HE Broke My Trust, Theatre Didn’t : What Brought Me Back

The author of this piece has asked to be referred to as “Cynthia”.

Three years ago, I walked out of a rehearsal room and swore I’d never go back.

Not because I stopped loving theatre. Quite the opposite. I left because someone in power, someone who was supposed to guide me, mentor me, protect me—used that power to cross a line.

And when I spoke up, I wasn’t met with the chorus of support I imagined. I was met with silence. Or worse, sideways glances and whispered doubts. “Are you sure?” “He’s always been so respected…” “Don’t make this about drama.”

Funny thing, though—when you grow up with theatre in your bones, you don’t just un-love it. I tried. I really did. I filled my schedule with other things, told myself I didn’t miss it, told people I was “taking a break.” But then I'd hear a cast album and feel that tug in my chest. I’d walk past a black box theatre and ache like I was grieving. Because I was.

Theatre had been my safe place. Until it wasn’t.

What happened to me isn’t rare. And that’s part of what makes it so devastating. You think you’re the only one carrying this shame, this anger, this confusion—but you’re not. I’ve since met other people, across all genders, who’ve been hurt in similar ways. Our stories are different, but the impact is the same: we were taught not to trust the space we loved.

Healing didn’t happen overnight. It didn’t happen all at once. And for a long time, I thought it might never happen at all. But somewhere between the heartbreak and the silence, I started doing something that surprised even me: I started to miss collaborating. I missed rehearsals. I missed characters. I missed trusting someone enough to let them direct me.

A big part of what helped me heal was giving myself permission to not rush back. I see a therapist who specializes in trauma. I read books about boundaries and recovery. I found online support groups and anonymous message boards where people shared their stories and reminded me I wasn’t alone. And I leaned on a few close friends—people who didn’t try to fix it, but simply sat with me in the aftermath. That support became my lifeline. Slowly, I started to trust myself again.

Eventually, I gave myself a challenge. Just once, I told myself. I’ll audition for something small. Low stakes. If it’s awful, I can leave.

But it wasn’t awful.

The director was gentle. Transparent. Respectful. They asked before giving notes that touched on sensitive material. They checked in. They listened. And little by little, I began to loosen that knot of fear I’d been carrying. I cried after the first rehearsal—not because anything bad happened, but because nothing bad did. I wasn’t being watched like prey. I was just… being seen.

And from there, I started reclaiming something that was mine all along. I realized I still have a voice in the room. I get to set boundaries. I get to ask questions. I get to walk away if something doesn’t feel right. And more than that, I realized I still have something to say through performance, through story, through theatre.

It’s not always easy. Sometimes I still flinch at certain notes. I’m still rebuilding trust in an industry that failed me once. But I’m doing it. I’m coming back.

Because theatre never stopped being beautiful. It was just waiting for me to remember that I belong in the spotlight too, not because someone let me be there, but because I earned it.

And to anyone else who’s been hurt, silenced, or cast aside: I see you. Take your time. Find your way back on your own terms. The stage will still be there.

So will I.

And if no one told you yet today, you didn’t deserve what happened. It wasn’t your fault. And you’re not too “damaged” to create. The best art comes from truth, and your truth deserves a place in the light.