There’s a certain energy that only exists onstage.

The house lights dim. The grand drape opens. The butterflies – old friends at this point – return to the performers’ stomachs with a welcome ferocity.

And that’s just how I like it.

As a child, I was hopelessly introverted. My elementary school self read books at recess and lunch, preferring make-believe worlds to the present reality of those around me. Life was quiet then, even as I yearned for the confidence I saw in my peers.

But beginning in sixth grade, things started to look up. I can’t sing or paint or play instruments, so by process of elimination, I took theater as my fine arts elective. Unbeknownst to me, checking that little box on the pink course selection sheet changed my life.

I was immediately thrust into the spotlight: despite forgetting half of my audition monologue, I was selected to play the lead role in Spring Branch Middle School’s fall show, “The Love of Three Oranges.” Like a baby tossed into the deep end on TikTok, I learned to tread water in front of an audience. And before long, I began to swim.

Since that fateful box-checking, theater has often coincided with major events in my life. In my final middle school one-act play, I played Peter Pan, a role that earned me a concerning amount of fanfare from our rivals at Smithson Valley Middle School. (It was borderline stalker behavior: several girls I’d never met before acquired my phone number, set pictures of me as their phone lock screens and followed me to a track meet.)

Entering high school came a flurry of “firsts.” My first true embrace of Christian faith, my first time to ask out a girl, my first football game as a sideline reporter. There were several “firsts” onstage, too: my first kiss, first time to make my mother cry and first heartbreaking defeat all came in the Smithson Valley auditorium.

The following year brought another round of new developments. Suddenly, despite being a sophomore with only about a dozen articles under my belt, I was promoted to the role of sports editor for the Valley Ventana. I got my driver’s license and went on my first date. I played two of the most difficult roles I’d ever been assigned. And on March 13, 2020, I gathered with the rest of our one-act play company to watch Gov. Greg Abbott announce that Texas was shutting down.

No more rehearsals. No more shows.

On the off chance that things might improve, we continued to hold run-throughs over Zoom. But deep down, we all knew the gravity of the situation. We just wanted to hold on to hope for as long as possible. But eventually, we had to let go. I had to let go.

After a summer that was equal parts distressing and interminable, school reopened in August. But the stage, which had always been a place of refuge and escape, became a stark reminder of the world’s “new normal.” Onstage mask-wearing was mandated, our musical was canceled and patrons were banned from one-act Play performances. It felt like a spotlight was shining on our emotions, with nothing but an empty auditorium to comfort us.

Inner peace was scarce in those days. In December, the anxiety got so bad that I had to visit a doctor – I was struggling to breathe. Acting was the only thing that kept me sane in those days. Without it, why go to school? Why wake up at all?

Somehow, by the grace of God, I made it through that horrible year, growing closer to the other troupe members than ever before. It’s impossible to describe the relief I felt when the dismissal bell rang on the last day of school; things finally seemed to be looking up again.

But now, after what feels like the blink of an eye, the end is in sight.

After performing at our bidistrict one-act play competition this past week, we all agreed we’d given our best performance yet. Our show, “The Castle,” features stunning visuals and impressive technical work, not to mention the deeply emotional acting of leading man Rowen Hamilton and the rest of the cast.

But it wasn’t enough.

I’m not much of a crier, and even as the contest manager congratulated the schools that advanced over us, I managed to remain relatively stone-faced. But by the time we returned to our holding room to gather our belongings, I felt hot tears falling down my face.

“It’s over.”

I stumbled over to the corner and sat down, trying to wipe away the tears. A few people walked over and tried to comfort me, but I couldn’t bear to look at them; I couldn’t bear to think about what I was about to lose. My honorary family, some of my closest friends, all gone in the blink of an eye. Even in that moment, I knew that for the second and final time in my high school career, I would have to come to grips with a harsh reality:

No more rehearsals. No more shows.

It’s been seven incredible years since I joined theater, years that have changed my life for the better. But what goes up must come down, and after so many “firsts,” there has to be a “last.”

On Thursday at 7 p.m., I’ll take the stage for the final time. One last performance. And I’m not quite sure how I’ll feel when the curtains open. Perhaps I’ll reflect back on the years I’ve dedicated to acting. Maybe I’ll worry about what the future holds. Or maybe, just maybe, those old butterflies will come back one more time. One final ride.

And when the curtains close on “The Castle” that night, so too will they close on my theater career. I’ll hang up my costume for good.

And the real show – my life – must go on.