of course, no one could have predicted a global catastrophe like Covid-19. And while I will never be able to remove the pandemic from my experience, I can say with certainty that it wasn’t the sole reason (or even the primary reason) for the extreme exhaustion I felt after three years on the job. The challenges I faced were not unique to me. Many of my contemporaries are still facing them. We have inherited theaters with enormous structural deficits. Theaters that say they believe in inclusivity without understanding that to be more inclusive means actually investing real money into new programs, not just writing an equity statement and putting it on the website. Theaters that are holding on for dear life despite the numerous headwinds threatening to destroy them at every turn. We are hired with the charge to “fix it.” I am generous to a fault—a lesson I learned intimately in these years—and so I’ll give my previous Board of Directors the benefit of the doubt that they genuinely believed that I could solve all the problems. But no one person can solve all the problems. I’m here for “Black girl magic,” but I’m definitely not a magician. I tried. I tried desperately. I tried so hard that by the end I became a shell of the person I was when I arrived on the job. I finally broke down and admitted that I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The woman who had loved telling people that she worked in theater felt like a distant memory. I could barely say what I did without wanting to cry. 

So I left. I joined a wave of theater leaders leaving their roles for “other opportunities.” I left crispy. I left exhausted. I left deeply sad. I left cynical. The field was a fiery pit and I was ready to walk away and watch it all burn.

I had breakfast the other day with a wise friend and she asked, “how are you doing since having your heart broken?” Despite having been asked how I was doing constantly since I left a few months ago, this friend articulated the feeling perfectly for the first time. It resonated deeply. It was a revelation. Oh! That’s why I’m so sad. My heart was broken. A thing that I loved fiercely and had given my all to had broken my heart. 

For the past few months I’ve been doing the things many do after a breakup. I cut off a bunch of my hair. I started going back to the gym. I went to Hawaii (highly recommend). I just recently stopped having a recurring dream where I was in a play backstage about to go on and could not remember any of my lines. I guess you could call this healing. I know that I feel like myself again. Even if I still don’t know how to introduce myself to people at parties.

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Author's Bio: The writer is a former administrative leader with over 15 years of experience in theater management. She is in her 30s and based in California where the fresh produce is always stunning.