My Little Theater Improv Journey

My mother’s surgery has drifted me home and I cannot wrap up my improv class with the showcase. It’s the right decision. I’m happy I’m here. But like in improv, this situation can be both right and sad. So I write to feel less lonely.

Starting at Little Theater

At first, taking a class at the “Little Theater of Winston Salem” felt like a risk. A small local theater in a small city, offering “Improv 101”—it seemed almost beneath me. My arrogance whispered that perhaps there wasn’t much for me to learn here. I’d taken theater in high school, dipped my toes into the foundations of improv. Sure, it had been five years since I last touched a stage, but my identity and work told me I was a creative; I knew the basics. I even missed the first class—not out of arrogance, but due to another obligation—and when I saw the summary email highlighting “yes, and” as the foundational ingredient of improv, I thought to myself, “I freaking know ‘yes, and’,” and grew even more hesitant about what the class could teach me.

Walking into that largely black room, I was faced with historical relics of past shows this local theater company had put on. Posters and photographs adorned the walls, vibrant and vivid, framed with metallic borders that symbolized a quiet pride—not excessive, but a reminder to those walking in, like me, of who they were and what they were continuing to become.

On my first day, I was presented with Britt, our gregarious teacher, and immediately reminded about “Yes, and” again. We played the mirroring warm-up from high school, and I thought everything I was going to learn was already in my bag. I worried I might come off as flashy or that I didn’t belong here.

Feeling At Home

Looking around, I noticed our group was small yet diverse. I knew nobody’s name because I’d missed the first day, and while they learned mine during my brief introduction, none of that mattered. In a scene, you create a new name for your scene partner anyway. As I settled in, the theater’s energy rippled through me. Quite immediately, I felt at home again and in a posture of learning. I sensed that I was going to learn a tremendous amount because I hadn’t been so liberated to try and fail comfortably in a long while. That alone teaches you plenty, regardless of how much you conceptually know.

For instance, “Yes, and” is beautiful. You might conceptually understand its usefulness, but its truth isn’t manifested unless practiced. It grants entry into a world of possibility and novelty. Sometimes I witness intimately how scene partners transformed a moment.

One scene throughout the first weeks involved me as a secretary worried about “something” coming. My scene partner played the leader, and as I asked what to do, the situation diverted into the need to order bagels for our esteemed guests. The simple acceptance of each other’s ideas propelled the scene into unexpected humor and depth. Building upon each other’s contributions, I felt a surge of exhilaration—a reminder of why I loved theater in the first place. The boundaries of reality blurred, and for those few minutes, we inhabited a world crafted purely from mutual trust and creativity.

But then I broke the number one rule.

A Moment of Ego

On the first night I was on fire but I wanted to do something flashy and funny. In a game called Goalie— where there are two lines of people and you go down the line with one person on each side entering a scene for everyone to see and the one on the right initiates— I had planned a whole scene in my head. As my turn approached I could feel the anticipation in my chest - not from nerves but from the excitement of revealing my clever idea. I stepped forward and started my premeditated scene. My scene partner however took it in a completely different direction. My internal script unraveled and I was left standing under the bright lights with nothing. A wave of panic washed over me, my mind went blank and I could feel the heat rising to my face. The audience’s eyes felt like weights on me. Words failed me and the scene became jumbled and disjointed - the opposite of how I had felt earlier. I was embarrassed and I wished the floor would swallow me whole.

That was the first night.

I went home and disappointment followed me like a shadow. The memory of freezing replayed over and over and each time it got sharper and more painful. I had not followed the basic rules of improv because my ego had taken over; I had planned too much. A knot of shame formed in my stomach. How could I have been so arrogant? Doubt crept in and whispered I didn’t deserve to be in the class. But amidst all the self-loathing I found a determination. I told myself I would never do that again. In fact I was so repulsed by what I did I didn’t plan anything for the entire week.

Letting Go

I started to roll with serendipity, accepting what came to me in each moment. In conversations I listened more deeply, without an agenda. I found myself more naturally and deeply interested in a friend who was staying with me at the time. One evening we sat on the patio watching the sunset and I asked him about his childhood. He opened up in ways I never expected and shared stories of joy and pain. As he spoke a deep connection formed - not just to him but to the human experience. Letting go of control had opened doors to understanding.

I realized that a lot of improv is about relationships and stakes—like life. We make decisions based on our goals, our relationships—personally or philosophically. Do you get what I mean? Our relationship to our job, to food, to books, to the world. Whether our relationship is based on something fragile like identity or something solid like passion and love, it affects our motivations and outputs. This sunk in me like a little truth and changed how I approached not just improv but every interaction.

