(My) Story

I knew what I wanted to be.

I wanted to be a star.

I wanted to be famous.

I started as a singer. Even though I was shy, I would sing anytime, for anyone. Singing was my invisibility cloak: I could be the singer instead of the shy little girl.

Music was how we gathered. It was the seventies; there was always music playing. It was celebration and grief, conflict and comfort, laughter and wonder. It was how we spent time together.

Singing was how I first learned that one human being could move another.

That love led me to the theatre.

I was fortunate enough to study extraordinary craft, work with remarkable artists, and build a life on stages.

Over the years, I realized the theatre was asking more of me than talent.

Being a star was never just about applause or magazine covers.

The work required me to have greater access to myself.

Again and again, the work asked for more.

More attention. More imagination. More listening. More courage. More generosity. More of my humanity.

As my capacity grew, I began to notice those same qualities mattered just as much beyond the stage.

In rehearsal halls. In classrooms. In recording studios. In conversations.

The rooms changed. The work didn’t.

Today, whether I’m performing, writing, coaching, leading workshops, or standing behind a microphone, I’m still asking the same question:

What does it mean to be Human together?

I don’t believe there’s one right way to communicate. Or one right way to lead. Or one right way to tell a story.

I believe every person already carries a voice worth hearing.

And lately I keep returning to the child who said she wanted to be a star. I understand her differently now.

We are, quite literally, made of stardust.

Maybe the work was never to become a star at all. Maybe it is to recognize what is already luminous in us—and to help reflect that light in one another.

We are already stars.