Theatre People Become Very Good at Appearing Fine

by Chris Peterson

In the days since Josh Grisetti’s death, I keep thinking about how many people have described him as kind, funny, generous, and supportive. Those descriptions match the person I knew. Josh and I would occasionally message each other about theatre education, often discussing audition technique and the responsibility programs have to be more thoughtful and conscientious in their student selection. He cared deeply about how young artists were trained, evaluated, and supported once they entered these programs.

I also know that none of us can fully understand what another person is carrying. I won’t pretend to know what Josh was experiencing or try to find an easy explanation for his death. Suicide is far too complicated for that.

But his death has made me think about something I have seen throughout my life in theatre: theatre people can become very good at appearing fine.

Theatre people, whether a performer, designer, or stage manager, are trained to enter a room with confidence. We learn how to smile through nerves, take direction while embarrassed, work through exhaustion, and keep going after being rejected. Teachers, directors, and administrators learn to steady the room for everyone else. When something goes wrong, we adjust, cover, and continue.

Those skills can be useful. They can also follow us home.

I have worked with people who told me they were struggling much more deeply than anyone around them realized. They came to rehearsal prepared. They made jokes. They helped other people with their problems. They gave strong performances and then went home to lives that felt far less manageable.

I went through moments of this myself. When I was in college, there were stretches when I questioned my worth, whether I was genuinely happy, where I fit in the world, and whether I still belonged in it at all.

I could still go to rehearsal, do my job, laugh with people, and appear completely functional. Inside, I was having thoughts that frightened me. Very few people would have known, because I had learned to keep moving and to give everyone the version of me they expected to see.

I am grateful that some people around me could see I was not okay, even when I was trying to act as though everything was fine. I spoke honestly with a few people I trusted, and they helped point me toward the therapy and support I needed. With that help, I was able to work through those periods. It also taught me how dangerous it can be to assume that someone is doing well simply because they are functioning, staying busy, or surrounded by people who love them.

Theatre is filled with people who know how to perform joy. That does not mean the joy is fake. A person can genuinely love their friends, their students, and their life while also experiencing profound pain and depression.

Everyone working in this industry should work to create spaces where people do not always have to be “on.” It means reminding people that needing help does not make them unreliable, dramatic, or unprofessional.

And when someone tells us they are struggling, we have to take them seriously.

I hope the theatre community remembers Josh for the joy, kindness, and generosity he gave to so many people. I also hope we allow his death to remind us that we cannot always see what someone is carrying from the performance they give the rest of the world.

Sometimes the person making everyone else laugh is still hurting. Sometimes the person offering support needs support themselves. We should make it easier for them to say so.

If you or someone you know is experiencing emotional distress or thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 in the United States and Canada to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If there is an immediate danger, contact emergency services.