If It Doesn't Scare You, You're Doing It Wrong by Amber Cowie

When the lights dimmed backstage, my heart swelled and the darkness buzzed. In the seconds

before the curtain lifted on opening night of Legally Blonde: The Musical, I was quietly paralyzed, surrounded and supported by beautiful talented people enthralled and immersed in the same messy soup of anticipation, excitement, and fright. Part of me was cursing myself for doing this again. Most of me was celebrating the courage it took to be here. 

Being on the stage was still surreal. I used to hate singing Happy Birthday. My dance moves had always been enthusiastically unskilled. How did an author who dodged her way out of photos and felt sick when receiving comments about her physical appearance end up here?

That’s a good question.

In November 2022, I was scrolling through social media in the foggy gloom of the dreariest month of the year. My fourth book had been published six months before, sales were declining, and I still hadn’t achieved my greatest goal as a writer—to earn enough from a book that I could quit my day job. My musical theatre knowledge was limited to movie adaptations, yet I was captivated by a post from a local arts organization, spellbound by a gorgeous woman belting out a song that seemed pulled from the purest part of her soul. Every note she sang was clear, bright, and perfect. I was drawn in by the heart I heard. The caption below the video made the skin between my shoulders prickle.

Introducing our Troupe, our first ever adult musical theatre program for all humans who want to explore the world of Performing Arts.

I clicked the link and signed up. When my husband came into the room, I looked at him and said a phrase that he has heard many times but never fails to make his blood run cold.

“I did something weird,” I said.

His features softened into a familiar mix of alarm and encouragement.

“Okay,” he replied. “Tell me more.”

So I did. I poured my heart out about how my creativity had been so quiet and isolated, that writing books was my dream job but it was making me feel so alone, and I was so fed-up with the critical on-line culture that casually tore writers apart. Sometimes, it felt like creativity was a burden instead of a gift. As a mother of a six-year-old and a nine-year-old who had navigated the grueling uncertainty of the pandemic while mourning the death of her younger brother to a toxic drug poisoning, I had been sad for a long time. I needed a new way even if it shared the hell out of me.

I wasn’t brave in the first class. As we sat in a circle of twelve fascinating, intimidating women, I told them all the reasons why I didn’t belong. Later, as we grew closer, a stunning redhead would note that nothing I had said was true…unless I believed it. Her words were a huge lesson for me. The truth is, I’m still learning it. Every time I screw up a step, fumble a line, or freeze under the bright lights, my mind hollers that the creepy doubts were right all along. That I have no place in this world of incredible, mesmerizing humans who speak a language I am still learning.

It's difficult to ignore that voice. Believing in myself used to be so easy but it’s harder now and that’s why I joined this troupe. 

The last seven years of my life have been rife with moments that knocked me down so hard I didn’t think I would be able to get back up. Each time I rose, a piece of me was left behind. My confidence and my sense of self were weaker than they had ever been. The wounds healed so slowly and I was tired of the way they festered. Each performance I have been part of has released something inside in ways that nothing else can do.

Three months before Legally Blonde debuted, I delved into parts of the past that I rarely explored to release mental and creative blocks using Julia Cameron’s Artist’s Way. A big part of the work was to notice synchronicity—coincidences and implausible happenings that line up in exactly the right way.

Two days after the show, I drove my twin sister to the airport. She had flown across the country to see me on stage, not knowing that I would force her to see the show every single night for three nights in a row to discern which was our best performance (thank you, Morgan!). I was still loopy from the high of being on stage and the lack of sleep required to put on a production at this scale but I managed to safely navigate dropping her off then returning home to Squamish after a quick stop for gas.

When I walked in the door, my phone buzzed with a voicemail from a man I had not spoken to in six and a half years—the detective from the Vancouver Police Department who had investigated my brother’s death. He didn’t remember me and his confusion was evident. He had received a call from the 7-11 in North Van asking if he could help locate me as I’d left my wallet in the gas station bathroom. I called him back immediately.

“Thank you so much for calling and I’m sorry this came out of the blue for you. You were the officer who found my brother and I kept your card,” I said. “That’s how you know me.”

I  had never taken it out of my wallet. It rested beside my brother’s school photo from second grade.

 “Was I nice to you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said in surprise. “You called me from your daughter’s ballet recital. You answered all my questions. You were exactly the person I needed to talk to, to try to understand what happened.”

He paused.

“I’m glad I could help,” he said. “Good luck getting your wallet. I was worried because I work in missing persons now and I didn’t know if you were okay.”

We said goodbye and after I called the gas station to arrange a pick-up, my phone vibrated again with a text.

<you made my day. thank you. i have a difficult job and we rarely get told nice things so I am forever in your debt. take care>

Later, I looked him up and saw that he had received numerous commendations for his exceptional policing. He had plaques on his wall that told him how much his work mattered—but he almost never heard it from the people he had helped. Sometimes, synchronicity is the closing of a circle—the chance to tell someone they mattered in the darkest moment. I could never have guessed that Elle Woods and this beautiful act of musical theatre could have brought that to us both but I’m so grateful that it did. 

On opening night, I heard the opening melody. I unfroze as I remembered what it meant in my body. I rushed onto the stage with people I loved in a fervour of power and terror to perform a number that had lived in my head for almost a year. Every note was a triumph and every move was a memory of Friday evenings, Sunday afternoons, and late nights with people whom I admire, respect, and treasure.

There is magic in putting myself in places where it seemed I would never go. I am shocked to say proudly and loudly that I now love the earnest, campy, scary world of musical theatre. Dancing and singing and acting with amazing human beings is a singular experience—I have never known anything like it and I will keep coming back and staying open to the possibilities of this new and amazing creative force.