So, I’m part of the theatre association called WILDe (#nospon but you should absolutely join our association!). We’re fun, we’re dramatic, and we regularly commit mild emotional damage to each other in the name of Art™.
Last year, I spent my time as a very dedicated Production committee member painting sets, fixing props, inhaling enough paint fumes to unlock new sides to myself and duct-taping things I probably shouldn’t have duct-taped. After a year of this, you’d think I’d want a break.
But no, something in the paint fumes whispered “Board year.”
And because I’m incapable of minding my own business, or sitting still, I applied to be a Board Member. Not just for any position, but for Head of Productions. Within our association, it is publicly known, historically documented, and scientifically proven that this role is not sleep-friendly.
When I got the position, I was ecstatic. Glowing. Deluded. I walked home thinking I’d just become the CEO of Broadway.
And then August 2025 hit.
Suddenly, my life wasn’t measured in days anymore. No, it was measured in rehearsal weeks, LettuceMeets, WhatsApp messages, and directors saying “Uh quick question,” which is never, ever quick. My phone developed a personality, my Google Drive became sentient, and my sleep schedule was declared missing.
Around the same time, I started my second year as an IBCoM student.
So my daily routine quickly turned into:
- Morning tutorial where I pretend to be alive
- A production meeting immediately after
- Auditions until late
- Organizing a show-day schedule at 2 AM
- Another lecture where I swore I wouldn’t do this again
- Another meeting where I absolutely do it again
But the thing they don’t tell you about a board year is that it really pushes you to be social. You attend one event, and suddenly you have 12 new friends, 3 new enemies, and 1 person who witnessed you accidentally trauma-dumping. These people become your family, the kind you bond with because you once spent seven hours painting a set together while losing your will to live.
And yes, there are days when the workload makes me want to gently lie down on the floor and detach from reality. There’s always something to fix: someone lost a prop, someone wants to change the lighting, someone has an existential crisis about a monologue, or someone will ask, “Can we find a live pigeon for this scene?”. Just a normal Tuesday.
But then it is show week, and something magical happens!
The lights come up. The audience leans in. Everything runs smoothly. And when the cast takes their final bows, and you’re backstage holding your phone like it’s your emotional support animal, every puzzle piece falls into place.
All the stress. All the spreadsheets. All the late-night edits. All the “I’m literally going to combust” moments.
It becomes worth it. Like, annoyingly worth it.
That’s the blessing and the curse of a board year: it destroys you just enough to rebuild you into someone cooler, calmer (debatable), more capable, and weirdly sentimental about theatre kids doing their thing.
Would I recommend doing a board year? Absolutely. Will you sleep? Absolutely not. But will it change you in the best, most chaotic way? 100%.
So, bring your caffeine, your courage, and your duct tape, and go for that board-year!