In 2019, my girlfriend and I scored tickets to see Dear Evan Hansen, my favorite musical. As I walked into the theater, the buzz of excitement charged the air and surged through me like lightning. I had always been a fan, so the opportunity to see it on Broadway made my heart race as if it were a horse in the Kentucky Derby. My playbill could have reached the stage, given how close our seats were. From the opening scene, I noticed the finely-made details of the bed and the perfect fluffiness of the pillows piled on it.

After everyone sat down, the room fell still and dark. My breath caught in my throat as the lights flashed back on and the musical began. Evan entered the stage and walked over to the bed. When he plopped down, I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I sat enraptured throughout the first half of the musical, mesmerized by the melodies and characters. And then the cast came to “You Will Be Found.” The performers sang in harmony, their voices sweet like honey and warm as calm spring winds. By the end, overwhelming love touched and surrounded me.

“Even when the dark comes crashing through. When you need a friend to carry you. When you’re broken on the ground. You will be found.”

The lyrics echoed off the auditorium walls. While I’d listened to the song countless times on YouTube, its live rendition held a special magic. It seemed as if the entire cast spoke to the broken, scared little girl hidden inside my soul. The same child who claimed she was nothing and that the world around her would forget her.

These talented singers understood me. They saw me, imperfections included, and believed I deserved love, in defiance of the darkness. The cast reminded me, somewhere in this disorganized world, someone rooted for me, whether it was the actors themselves or my friends and family. Perhaps they knew the impact they were seeding among the crowd, testament to a job well done on their part.

Tears blurred my vision and ran along my cheeks while I shook in my seat. The flimsy material of my soaked tissue started to break down. Soft gasps escaped my lips between my sobs; it was like the air was being sucked right out of me.

I felt embarrassed. Did people look at me and judge me based on my blubbering?

However, when I glanced around the room, I noticed others had the same vulnerable expression on their faces. Their soft sniffles and quiet coughs filled the air, barely audible behind the music that played. They were as wrecked as I was, eyes glued to the beautiful performance. It was that moment I realized I wasn’t the weird one in the crowd. These other people also related to the premise of the musical and its theme of creating an authentic self while battling inner demons.

The realization that others shared the sentiment felt like reality slapping my face. I frequently felt out of place or disconnected from society because of my personality. But here I was with a group of like-minded individuals who understood exactly how my brain worked. To these musical lovers, I wasn’t an emotional freak who wore their heart on their sleeve. Nor was I a walking ball of anxiety covered in a cloak of depression. I was human, nothing more and nothing less.

The rest of the phenomenal musical played out: Evan confessed to his lies, accepted the consequences of his actions, and taught us all how to embrace our most authentic selves without hiding behind a web of false stories. That moment, however, proved to be the highlight of the entire performance for me.

It remains in my memory and reinforces my love for the musical. To me, it’s not just a creative work of fiction that depicts messages of vulnerability and hope while admitting human flaws. It’s a raw, honest breath of determination that reminds us everyone deserves a chance to be understood. It’s become a core memory I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.

Editor: Shannon Hensley