To the students who didn’t get into a BFA program, this one’s for you

by Chris Peterson

Maybe it was your dream school. Maybe it was five dream schools. Maybe you got that cute little “waitlist” email that feels like rejection wearing a nicer outfit. Maybe it was just a clean sweep of “we regret to inform you.”

Whatever it was, it hurts. I know. And I’m not going to do the toxic-positivity thing where I tell you it’s “all for the best” like that magically makes your stomach unclench.

But I am going to tell you something, clearly, before your brain spirals into the worst-case montage:

This is not the end of your story.

The theatre world loves a gate. It loves a velvet rope. It loves making 17-year-olds feel like if they don’t get stamped with the right program name at the right school at the right time, then… sorry kid, your artist card has been revoked.

That’s nonsense.

First of all, this industry is built on people being told “no.” If rejection were a major, every working artist I know would have graduated with honors. That letter does not define you. It doesn’t know what you sound like when you finally land a monologue. It doesn’t know what your design brain does at 2 a.m. when inspiration hits. It doesn’t know how you lead a room, or how you listen, or how much you care.

It’s a panel making a decision based on a tiny snapshot. That’s it.

And the good news is: there are a million other snapshots coming.

Here’s what I want you to do now. Not in a “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” way, but in a “you still have choices and power” way.

You pivot. You keep moving. You build your path on purpose.

You can go BA instead of BFA and still become a beast. Honestly, for some people, the broader freedom ends up being a secret weapon. Double major. Study something that feeds your artistry. Get onstage more. Direct more. Design more. Write more. Some BFA programs are incredible, yes. Some are also so competitive and so siloed that you spend half your time trying to prove you belong instead of actually doing the work.

You can go smaller. You can go somewhere that throws you into productions immediately instead of making you “wait your turn” behind a wall of upperclassmen. You can go to a community college with a legit theatre department and transfer later with more experience, more confidence, and less debt hanging over your head like a spotlight you never asked for.

And while we’re here, can we talk about the money part? Because nobody wants to, but we should. Being an artist is hard enough. You do not need to start your adult life buried under loans just to prove you’re serious. A cheaper route isn’t a lesser route. It’s a smarter one for a lot of people.

Also: training is not owned by universities.

Take voice lessons. Take dance classes. Take an improv class that scares you. Learn stage combat. Learn QLab. Learn Vectorworks. Learn the Adobe stuff. Learn how to audition on tape without wanting to throw your phone into the ocean. Some of the best teachers you’ll ever have are working professionals who teach on the side, or artists who run studios, or coaches who don’t have “Professor” in front of their name but can change your whole approach in one session.

And yes, get involved in community theatre.

Not as a consolation prize. As reps. As practice. As networking. As learning how to be in rooms with people of different ages and backgrounds and skill levels and still make something great. Community theatre will teach you humility, problem-solving, collaboration, and how to keep going when something breaks 10 minutes before curtain. Which, by the way, is basically the entire entertainment industry in a nutshell.

Intern. Usher. Volunteer. Be on crew. Be a PA. Say yes to the stuff that gets you close to the work.

If you want to write, write. Not “someday.” Now. Ten-minute plays. Scenes. A messy draft. A reading with friends in your living room. If you want to direct, find a festival, find a one-act, find a short piece and go. If you want to act, audition for the things that excite you and the things that terrify you. If you want to design, build a portfolio one project at a time. Student films. Local productions. Anything that turns “I want to” into “I did.”

And if you want to stage manage… congratulations, you are immediately the most employable person in the theatre ecosystem. Someone is looking for you right now. Like, literally right now.

Here’s the part I really need you to hear, though:

You never needed a gatekeeper to say yes.

You needed you to keep saying yes.

You’re allowed to be devastated. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to have your little dramatic moment where you stare at the ceiling and think, “Cool cool cool, I’m going to end up living in a van and doing Shakespeare in a Walmart parking lot.” (Honestly, still could be a vibe.)

Feel it. Let it be real.

But then take a breath and ask yourself the only question that actually matters:

Do I still want this?

If the answer is yes, then we have our plan.

Not “keep going” in a vague Pinterest quote way. Keep going in a practical, slightly stubborn, quietly relentless way. Keep going by doing the work. Keep going by finding rooms that want you. Keep going by building skills and credits and confidence until the idea that one program “decided your fate” feels laughable.

Because one day you’re going to look back at this email, this letter, this moment, and realize it didn’t stop you.

It redirected you.

And sometimes that’s where the real artist shows up.

You didn’t get into that program. That stings. But it is not the end.

It might actually be the beginning of the version of you who stops asking for permission.