embracing discomfort

I was born in a small town called Foix, and grew up in a house on top of a mountain. 

It was a beautiful and secluded place, where my brother and I (my older brother, closest to me in age) roamed free on our hundred and twenty acres of land, a massive playground where our imaginations and creativity flourished. All the creativity in me that I’ve used to birth the many long-term dreams of my adulthood – it all stems from those early adventures and imaginings, running across the forested hills. 

The youngest of five, I was definitely the Quiet Child. Most of my younger years were spent in quiet observation of the people around me. My mother traveled extensively for work, and I often accompanied her; this led, I think I’ve mentioned before, to many experiences and interactions with kids who had special needs, and instilled in me a deep love and appreciation for them. My Father was a generous man, full of energy and always willing to serve his fellow men. He was the kind of man who owned a truck just so he could help people move house, and to get their cars out of the ditch in winter time. Much like the rest of us, however, he had his own inner demons knocking frequently at his door. He’d come from a very abusive home, and it led to him dealing very poorly with stress later in life. My siblings and I often endured physical and emotional abuse of a similar (though luckily much watered down) nature to what my father had endured as a child.

Standing up to my father for the first time at the age of fourteen was one of the biggest directional shifts of my life. It didn’t come, of course, until after I’d had all my carefully built comfort zones completely obliterated, a joke fate so often likes to play. This takes a bit of explaining:

So, my best friend had become increasingly absent of late, both after school and on weekends. I discovered the reason was that he had joined a program called Summerstock. All I knew about this program was that it was a kind of musical theatre, and it apparently took up a lot of its participants’ free time. After spending many lonely weekends on my own in a stressful environment (read: home), I decided to check it out. If my best friend was having so much fun with it, how bad could it be?

Summerstock quickly introduced me to the strangest group of misfits I have ever met. Everyone was talented, yes, but also highly individualistic, and obnoxiously unique. After a cautious period of entry, I found that this pervasive, in-your-face method of honouring peculiarity actually made it easier to be myself - there was no judgment here. I grew to know and love those people in a way that was completely new; it was a sense of family and belonging I had not experienced before. They challenged me in new ways, and broke me free of my isolating comfort zones. Summerstock became my new home, so much so that when I was fifteen I left my parents’ house and became what you might call a professional couch surfer - staying with my new friends and their families to (permanently) avoid having cohabitate with mine. Just ask my wife how many ladies introduced themselves as my mother at our wedding: I spent this period in my teens collecting parents. I did stop by my house every so often to see my own mother, but would quickly find reasons (often unhappy ones) to be off again, the same day or shortly after. 

It was on one of these occasions that my father came into my room and announced he was leaving. I didn’t quite understand, at the time, that he meant he was leaving for good … maybe I didn’t care (or told myself I didn’t). 

After that day, I didn’t see or talk to him for seven years. 

All seven of those years I threw myself into Summerstock completely. I went from the weird quiet kid who looked up at all the energetic, charismatic seniors with stars in his eyes, to (and this was quite shocking to me) actually being one of those larger-than-life people others looked up to. I had become someone else entirely. A BIG person. 

It was around this time I found out my father had terminal brain cancer. I quickly learned he had already gone through chemotherapy, and had less than a year to live. After years of silence, I wasn’t sure I knew what my father meant to me anymore – but as I felt my heart shatter into little pieces upon receiving the news, I guess I had a pretty good idea. It took me months to muster up the courage to see him; I knew that I needed to make my peace while I still had the chance. 

To my amazement, our first meeting quickly evolved into tears and hugging. It was father’s day; I met his new wife, who seemed lovely, and a good match for him. We spoke for some time: mostly he wanted to know what my life had been like since he’d stopped being a part of it. He was thrilled to find out I was part of a musical theatre program (he’d always had a passion for musical theatre). I invited him to a dress rehearsal for our performance of Grease, where I played the role of Kenickie, and what followed was one of the most cherished and tender memories that I have. He saw me perform “Greased Lightning” (In the Broadway version of Grease, Kenickie sings this song, not Danny). Here I was a grown man, surrounded by people who loved and looked up to me, singing and dancing my heart out. My Father sat at the peak of the stage with tears in his eyes, and as I hit the final note of the performance, he painfully climbed out of his chair and pulled me into the strongest embrace his weakened body could manage. We stayed there for a while, both crying in what must have been a seriously awkward and confusing moment for a lot of the other cast members. I remember hearing things like “Who is that guy??” Although I had close relationships with almost everyone in the cast, my past (especially with regard to my father) was not something well known. 

Later, back in the hospital, my father and I talked about life and the passions we shared. He told me his one wish for me was to one day create a place that made people happy, a place like Summerstock had been for me. I fully intend to fulfill his dying wish. Summerstock is still a huge part of me, even today. The things I learned and the growth I went through I could never put a price on. 

I was not alone in this feeling of refuge - far from it. A few years into the program, I finally realized that a lot of people were drawn to it as a means of becoming someone else, aspiring to live a different life through characters on stage. It was a safe place for young people to grow up and become who they were meant to be, away from troubling influences and damaging judgments. It saved more than one teen from drugs, addiction and suicide.

I am eternally grateful to my dad for helping me shape that dream, and for adding such gravity to an already goal-fuelling memory. Both before and since, other major life shifts have shaped me and the things I hope to achieve; my dad passed away in 2010, but I share these dreams now with my wife.  We are currently working on a dream board together to put up in our home. As an artist, my wife is sketching out different aspects of our goals, long and short term, and as they are met, we colour them in to complete the big picture.

I write this blog as a way to liberate the big picture I’ve got swirling around in my brain. To paint a full picture of WHY I do what I do. We all have a story, and I believe it’s of the greatest importance to figure it out. Life is about discovering who we are, and continually progressing. We shouldn’t shy away from hard decisions and unsettling experiences. Discomfort will always equal growth, in some form or another; the more uncomfortable you are, the more growth you achieve. Everybody wants their life to change and yet no one wants to do anything different! Picture your life as though you are in the middle of a circle. This circle is called your “comfort zone”. Everything you want is outside this circle; the only way to get those things is to make your circle bigger. There are no shortcuts, no cheats to get ahead in life. You can only choose to develop yourself.

I have found and chosen a vehicle to achieve my dreams, and in so doing, I know I’m going to help thousands of people achieve theirs. If you don’t have dreams… it’s not because they never existed, it’s because you gave up on them. Dig them back up and decide: is the discomfort ahead worth living your dreams for the rest of your life?

I hope the answer is yes.