Is Performance High Even a Thing?
- Rubi G.
- May 31
- 7 min read
If so, I believe I may have spent the past four weeks coming down from it. And what I mean by that is that my most recent artistic endeavor led me down a path that consisted of a 90-minute storytelling show called “Listen to Your Mother.” A show that originally started as a Mother’s Day event in Wisconsin. It has been reproduced approximately 250 times in over 50 cities across the nation since its inception in 2010. However, because I had never heard of the show, I didn’t realize how deeply significant and emotionally consuming this experience would be.
Before I get to that, though, let me tell you about how this opportunity came to be, just in case anyone is wondering how I approach these things. A few months ago, while attending one of my son's basketball games, I received a DM/Post from a fellow artist and trusted mentor who usually sends me calls for submissions or opportunities that I can take advantage of or forward to my network. After rereading the post several times and deciding if it’s something I could fully commit to, I signed up to audition. I purposely didn’t give it too much thought because uncertainty and fear would have convinced me out of the opportunity, as it had done many times before.
And although it seems like it was an easy decision to make, it hasn't always been that way. It still isn’t always that way. However, facing that fear or perhaps the alleged impostor syndrome has only gotten easier with time and practice. The more chances I take, the better I get at bypassing the crippling anxiety of it all. So, with the audition being approximately a month out, this was a decision I didn’t have time to ruminate over.
When signing up, however, I had no idea what poem or essay I would use to audition. I just felt called to say yes and to figure it out later. Additionally, I don’t even know why I considered using a poem when the call clearly stated they RARELY accept poetry. But in my mind, that translates to, any poem of mine can be the exception because it doesn’t say they NEVER accept poetry, and I wholeheartedly believed I had a chance anyway. All I knew, though, was that by the title and the theme of the production, I could easily edit an already written, unpublished piece, and that's exactly what I did.
About two weeks before the audition, I began editing a poem about motherhood and anxiety that I had drafted during my Latinx Mentorship Program last year. But I soon learned that editing a poem is far more challenging than editing an essay. At least that's the case for me, and as the days went on, the editing was becoming borderline frustrating. It was apparent that the poem would not be ready by auditions, and that instead of forcing a poem that would likely not make the cut, I should pivot and perhaps stress less by searching for an essay that had a better chance at being selected. They RARELY accept poetry, anyway, so why go against the grain?
The pivot then led me to material that had been sitting in my laptop for several years. Without too much hassle, I had found the perfect story--the one of how my husband and I chose our sons’ names. So, in the days leading to the audition, I edited and polished the draft until I felt it was GOOD ENOUGH. And since we didn’t have to memorize the piece, I didn’t stress over practicing it repeatedly. Besides, I now know I write with passionate vulnerability, so the piece will always speak for itself.
The audition was held at a charmingly small yoga studio in Maplewood, NJ. A town I had never been to but immediately became enamored with. The producers felt as warm and welcoming as the town itself, so I felt comfortable and at ease. I arrived slightly nervous but with confidence as big as my kinky-curly hair, and after brief introductions, some laughs, and the permission to "just go when I was ready," I dove right in. But fearing I would lose my place and pace on the page, I didn't bother making eye contact, even though I wanted to because I knew better. In that moment, however, I made the conscious choice of not letting the lack of eye contact derail me. This story had emotional depth, and that required me to stay focused.
Eye contact or not, by the end of the reading, all three of them seemed to have loved my story, and getting a call back felt promising until I started replaying the eye contact part. I then became doubtful and feared the worst. But instead of spiraling down a rabbit hole of insecurities, I decided to take deep breaths and remind myself that the moment had passed and I could not change it. Therefore, I could not dwell on how I would have done things differently. Besides, I was informed we would hear back by the following week. Certainly, I could not make myself suffer for an entire week, wondering if my lack of eye contact overruled the fact that my story was compelling enough to make the show.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned these past six years, it is how to trust my voice, because apart from a few rejections, every time I have done it, opportunities serendipitously work out in my favor. I have also learned that if something doesn’t work out, I can let it sting for a bit and move on to the next because there’s no time or energy to waste, and rejections are part of the game. But as fortune would have it, I didn’t have to suffer much because I got the call as early as the next day. My story made the show, sans eye contact.
