I’ve always found comfort in creating in the thick of chaos. In a city, within family, or back stage before a show, I feel most like myself when I am being creative in complete disarray. Perhaps chaos mirrors my thought process—providing some sort of balance to a busy brain. Whatever the reason may be, I’ve come to realize that the place where I am most content is when I can be creative amid chaos.

I remember visiting my uncle in New York City, at the age of seven, during the 2004 Republican Convention. We walked around his neighborhood; the streets filled with people carrying signs, and chanting slogans with a man on a podium.  Amidst all the pandemonium I saw a young man sitting on the sidewalk placing painted beans and flower pedals in a circular pattern.  He invited me to sit beside him and help create his mandala. I felt this beautiful piece of art was out of place in the frenzy of the protest, but I recognized the peace of mind that comes from creating something in the midst of turmoil.

I was raised in chaos. And I mean that in the most affectionate way possible. My mother’s side of the family, Italian New Yorkers, is the loudest and most emotional group of individuals you will ever meet.  On the other hand, my father’s family, which is levelheaded and mild-mannered, possesses their own kind of disorder. My father is one of nine children. Many of my adoring aunts and uncles, have had at least two children of their own, making family reunions a giant fiasco of flesh and blood. I am grateful to my mother’s side for teaching me communication and compromise, and to my father’s side for showing me the importance of intimate relationships and unwavering loyalty.

My family and friends have always admired and relied on me for my ability to stay levelheaded in chaotic situations. I attribute this to my family for conditioning me to disarray and to art for always calming my busy brain.  I discovered the gift of tranquility despite surrounding chaos five years ago at my grandfather’s funeral. At the reception, I decided everyone, including myself, needed a distraction so I sat down with a stack of paper and began to fold paper cranes. My uncle was the first to notice and ask what I was doing, as a response; I placed the fragile paper bird in his rough palm. Within minutes I had an entire table of sad, intoxicated, middle-aged men sitting around me listening intently as I taught them to make paper cranes.

I feel completely at home on the stage. I thrive in the few minutes of immense pressure and utter pandemonium before a show. The heat of the stage lights beating down on me, the beads of sweat that sit on my hairline, threatening to ruin my makeup before the curtain opens. The flurry of costume changes, the death drop my stomach takes as the dull roar of the audience silences and the curtain rolls open. Three seconds until the lights come up. Two. Deep Breath. One. Go.

I am most content when I am immersed in chaos and creating. Whether I am placing flower petals on a cold city street, folding paper in the heat of tragedy, or singing scales before a show, I am truly myself when I am being creative. Despite the oddity of the thought, I find comfort in chaos and the inspiration that it provides. The moments of complete disorder are the moments I want to live in because that is where creativity lives. Because of my experiences, I recognize myself in the insanity of the city, in the frenzy of my family, and in the pressure of performing.