A Love Letter to Community Theatre Volunteers

by Chris Peterson

There is a moment in every show, right before the lights go down, where everything feels a little electric. The audience settles in. The set is waiting. The room changes. And for a second, it all feels effortless.

But of course, it never is.

That magic people feel in a community theatre doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. It gets built. Slowly, carefully, and usually by a group of people who are not getting paid, not getting praised nearly enough, and somehow still showing up because they care that much.

And honestly, I think we do not talk about that enough.

We are very good at celebrating what is right in front of us. The performers get applause, as they should. Directors and choreographers get recognized, as they should. Designers get their flowers when people notice how beautiful everything looks, as they should. But the volunteers, the people who are often holding the whole thing together with gaff tape, safety pins, and pure willpower, are too often treated like part of the furniture.

They are not.

They are the reason the thing happens.

They are the ones painting flats late at night after working a full day somewhere else. They are sewing, organizing, cleaning, building, selling concessions, folding programs, answering questions in the lobby, finding missing props, calming people down backstage, and somehow locating extra bobby pins like it is a sacred calling. They are the first people in the building and very often the last ones to leave.

And the funny thing is, if they do their jobs really well, nobody notices.

That is the curse of good volunteer work in community theatre. If everything runs smoothly, people just assume it all came together. They do not always see the person who made the coffee, fixed the microphone, cleaned the bathroom, taped the hem, reset the props table, or stayed after everyone else left to sweep up the confetti and lock the doors.

But those people matter just as much as anyone taking a bow.

Honestly, some of the hardest working people I have ever met in theatre have been volunteers. Not because they had to be there. Because they wanted to be. Because they believed in the show, in the space, in the people, in the idea that this strange little thing we do together actually means something.

And it does.

Community theatre only works because people keep choosing to give themselves to it. Parents. Retirees. Students. Former performers. Board members. Audience regulars. People who just love theatre and want to help in whatever way they can. That kind of generosity is not small. It is the entire engine.

And let’s be honest, volunteer does not mean amateur in the way some people still want to use that word. I have seen volunteer crews do work that would put some paid teams to shame. I have seen incredible sets, beautiful costumes, smart front of house operations, and backstage crews that could keep a production moving through absolute chaos without missing a beat. The lack of a paycheck does not mean the lack of skill. Usually it just means the love has to work even harder.

So yes, clap for the cast. Clap for the creative team. Clap for the orchestra. But maybe also take a second to notice the person who handed you your program or sold you a raffle ticket or helped seat you before the show. Maybe thank the person in the booth, or the one restocking the restroom, or the one hauling set pieces through a dark hallway while everyone else is out celebrating opening night.

Because without them, there is no opening night.

There is no curtain speech. No intermission snacks. No clean lobby. No working headset. No set change. No production. No theatre.

That is the part I think people forget.

Community theatre is not held together by talent alone. It is held together by people. And so many of those people are volunteers who give their time, their energy, their patience, and a frankly ridiculous amount of emotional labor to make sure the show goes on for everyone else.

So to every volunteer out there, truly, thank you. You are not in the background. You are not extra. You are not just helping out.

You are the reason this all works.