In preparation for the show, however, my story was further edited and polished for the gut-wrenching effect of gripping the audience’s heart and not letting go until the very end until long after the show has ended. I was afraid to see how much my story would need to change for a show that was expected to sell out. But relief took over me when I read the newly transformed, but equally cathartic version of my story. I was beyond happy with the edits and the way the concluding paragraph dug its nails into my uterus and squeezed tight until I cried deep-rooted tears of grief and love.
Finally, I had been able to release emotions that were trapped both in my body and my laptop for far too long. This post, however, isn't meant to glorify me or my work. Nor is it to brag about yet another opportunity I was blessed with, but to shed light on the magnitude of what the retelling of someone's life experiences can do for yourself and others. On the first day of rehearsals, the producers warned us and provided boxes of tissues because the heightened emotions would be inescapable. Crying was to be expected. Stories of illness, death, birth, dreams come true, first loves, parental neglect, sexual assault, so on and so forth, were all beautifully and tenderly tethered by one single word—mother.
All the stories I experienced on day one, and every time thereafter, continue to have a lasting effect on me. Each story, each lived experience, varied in emotions. Each story was its own rollercoaster ride, and one could not help but buckle up and follow its every twist and turn, every up and down, and every unsuspecting jolt of rawness and vulnerability. While some stories were humorous, others were triggering, but as a mother, daughter, and human in general, they were all impactful. When the rehearsals wrapped up, I knew I was in for something major. Perhaps something inexplicable because it’s one of those things where you just had to be there.
Before this experience, I had never heard of or attended a Listen to Your Mother Show, which is now in its fifteenth year. But I soon learned and understood why the event usually sells out. There's a storyline for all, and even if it doesn’t resonate with everyone, each story carries with it an unforgettably transformative power. And thus, being cast in a show of such caliber could only prove that even if performance crashes didn’t exist, this one had the ingredients to cause some sort of ripple effect.
Before the show, we had two rehearsals several weeks apart from each other. On show day, we had a dress rehearsal and three performances thereafter, all within the span of one weekend. Consider being an active participant in an emotionally charged 90-minute show, which was relived numerous times in a short period. And then, suddenly, it ends. The mind, body, and spirit are left wondering, wtf just happened?! You embark on this wild ride with strangers whom you now feel a need to know more deeply. And as if I hadn’t already cried enough for myself and my castmates, it didn’t really hit me until I reread the story in Spanish to my non-English speaking husband.
This story, our story, involves the loss of both our brothers and how those losses played a significant role in choosing our sons’ names. While I was reading, we were both so overwhelmed with emotion that I could barely get the words out. He could not believe I had never shared these words with him. He could not believe I had these sentiments deeply embedded in me, that I captured the sacred experience of naming our sons so beautifully.
So, yes! I was [or probably still am] coming down from an exquisitely tumultuous rollercoaster ride. A ride I didn’t know I needed. A ride that confirmed for me the power of storytelling and the importance of sharing our universal truths for the sake of human connections and the push towards more empathy and compassion for others. The experience left me feeling high off life but also exhausted and emotionally drained. The Monday after, my castmates and I were most certainly feeling the blues, as we briefly discussed in the group chat. We felt the lethargy, sadness, emptiness, and brain fog that comes after a performance.
And to answer my question, yes, I guess if there's such a thing as a post-performance crash, then there must be a performance high to come crashing down from. Known as post-performance depression, the crash can be triggered by the end of intense preparation and a high-energy event. It is a drop in adrenaline and exhilaration. As a result, it’s taken me much longer to get back to the usual swing of things. It is why this blog post has taken me so long to write and publish. But we’re gradually coming back, and here we are!
Wow, what a beautiful story. I had no idea how the boys' names came about. What a powerful way to give them a new start.
Me encanta su trabajando