Helping Middle Schoolers Conquer Stage Fright

(Kealing Middle School)

by Chris Peterson

I still remember the way the curtains looked from the wings. Heavy. Velvet. Red. They seemed impossibly tall, like they could swallow me whole. It was opening night of my middle school’s spring musical, and even though I was technically just part of the ensemble, standing in the back, clapping in rhythm during the big numbers, it felt like everything was riding on that moment. The lights were hot, the music had started, and my cue was coming fast. I froze.

My heart raced. My hands were slick. I couldn’t feel my feet. Every line I’d memorized, every blocking note I’d scribbled into the margins of my script, gone. My brain had packed up and left the building. I remember standing there, thinking: What if I mess up? What if I fall? What if I completely ruin this for everyone?

And then, somehow, I moved. I stepped onto the stage. I opened my mouth. I did it.

Was it perfect? No. Did I survive? Absolutely. And more than that, I fell in love. With the adrenaline, with the rush, with the feeling of doing something that scared me and coming out the other side stronger.

That early experience in theatre gave me something that’s stayed with me long after middle school. The understanding that fear and capability can live in the same body. That being scared doesn’t mean you aren’t ready. That the most transformative moments often begin with a deep, uncomfortable gulp.

Now, years later, I’ve worked with hundreds of students, some of them middle schoolers, and one truth remains consistent: stage fright is real, and it feels enormous at that age. It makes sense, of course. Middle school is a collision of contradictions. You’re self-conscious and attention-starved all at once. You want to stand out, but only if no one’s judging. Your body is changing, your voice cracking, and just when you think you have it all figured out, someone laughs at you in the hallway, and you start from scratch. So when you hand a student a script and say, “Go out there and perform,” what you’re really saying is, “Be vulnerable. Be brave. Be seen.” And that is no small thing.

Still, what always amazes me is how many of them do it. Despite the nerves, the sweaty palms, the whispers of self-doubt, they step into the spotlight. Not because they’re fearless, but because they want to find out what they’re made of. They want to prove to themselves and sometimes to others that they’re more than the awkward shell they’re growing out of.

As educators, directors, and mentors, our job isn’t to eliminate the fear. It’s to walk beside them through it. To give them the tools to manage it, the space to feel it, and the confidence to keep going anyway. That starts with acknowledging that the nerves are normal. I always tell my students that stage fright isn’t a sign something’s wrong. It’s a sign something matters. That rush in your chest, that trembling, that’s your body getting ready to do something bold. That’s adrenaline, and it’s not your enemy. It’s your spark.

There are practical things that help. Breathing exercises, for one. Simple, quiet moments to regulate the nervous system and ground them before curtain. Talking openly about what anxiety feels like can help too. Naming the butterflies in your stomach makes them a little less powerful. I’ve also found that rituals work wonders. Whether it’s a pre-show chant, a silly handshake, or just holding hands in a circle before going on, those moments of connection remind them they’re not alone. That they’re part of something bigger.

Of course, some of the most powerful strategies are the ones that shift the focus from performance to process. Praise effort. Applaud bravery. Celebrate the student who tries again after forgetting a line. Let them know that messing up isn’t the end. It’s part of the journey. One of my favorite things to do is record a rehearsal and play it back. Sometimes seeing themselves succeed on video helps them believe it in real life.

There are things we shouldn’t do, too. Telling a scared kid “You’ll be fine” might feel comforting, but it can also feel dismissive. They don’t feel fine. It’s better to say, “It’s okay to feel this way. I’m here with you.” Never push too hard when someone freezes. Give them space, offer a reset. And don’t ever make their fear the punchline. Quiet support is always better than public pressure.

What’s beautiful about middle school theatre is that it’s never just about putting on a show. It’s about the kid who finds their voice during auditions. It’s about the one who gets through the dress rehearsal without crying for the first time. It’s about the girl who didn’t think anyone would clap, but they did. Loudly.

And sometimes, it’s about the kid who steps out from the wings, scared out of their mind, and still moves forward.

I was that kid once. And I’m still grateful for every shaky step.