ACT I

The momentous occasion of my conception was accompanied by a prophecy, as if foretold to the peoples far and wide, across all the lands.

To hear my mother tell it.

Despite all manner of truth serum, bribery and threats, she has stuck to her version of this story throughout my life.

When she found out she was pregnant with me, God spoke to her. He told her she was to have a son, and that he would be “known.”

I heard this story often—throughout childhood, adolescence, and well into adulthood. It lodged in my consciousness like a settled fact I never thought to question: I was destined for…something.

For all I know, new parents are instructed to infuse their children with this sort of Midas touch. Even if it’s a placebo, everything around them seems to turn to gold. Alternatively, it’s possible my mother saw this as a long-game opportunity to pull us out of poverty while handing me a gift far more valuable than an investment portfolio or a family trust.

Truth is, I think she simply believed her own story.

As a child and into adolescence, it was hard to escape the most obvious implication of what “known” might mean: Famous.

And yet I was always skeptical of religion and its assertions of divine messaging. If I had been honest with myself, and if I’d had the words to articulate it, “known” always represented more than fame. Serial killers are famous. Reality stars are famous. For 15 minutes.

To be known meant to have an impact. Not just to be seen, but to matter. To leave a legacy where it’s not my name that endures, but my work.

In 8th grade, the high school show choir came to perform at my middle school. I was mesmerized. They were singing and dancing at the same time! The girls wore sequined, flowing dresses, and the boys wore sequined vests and cumberbunds. I had never seen anything like it before. Yet it felt like I had found my...tribe.

At the end of their performance, the director left flyers announcing spring auditions for the fall — my freshman year.

I loved to sing. I just had no idea whether I was any good. I prepared a song for the audition and performed it bravely and nervously.

I became the first freshman in years to be cast in the high school show choir.

Through high school, the momentum only built. I landed roles in musicals, danced front and center in major show choir numbers, and secured multiple solos. I became known for my dancing—and was named dance captain. I was a mainstage finalist at a regional solo competition.

I lived and breathed singing and dancing, and the momentum carried straight into college. I auditioned for the university’s show choir and made Varsity on my first try. We traveled to New York City, performed in Carnegie Hall, and recorded two albums with the Cincinnati Pops.

I majored in musical theatre. My days were filled with ballet, modern, jazz, and tap. Acting classes every semester. Shakespeare. The history of musical theatre. Independent study on how great musicals were built from their source material. I loved this!

I was accepted into an elite cabaret group of only ten performers. I was consistently cast in plays and musicals, landing the lead in the major production of my senior year. I traveled to Memphis and St. Louis for regional cattle calls and received dozens of callbacks and several offers — a big deal for a first-timer, I was told.

At every turn, I received validation that I had both talent and presence. So when I left college and landed in Chicago, I did so not with arrogance, but with a feeling of inevitability. I had learned what hard work required, onstage and off. Talent alone wouldn’t carry the day. But grit, practice, and tenacity just might.

The first months in Chicago were wondrous. Part of it was the city itself — a smorgasbord of anything at any hour. Mostly, though, it was the access to so much art and theatre. I quickly invested in new headshots — expensive ones, but worth it. I found an acting class. And a voice coach. I signed with an agent and began going out for commercials.

My sights were set on Broadway and New York. California and Los Angeles called to me, but as a classically trained actor, Hollywood did not. And Chicago—Chicago meant Steppenwolf. The Goodman. Giants of American theatre.

Most days, though, the role I played was that of a struggling actor. When I first arrived in Chicago, I landed three jobs in one day. Those consumed most of my time until I was able to consolidate to just one.

Even then, it was chaotic. It was at once exhausting and exhilarating. I juggled jobs, auditions, classes, and rehearsals — learning how to survive while waiting for the breakthrough.

But I never doubted I was on the right path. I had been told I would be known. And here, it didn’t feel mythic—like a prophecy. It felt like a path.

Like one foot in front of the other.