This week’s blog post is brought to you by the sacred art of self-care… and the unrelenting march of deadlines.
I’ll be honest—I needed a breather. A moment to step out of the spotlight, sip something warm, and remember that rest is part of the rhythm. But blogs wait for no one, especially when they’re on a schedule. So instead of diving into symbolism or social justice this week, I’m inviting you backstage for something a little lighter and a little more unscripted.
We’re taking a joy-filled detour through some of my most memorable moments onstage starting with Phantom of the Opera. These are the stories that live in the wings—the ones that shimmer with absurdity, heart, and the kind of theatrical chaos that only live performance can deliver.
There are no links. I’m not going to try to sell you anything. Today’s post is sincerely just for fun.
So silence your cell phones, sit back and enjoy the show!
Christine: The Phantom of the Opera Unscripted
Bold disclaimer to start: I hated Christine. The character. Not the soprano, not the legacy—just Christine Daaé herself. I never wanted to be her. I auditioned for Meg Giry and ended up cast as Christine. And let me tell you, Christine made me want to scream at Erik’s mirror. Detestation. Vitriol. That was me and Christine.
And yet… despite all that, there were moments. Memorable ones. Ones that taught me things I didn’t expect to learn.
THE CHANDELIER
The first? Training in fear management.
You see, the chandelier in The Phantom of the Opera falls 30 feet in about 3 seconds—that’s 10 feet per second, or roughly 3 meters per second. My job? To stand perfectly still and watch it land at my feet.
Mind you, this chandelier is no delicate bauble. It weighs 1,300 pounds (600 kilos), spans 10 feet across, and stands just as tall. It’s rigged with 20 globe lights, thousands of crystals, and pyrotechnics. It’s held up by two cables, equipped with emergency stop mechanisms, and I was told—by both the director and the rigging technician—that I was safe. Nothing would happen. I just needed to stand on my mark and not move.
Stoicism. That was the job.
But no. Rehearsals were full of swearing, jumping out of the way, cowering, crying—because no matter how many times it ran, and no matter how many times I was told it was safe, having something that big, that heavy, that fast barreling toward your face and landing half a foot in front of you is petrifying.
The lights kick off right as it hits the stage for effect, but even so, you pray to the theater gods that the thing doesn’t go rogue. Because every time it falls, adrenaline surges. Anxiety spikes. Every fiber of your being screams move. And your job is to stand there and pretend you’re fine.
You block your spot. You stand at your mark. You watch the chandelier fall and pray the cables hold one more time. It crashes at your feet. The lights cut out. You breathe—because you can’t swear. Your heart is racing. Your body is buzzing. And the only thing that makes that fear worth it is the roar of the audience as the last orchestra note fades.
Only… Christine is deaf. Or at least, this Christine is deaf. So I didn’t hear the audience.
What I did have was Gabe—our Erik, our Phantom, our Opera Ghost. As soon as intermission hit, he placed a hand on my shoulder in the dark. A silent gesture. A grounding one. He didn’t know what it meant to me, but that hand became my cue: You’re okay. You can breathe. You can move now.
It was a moment of solidarity he never realized he gave me.
And it was everything.
I’M STILL HERE!
Speaking of Gabe, this one’s about him—not me.
At the end of The Phantom of the Opera, Erik sings that it’s over, sits on his throne, and covers himself with his cloak. Meg Giry walks over and removes the cloak to reveal only Erik’s mask—his final vanishing act. She holds it up for the audience to bear witness.
Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to go.
One of the rigger’s jobs is to come in early and test everything: scene changes, curtain cues, the chandelier’s descent, the boat’s radio controller (because the last thing we want is for it to die mid-journey), the wheels and track, and the trap mechanisms—including Erik’s chair. It takes about an hour and a half and is called early call.
That day, the team came in, ran every check, and gave the “all clear” to the stage manager, technical director, pyrotechnics lead, and main fly operator. Everything was on course, just like so many performances before.
Until it wasn’t.
The show ran smoothly. The chandelier scared the crap out of me, as always. The boat floated across its foggy lake. Gabe settled into his throne and sang his final notes.
Ingrid—our Meg Giry—walked over, just like always, and pulled back the cloak, expecting to find the mask.
Instead, she found Gabe. Still sitting there. No trap. No vanish. Just Phantom, present, confused, and very much still there.
After a five-second pause of “oh shit,” Gabe took the blunder in stride and bellowed at the top of his lungs:
“I’M STILL HERE!”
Ingrid froze for a beat, then pivoted like a pro. She shrieked with joy—“He lives!”—hugged Gabe, and improvised a brief, inaudible exchange. Gabe handed her the mask, covered his disfigurement with the cloak, and dashed offstage. Ingrid held up the mask, and the show ended—almost as planned.
Later, the rigger confirmed the trap had worked during early call. But during the show, it failed. Water had gotten into the wiring and shorted it out. We got a new chair after that.
Backstage, we were all trying so hard not to laugh. I felt for Ingrid—she handled it beautifully. But Gabe? Gabe turned a technical failure into theatrical legend. His quick thinking and presence of mind became a testament to the chaos, courage, and camaraderie that define live performance. It’s the kind of moment you can’t rehearse, only survive—and somehow elevate. That’s live theater: unpredictable, absurd, and absolutely unforgettable. Unhinged, unscripted, and still sacred to those who enter its doors.