How Do You Say Goodbye to a Show That Hurt You?

by Chris Peterson

This started with a comment I saw on Facebook. I had posted about feeling the usual post-show blues, and in the replies, another actor said, “How do you deal with post-show blues/sadness after finishing a show that was not good to you?” And it hit me. Because we never talk about that part.

There’s a very specific kind of heartbreak that happens when a show you poured your time, energy, and heart into ends, and all you feel is relief.

Not because you’ve completed a good run. Not because you’re proud of your work and ready to move on. But because, honestly? The whole thing kind of broke you.

In theatre, there’s this unspoken expectation that every production is supposed to be some magical, transformative experience. That even if the process was hard, you’ll walk away better for it. But what about when that’s not true?

What about when the cast was mean? When you dreaded showing up to rehearsal because the group chat was toxic, or you were made to feel like an outsider from day one? What about when the director was overbearing or belittling, constantly undermining your confidence until you couldn’t tell if you were even a good actor anymore? What about when you gave your best and still felt invisible?

We tell actors to be grateful for every opportunity, but being grateful and being treated with respect are not the same thing. And sometimes a show just hurts.

So how do you say goodbye to that?

You do it honestly. You let yourself grieve what you hoped the show would be. You mourn the version of the process you thought you'd get. And then, little by little, you remind yourself that one production does not define your worth.

You do not owe a toxic experience a standing ovation. You do not have to fake nostalgia just because the curtain came down. You’re allowed to walk away with your head held high, knowing you survived something hard, and that’s a kind of strength not everyone gets to flex.

And maybe the goodbye is quiet. Maybe you don’t post a long closing night caption. Maybe you take a break from cast members who drained you. Maybe your farewell is just peace.

Because at the end of the day, theatre is supposed to be collaborative. It’s supposed to be joyful. And if a show robbed you of that, then the best goodbye you can give is to promise yourself that you’ll seek better. That you’ll protect your energy. That the next time you say yes, it’s to a team that lifts you up, not one that tears you down.

And look, sometimes people won't get it. They’ll ask why you’re not more sentimental. They'll say things like, “Wasn’t it worth it in the end?” or “I had such a great time, didn’t you?” And it’ll sting. Because it feels like your pain is being rewritten, like your experience is being erased. But their joy doesn’t cancel out your hurt. Both things can be true.

You are still allowed to love performing, even if this particular production let you down. You are still allowed to call yourself an artist, even if this one experience made you question everything. One cast, one director, one toxic work environment, none of that has the power to undo your talent.

So you say goodbye by telling yourself the truth. This wasn’t the dream. This wasn’t what you hoped it would be. But it’s not the end. It’s not even close.

You’ll do another show. A better one. With kinder people, stronger leadership, and a process that reminds you why you fell in love with theatre in the first place.

And when that day comes, and it will come, you’ll realize you didn’t just survive a bad experience. You grew. You learned what you need, what you won’t tolerate, and how to advocate for yourself.

That’s a powerful goodbye.