I made an actress cry
A lesson in how words land when you’re not in the room
When I was 23, I was stage managing a national tour.
Part of the job was giving performance notes to the cast. Totally normal, especially on tour. Especially when actors rotate in and out and the show needs to stay consistent.
What was less normal was that I was 23 and most of the actors were not.
One of our leads joined the tour halfway through the run. She was 62 years old. A real veteran. The kind of actress my parents immediately recognized.
“Oh, I loved her in that show in the ’80s.”
She was terrific. Experienced, commanding, deeply committed. But after her first performance, it was clear she was playing the material much heavier than it needed to be. Heavy enough that the ensemble had trouble playing off her. The show stopped… breathing.
I needed to give her notes.
I did what I was instructed to do. I typed them up. Clear, concise, professional. Then I had them delivered to her hotel room that night.
No conversation. Just paper (nice bright white paper, of course).
The next day, during pre-show prep, I got a call asking me to meet her in her dressing room to discuss the notes.
I knocked.
She opened the door crying. Fully crying. But also not fully dressed. She was clutching the printed notes in her hand and waved me inside.
I froze.
I told her I’d be happy to come back later, once she was dressed and ready for the show.
She insisted we talk right then.
So there I was. A 23-year-old stage manager. Sitting in a dressing room. Across from a sobbing, legendary actress. Because of some dumb notes I wrote.
I remember thinking:
Did I just emotionally devastate someone who has been acting longer than I’ve been alive?
Is this some kind of power play?
Is this what management feels like? Because I hate it.
We talked through the notes.
I explained, very carefully, that my intent wasn’t criticism. It was support. That I wasn’t trying to dim her performance, but make room for it to shine with the company, not against it.
Eventually, she calmed down. We aligned. The performance shifted. The tour continued.
But that was a huge learning moment.
That was the first time I really understood how powerful words can be. Especially written ones.
Written feedback feels permanent. It feels louder than you intend. It leaves no room for tone or care or adjustment in real time.
A conversation does.
You can see how something lands. You can clarify. You can soften. You can listen, comfort, and adjust.
And listen - I still get nervous giving critical feedback face to face. I always will. That means I care, right?? But I will never lead with written notes again.
Because I never want to find myself back in that dressing room, holding space for tears.
And yes, she was an actress.
And yes, she was being dramatic.
But that’s not really the point. The point is she was only half dressed and it was one of the most awkward moments of my life.
Woof, that one still haunts me. But it permanently changed how I choose my words… choose carefully out there!
In the next issue, I’ll share the story of three very long minutes where absolutely nothing happened on stage.
— Rob