I’ve long said that if I’d been born earlier, I’d have been a perfect cast member for the Lawrence Welk Show: A variety show that aired from 1951 – 1982. I used to watch it while visiting my grandparents. “How lucky those people are to dress us every day in different costumes to sing, dance, and act.” They had my dream job.
Growing up, I was sure I’d end up in show biz. And my dad knew it too. Once he took me to an audition of sorts for a TV show. I can recall sitting in a room and reading some lines. I didn’t stand a chance, but it felt good to have my dad on my side. My mom was far too busy rearing my three siblings (four of us were born in five years) to pay much attention to my star-filled dreams.
I always thought it ironic that the most significant trauma of my life happened on the heels of enjoying someone who made me laugh out loud every week: Carol Burnett. Forever will comedy and tragedy be intertwined in my brain. Read More
On a balmy summer evening in 1973, my siblings and I sprawled out on beanbag chairs to watch The Carol Burnette Show. Just as Carol tugged on her ear to say “good-night,” my mother walked into the living room, turned off the TV, and braced herself against a wall. “I have something to tell you about your father.” That’s when she told us he had taken his life with a gun. Alone in a hotel room.
I don’t recall coming together as a family at that moment. My mother, who was in shock, could not comfort us. She had known about my father for a week but couldn’t bring herself to tell us. She also felt intense guilt, for she knew the divorce had triggered a chain reaction of ‘crazy’ in my father’s brain. He had become unpredictable and dangerous. We had lost our home and were ‘in hiding’ where he couldn’t find us. We hadn’t seen him in more than a year.
We went to our rooms. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and cried through the night. In the morning, it was life as usual. We never talked about it as a family that I recall. I never told my friends. I tried not to think about it.
I held a deep-seated belief that if I allowed myself to focus on the loss of my father, the pain might kill me. So instead, I focused on being strong, independent, and smart. I wore my independence like a badge of courage. And it served me well…to a point.
The work of processing old grief is intensely painful and complicated. I pictured my grief as a room at the end of a dim narrow hallway. Inside the room it is dark. Silent. Still. The thought of entering it is terrifying. But much later in life, I learned through opening that door, stepping inside, and letting some light in, that I would not die. I learned that pain is part of what makes us unique and special. My pain allows me to tell stories with emotion and passion. It allows me to see the humor in bizarre places. It’s hard to describe how getting in touch with one’s dark place can bring light to others.
The benefits of facing this fear started to show up in my personal and speaking life. I let go of some habits that weren’t serving me and embraced parts of myself that were desperate for stage time. I quit comparing my successes to others. And stopped shaming myself for my failures. I finally understood the uniqueness I can bring to my life and an audience when I let my creativity run the show. I’m having the most fun I’ve ever had. I see how it translates directly into audience fun too.
I love giving my audience a strong message, interactive experience mixed in with a full-on show. It’s my way of finally achieving my career in show biz. I’ve created my own form of Hollywood here in my virtual studio. I also love teaching others how to bring their full selves to the real or virtual stage. After all, most leaders, trainers, and presenters agree that there is no greater feeling than inspiring or entertaining an audience. Even if that audience is just you. As I’ve always said, “Be your own best audience, and you’ll always be entertained.”
