Slimming Down Didn’t Get Me the Role, But It Gave Me Perspective

by Chris Peterson, OnStage Blog Founder

I was 21, a senior in college, and trying like hell to prove I belonged. My theatre program was stacked with talent, and when it was announced that M. Butterfly would be part of our upcoming fall season, I saw a rare opportunity on the horizon. That spring, my professor pulled me aside and said he was seriously considering me for the role of Song Liling. I was elated. He also said, kindly and directly, that I should consider slimming down over the summer if I wanted to be in real contention.

Now let’s pause there.

At the time, I didn’t consider this fat-shaming and still don’t. It didn’t come wrapped in cruelty or humiliation. He wasn’t mocking me, and he wasn’t dismissing me. He was trying to mold me into what he thought the part needed. Looking back, it was one of the first times I realized how intertwined body and casting could be, not just on Broadway but right there in our little theatre on campus.

And yes, we were doing M. Butterfly because our department, somewhat unusually for an American college theatre program, had a significant number of Asian students. It made sense for our season, for our community, and it felt like a meaningful, relevant choice. It also meant that the competition for those roles was fierce, personal, and rooted in shared cultural identity.

So I tried. I made changes. I exercised more, watched what I ate, and stayed focused that entire summer. I wanted that role so badly, not just because it was a lead, but because Song Liling is a complicated, heartbreaking character. I wanted to be the one to carry that story. I put in the work, I showed up prepared, and I left every ounce of effort in that audition room.

And I still didn’t get it.

I wish I could say I was okay with that right away, but I wasn’t. It stung. Rejection always does. And when you’ve made changes to your physical self in pursuit of a part, the rejection can feel especially personal. But here’s where the real lesson came in. I had to decide whether that feedback would destroy me or develop me.

It developed me.

That experience taught me discipline. It taught me that even if I didn't get the role, the work I did on myself still mattered. It reminded me that directors, even when well-meaning, often see a role first and a person second. And it forced me to understand the reality that theatre, like life, sometimes asks you to change, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself in the process.

I carried that moment with me through every future casting process I faced. Not as a wound, but as a marker. A reminder that I am more than any single role, that my worth doesn’t live or die in the cast list, and that my body is not a liability, it’s just one of many tools I bring to the stage.

Years later, I’ve directed folks of my own. I’ve been on the other side of that audition table. And I’ve thought back often to that conversation, to that show, to that version of myself that wanted something so badly he was willing to change for it. I don’t regret a second of it. Not the effort, not the disappointment, and not even the fact that the role went to someone else.

Because I may not have played Song Liling, but I learned something that’s lasted much longer than any run of any show. If you’re going to change yourself for this art form, make sure it’s a change you can live with, not just one that checks a casting box.

And don’t let one role define your story.

What that professor gave me, intentionally or not, was the beginning of resilience. Not the kind that comes from winning, but the kind that builds when you don’t. The kind that says, “I didn’t get the part, but I’m still here. Still learning. Still showing up.”

And that’s what theatre is at its core. Showing up. Trying again. Taking the note. Doing the work. Learning what to keep and what to let go.

I didn’t play Song Liling. But I played other roles that challenged me in different ways, roles that fit my body and voice and soul in ways that part never would have. And more importantly, I found ways to write my own stories and to help others tell theirs. That’s the legacy I carry with me, not the one I missed.

Let that be the takeaway. Not whether someone told you to slim down, or stand taller, or cut your hair, or wear your voice differently. Let the takeaway be what you choose to do with those moments, how you turn them into fuel instead of anchors.

And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll have your own story that didn’t go the way you hoped, but still taught you everything you needed to know.