5 Things I Wish I Knew Before Majoring in Theatre (That I’m So Glad I Know Now)

My 2001 college production of ‘Hotel Paradiso’. I’m in the fez on the far SR. (Elmira College)

by Chris Peterson

I get asked this more than you would think: “Did you always know you wanted to study theatre?”

And the answer is yes… and no.

Yes, in the sense that I could feel it in my bones early on. No, in the sense that I had absolutely no idea what that meant beyond “I enjoy attention” and “I seem emotionally attached to people singing their feelings under a spotlight.”

I didn’t know it would eventually involve declaring a major, meeting with an advisor, and trying to explain to my parents that I wasn’t joining the circus, I was simply choosing a career path that looks like the circus from the outside.

Looking back, I wouldn’t change my path. Not for anything. But I do wish someone had pulled me aside before I dove in headfirst like an uncoordinated golden retriever and said, “Hey. A few things. Just so you’re not shocked when this gets weird.”

Not warnings. Not “don’t do it.” More like… emotional coupons.

So here are five things I wish I knew before I majored in theatre, told with love, mild embarrassment, and the kind of hindsight that only comes from surviving multiple tech weeks on three hours of sleep and one granola bar.

1. You’re not choosing a major. You’re joining a community. And it will become your entire personality.

When I signed my major declaration form, I thought I was picking a subject. Like you do. Like a normal student. Like someone who doesn’t own seventeen black t-shirts “for rehearsal.”

What I didn’t realize is that theatre is less a major and more a small nation. With its own language, rules, rituals, and a sacred hierarchy in which the stage manager is basically God.

Suddenly, your life becomes late-night rehearsals, coffee-fueled scene study sessions, and bonding with strangers over shared trauma like “we just did that dance break on a rake for no reason.”

You will find a chosen family. You will overshare with them immediately. You will absolutely cry in front of them at least once, possibly over something as simple as “the light cue was late, and it ruined my entrance.”

It’s community. It’s intense. It’s beautiful. It’s also mildly alarming how quickly you stop hanging out with non-theatre people because they “don’t get it.” (They do get it. They just have boundaries.)

2. Training as an artist prepares you for everything… including jobs that don’t involve jazz hands.

Yes, I learned how to act. I also learned how to:

• speak confidently while panicking internally

• take feedback without combusting

• improvise when a prop disappears (again)

• solve problems in real time with zero resources

• remain kind while someone is fully spiraling over a missing beret

You learn empathy. Communication. How to be brave when your knees are shaking, and your voice is doing that fun thing where it suddenly sounds like a middle schooler asking a question in class.

And the wild part is: those skills translate. Whether you end up performing, directing, teaching, writing, producing, or sitting in an office pretending you don’t have the urge to vocally warm up before a presentation, theatre training stays useful.

You basically major in “how to function under pressure with excellent posture.”

3. It’s okay not to know your “type.” Theatre school is literally where you figure out what you are.

Early on, everyone gets obsessed with “type.”

Am I the romantic lead? The comedic relief? The quirky best friend who belts? The slightly haunted character actor who makes one devastating monologue and then dies?

And I get it. It feels comforting to label yourself. It’s like branding. It’s like, “If I know my type, I will never again feel lost.” Which is adorable.

But majoring in theatre is about discovery. You’ll get cast in things you never saw coming. You’ll surprise yourself. You’ll also go through phases where you’re like, “I think I’m a serious dramatic actor,” and then you’ll do one Shakespeare scene and realize, “Actually I am a stressed-out ham with feelings.”

You grow into roles. You grow out of them. You try things on. You find out what fits.

And offstage? Same. You do not need to be fully formed at 19. Honestly, no one is. Some people just lie better.

4. The hustle is real. But so is the heart. And also the cold pizza.

Let’s not sugarcoat it: theatre is work.

Auditions. Callbacks. Rejections. Repeat. You will learn resilience whether you want to or not. You will become very familiar with the phrase “Thanks for coming in” and the special kind of silence that follows it.

But you will also experience a joy that’s hard to explain to people who haven’t been there. There is magic in staying up past midnight painting a set. In running lines in a hallway. In hearing the first laugh from an audience and thinking, “Oh. That. That’s why.”

Also: you will learn that your body can, in fact, survive on adrenaline, caffeine, and whatever snack someone’s mom brought in a Tupperware container.

It’s exhausting. It’s ridiculous. It’s deeply meaningful. Sometimes all in the same hour.

5. Success in theatre looks different for everyone, and that’s the one thing that actually makes it feel survivable.

When you start, you think success means one thing: name in lights, big stage, applause, glamorous life, no student loans (LOL).

But over time you realize success is much bigger and much weirder than that.

Success can be directing your first student production. Or teaching theatre to kids and watching them find confidence. Or getting cast in something that scares you. Or writing something honest. Or building a life where your creativity still has oxygen, even if you’re not living the exact dream you pictured when you were 18 and dramatic.

Theatre doesn’t guarantee you a specific future. What it does is open a door to a thousand possibilities, some of which you can’t even imagine yet.

And sometimes the path you didn’t plan for becomes the one that fits you best.

If you’re considering majoring in theatre, or you’re just starting out, here’s what I’ll say: stay open. Be curious. Say yes. Let yourself be bad at things for a while. Let yourself change.

Because one day you’ll look back and realize you weren’t just learning how to perform.

You were learning how to live.

And also how to carry a flats wagon without throwing out your back, which frankly might be the most transferable skill of all.