Nine years ago, I stood in a crowded room, adrenaline surging through me as I screamed, “I TOLD YOU TO STOP!”

I was playing Margot in Erin Lekovic’s short play “David Makes His Rounds.” The character was confronting a man who had assaulted her in the past, a man now trying to brush it off and reconnect at a high school reunion.

She was not having it.

The performance took place in a Chicago church basement, transformed to look like a high school reunion. The audience stood among the actors, doubling as party guests and witnesses to the unfolding drama.

That weekend, during those performances, as Margot unfolded onstage, I also unfolded a bit.

I’ve often wondered about the itch performing scratches for me. Part of it is the emotional wish fulfillment of stepping into another life, giving myself permission to embody someone else’s gestures and emotions, whether subtle or explosive. In real life, I take time to process how I feel; an in-the-moment outburst like Margot’s is rare for me. But acting cracks something open, letting me step outside myself.

I’ve been this way since childhood. As a little kid, I had this issue where I would feel everyone’s feelings. If you cried, I probably cried too! I was always on alert for emotional volatility in others, and sort of abandoned harder feelings in myself because they were always coming at me in the world.

Back then, my dreams were full of surreal confrontations and tantrums—scenes that mirrored moments in my actual waking life when I had stayed silent to make things feel more peaceful. Performing replaced those dreams, giving me a runway to explore untold aspects of myself and discover them in the moment in a safe space.

These days, I’m still onstage, whether I’m performing scripted work or improv comedy.

Improv demands immediate commitment from the performer: no overthinking, just making big, wholehearted choices and offering support. During a 30-minute set, I can be an egotistical witch, a shame-ridden stepdad, an overly optimistic pigeon or whatever else I wish to conjure.

“Performing isn’t an escape from myself at all. It’s a door I step through to encounter new parts of myself.”

Every character I play delivers a fragment of truth—about them, about me, about the messy spectrum of human feeling. In that way, performing isn’t an escape from myself at all. It’s a door I step through to encounter new parts of myself.

My slow, methodical way of processing emotions used to frustrate me. In college, while playing a character who had to break down and sob, I realized with dismay that I hadn’t let myself cry in a long time. I wondered why it was easier to access these emotions onstage than in my own life. After that, I made a conscious effort to sit with myself and name what I was feeling. Now, when I express big emotions in life, I try to meet them with gratitude and kindness.

I see it all as slowly gathering pieces to put together the puzzle of myself. Cultivating an awareness of all the things I am, and I can be. Whether I’m shouting for justice in a church basement or quietly tracing my own reactions laying in bed at the end of each day, I’m always learning and looking for new parts of myself.

Casey Searles is a performer, artist, and instructional designer originally from Indianapolis and currently based in Richmond, Virginia.

Meeting Myself on Stage

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