Here, My Dear

Each student in my beginner's improv class took turns standing in the middle of a circle, pausing to allow space between the words.  

I…Am…Candice…And…I…Am…Here.

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We were more than halfway through the quarter and had become familiar with one another. The first few weeks were spent playing games to help us remember names—a task I am notoriously bad at. By now, we’d failed in front of one another enough that this activity *should* have been easy. But as someone who has stood on stages, spoken into microphones, and faced cameras, I can tell you: it wasn’t.  

Owning the space you occupy is hard. Standing in your power and allowing others to witness it—on a random Monday morning, no less, with no reason beyond the fact that you exist and *that is enough*—is a wild ride to take before coffee.  

The blood rushes to your face as the person two spots ahead of you steps into the center. One foot down, then the other. They begin: I am _____, and I am here.  

“Slower,” the instructor gently reminds them.  

The student slows their pace, stretching those seven words like an Issac Hayes intro. By the time they finish, the sentence feels like a paragraph—or maybe that’s just my nerves exaggerating the passage of time.  

You can feel it all: everyone’s confidence, insecurities, and fears mingling in the room. The person next to me steps forward, and my nervous system shifts into high alert. My turn is coming. My heartbeat quickens as the student ahead of me returns to the circle.  

It’s on me. 

One foot up. Then the other. I walk to the middle, pause, and take in the room. Eye contact, deep breath. Slowly, I speak:  

I am Candice, and I am here.

I am indeed Candice. I am here with all of me—the parts I love and and those I try to outrun. The successes and the failures. Whew, the failures. They’ve been many, both enlightening and painful. And yet, somehow, they’ve become a useful part of my process.  

There I stood, my future a question mark, standing in front of students all nearly twenty years my junior who by all accounts are holding the future in the palms of their hands. Can they see that blinking question mark over my head? I most certainly can telekinetically feel it blink on and off above me. As I dropped back into my body, remembering that the only thing that mattered was seven words, I let myself be. 

Learning to stand in the “right now” is necessary for improv and life’s surprises. When the ground feels unsteady, you are here. You are here when joy floods you so wholly it feels impossible to contain; feel that and stand in that. When fear looms, and stress builds, you are still here.  

And that “here-ness” allows us to improve the next moment. 

This world often conspires to make us forget who we are. It can make us walk through life unaware of our power, our internal flame. But you, my dear, are here.  

And for that, I am thankful.  

We are here. Be here. 

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