“Final bow, guys!”

As a cast member shouted these three words from somewhere behind, I became undone and rushed to the girls’ bathroom to prevent tears from pouring down my face and ruining my stage makeup in front of a packed auditorium. This was the final performance of “White Christmas,” and the last musical I would ever participate in at Canyon High School.

Every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday evening of my high school career has been spent in a large auditorium filled with plush, purple seats and the faint smell of freshly cut wood and a newly opened can of paint. The sound of character shoes can be heard clacking on the hardwood of the stage, and the quiet buzz of teenagers waiting to project their lines fills the air with anticipation.  Most importantly, the sound of thunderous laughter informs listeners throughout the school that there is more happening on the stage than simple script recital.

Through the characters I portrayed, I discovered myself. I found perseverance in Rosamunda Dewthistle from the One Act play “A Chemical Imbalance” and confidence in Martha Watson from “White Christmas.” With every production, I grew as a person alongside my character, and to this day, my characters remain deeply ingrained within me.

Not only did I learn about myself, but I learned about my place in the world as well. I found people that shared and reveled in my same passions. I learned how to work with others to create the best production possible and about the ceaseless pride that comes with a last performance. After spending countless hours with tired but ardent students, friendships I would have never imagined obtaining flourished.

So, hand in hand with the other actors, I took my final bow as the bright spotlights burning above us dimmed. No longer were we our characters, but a mosaic of personalities from every corner of the school, together in costume and in tears.

In the deep blue light guiding the students off the stage, I turned and left behind the program that transformed me into who I am today.

The rest, dear friends, is silence.