The next week I got to do another scene. I played a serious brother on a spring break trip to Iceland with my goofy sibling. We hadn’t spoken to each other our entire lives and now, in the midst of the surreal landscapes of Iceland, I tried to get us to talk about real stuff. As we stumbled through awkward conversations and unspoken resentments the humor started to give way to raw emotion. We confronted our shared pain over our nutty, crazy mother.

As the scene went on layers of tension and vulnerability emerged. My character’s frustration wasn’t just about my brother’s craziness; it was about years of missed connections and buried feelings. The exchange forced me to get fully into someone else’s head and deal with their motivations, fears and desires that mirrored my own hidden depths. It was really an example of the power of telling a story that reveals truths we hide from ourselves.

Moral Lessons

Walking away I was struck by how the scene showed me the complexity of real life relationships. Acting became an exercise in deep empathy. Getting into someone else’s shoes allowed me to see beyond the surface. This sank in deep and echoed out into my everyday life.

Late into the night, tired, another scene got us all. There’s wisdom in any scene and this one broke through our fatigue. It was about a world class surgeon who performed life changing surgeries. His scene partner was his patient and now pupil. The surgeon’s practice had been in his family for generations and his pupil wanted to follow in his footsteps. But shadowing the surgeon revealed a dark secret: he killed people and animals to meet his patients needs.

At one point he killed a bat for an optometry adjustment. The scene forced us to get into the character. Was this the first bat he’d killed? Did he mostly know human anatomy and was experimenting to avoid harming more people? In no way would I justify any actions, but the curiosity and multifaceted nature made us question the more colloquial gray areas between right and wrong and our own moral judgments.

I left that night loving the uncertainty of knowing others. People are messy, contradictory and trying to put them in a box does them a disservice. Some of the most earth shattering work that uproots transformative mind monuments comes from the simple admission of “Yes, and”. Accepting what’s offered without judgment, adding to it and seeing where it goes.

Leadership Lessons

One of my favorite scenes was on my last day, one of my last chances to get deep into the world of improv. Paired with one of my favorite scene partners we were given ‘candy cane’ as our prompt for a 5 minute scene. I played a professor on a field trip and she played a student wearing a candy cane suit – completely out of place for the occasion.

As the scene started I confronted her about her outfit, expecting a simple explanation or apology. Instead she stood firm and told me she had the right to self expression. What started as a fun little exchange quickly turned into a layered conversation about autonomy and the responsibilities that come with it. She challenged the norms I represented and asked why conformity was even necessary.

I felt a shift emotionally. My character’s frustration turned to introspection as her words hit home. The lines between the scene and reality blurred – I wasn’t just acting – I was wrestling with my own assumptions. The tension between authority and individuality became real. By stepping into her shoes I started to see how my own biases could cloud my judgment and block real connection.

We danced around these opposing forces and found moments of agreement in our differences. The scene didn’t have a neat ending but it showed the complexity of leadership and the importance of empathy. It was a big reminder that to lead authentically you have to be willing to listen and reflect and acknowledge that others have truth in their perspectives. Lessons like these are constantly expressed in improv, continually deepening my awareness of my capacity to love better.

Truth in Messiness

Improv is much like a mandorla—a philosophical concept where two realms intersect. It honors darkness and the light that casts it out, earth and heaven. It’s not of this world and yet can move mountains and bring us together.

You may notice in these scenes that characters and their relationships are not purely good or bad. There is no such thing as absolute. The merge of benevolence and evil, disconnection and understanding is what makes a good story. We end up laughing with our classmates because it’s an involuntary response to the truth of non-duality—the recognition that the world is both extremes at the same time. We laugh not just because it’s funny but because there’s something inside of us that recognizes the complexity in ourselves.

Truth in Art

The slow cooking, poetic nature of improv is grounded in world but takes us to another for a moment—to think, to reflect, to leverage our intelligence, our ability to create, to make something new, that’s not just as good as new but better than new. Art does this in many forms: poetry, Kintsugi—the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold—and improv theater’s beautiful platform that allows the sublime to slowly seep in.

As I look back on the class I realize improv is not just quick wit or comedic timing. It’s a microcosm of life—a space where acceptance, vulnerability and collaboration creates something more than the sum of its parts. I won’t be at the showcase but these lessons will stay with me. I’ll learn to embrace uncertainty, to listen deeply and to connect with others.

I feel less alone as I write this. My disappointment is softened by the experiences I’ve had and the growth I’ve gotten from them. The world of improv, with all its possibilities and truths, is inside me and will ever continue to be a gentle companion of wise truths as I walk through life.