Standing under the stage light and facing the blurry audience, I trembled.

It wasn’t the first time I looked into the dazzling white spotlight. Though I was never a lighting designer in theatre, I’ve participated in numerous productions before: A Christmas Carol, Twelfth Night, Fresh Off the Boat — all of which consisted of bright shiny spotlights. I am not the kind of theater novice who has intense stage fright, either, since I’ve been trained for two years to stay in character and act on the moment. But this time was different. I was not auditioning for some touching, romantic characters that need delicate emotions. I was auditioning for the character of Saturday — an unadorned and confident female in a musical called The Adams Family that needs me to sing out loud and with full energy. Although I practiced day and night, the instant I felt a spot of glowing warmth on my face, the frightening sensation submerged me in its unstoppable steps.

However, when one of my friends comforted me an hour before, saying, “It’ll be fine even if you crack your voice. I cracked mine even in my formal LAMDA exam,” I laughed silently at this idea — even if I am not skilled at singing, I would not descend into the state of breaking character. Unfortunately, her random words turned out to be a prophecy. The second I started singing, I couldn’t help the slight quiver in my voice because there was no accompaniment music and I attacked in a pitch too high. I don’t know why I didn’t ask to pause and start again in a lower pitch or request to put on background music. Maybe it was nervousness, but that doesn’t matter anymore. My voice cracked. Three times.

I can’t remember how I shakily went off the stage and how I insisted to finish the whole song after the first and second break. What now rooted in my mind was the pitiful applause after my escape and the perfect silence when I settled into my seat. I had hoped that people would gather around and talk about some novel topics to distract my desperation, or some world-shaking event would happen to wash my performance out of their memories. But only one person came to me and said “It’s alright” and went away, and I had to endure the permanent coldness inside the auditorium for the rest of the time.

It was self explanatory that I did not get the character. The words from my teacher that “we got the picture of your voice range, and there isn’t any character that fits you in this play. But this doesn’t mean you are not good, you know” are still echoing. How could they judge me based on one performance? Why couldn’t they let me perform again, or at least listen to my explanation of what happened that day? I ended up saying nothing, like I had a fishbone stuck in my throat.

I guess the stage fright was compounded since then. I picked up the monologues I once did to try to recover, yet I couldn’t even deliver a line without wondering “will I break this time?” The passivity not only blocked out every characterization but also alienated my pure yearning for theater and respect for the stage. I repetitively questioned myself, “what does theater mean to you? Is it merely for getting compliments from other people?” Back then, although no one seemed to care about that audition, I still dared not to press forward nor to act unabashedly, let alone to stretch out of my comfort zone.

Inadvertently, I found a previous recording of a group scene where I played the role of Ugly Duckling. Though I had the least lines, I tried the hardest. I was able to naturally kneel on the stage, cover my head with a black shawl and spurt out my jealousy as a blonde-haired girl rose up behind me as the swan. It now appears to me that the undaunted girl was not skilled at all, but she was just able to infect the audience with laughter and relief.

In order to return to the state of emptiness and faithfulness, I picked out a similar monologue recounting a girl’s experience and growth after her favorite character was taken by a prettier one and registered for the Trinity Acting Exam. Instead of getting right to the lines and movements, I spent a month to picture the backstory of the character and to act like her, like what I did before. The time she finally forgave those who looked down upon her and made peace with the world is when I naturally looked at the mirror and improvised the line, ‘Don’t shy away from the past, and don’t plague yourself with the things that are in the past.’ The honest moments brought me back to what I have been through and into what’s within my control. I could finally get into the character and felt a true frustration every time when working on the scene. I could finally burst out my emotion when shouting ‘Boy, I ran to my hideout and cried and cried’ without drowning in ego-centered regret. Without the step backward, I could have never taken a step forward.

On the day of the trinity acting exam, I stepped on to the stage, looked into the tepid spotlight, and, smilingly, started my journey.