Mom, why do you always cry after seeing the theatre?

My seven-year-old asked me this question as we stood in the long line for the women’s restroom after a show. We were spending a couple of days in Disneyland with the kids and had been praying that I would not miss out on any of that magical time together. That feeling when you get to see something you’ve seen before, but through the fresh, innocent, wonder-filled eyes of your children.

That day, I was losing the battle with my migraine. I was struggling to stay upright, keep a smile on my face and get on a few more rides with my family before becoming fully incapacitated. I was determined not to be the reason we all had to leave the park early, so in a strategic effort to preserve my strength and get me out of the light of day for a bit, we ducked into a live stage production of Frozen.

Seeing ANY live theater makes me cry. Yes, even Frozen, a movie all moms have had to sit through so many times that even the phrase Let it Go sets off a nervous twitch.

My daughter knows the answer, but sometimes likes to ask the question again anyway because her heart needs to revisit the story.

“Oh, my love, it was always my dream to sing and dance and be on stage. I went to theater camps. I took voice lessons. I adored that rush of being in front of an audience, being a part of something. But my migraines made it too hard to follow that dream, so I knew I needed to make some new ones.”

I will never forget the heartbreak of vomiting backstage, having succumbed to yet another migraine. I watched as my understudy stepped into my role while I went home to crawl back into the dark. I was eight years old, a year older than my daughter is now, and it was my first big part in the school play. In the years following, as the disease progressed further and further, I would still try to do one or two small chorus parts, but it was painfully clear that anything with a rehearsal schedule and people counting on my presence was not a fit for my life. I would always get tremendous joy from singing in choirs and Madrigal groups, but nothing could quiet the sadness and envy that washed over me every time I saw people doing what they love on stage. To this day, watching live theatre is the perfect juxtaposition of bliss and grief.

“But there was one dream, the most important one of my whole life, that I would not let my migraines take from me, no matter what.“

“Being a mom,” she said matter of factly. She knew. She had heard this story before.

“That’s right baby. Daddy and I wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of becoming your parents. Even though we knew a lot of days would be really hard for all of us. We have big hope, big faith and do our very best to get through those hard days, because we’ll always get to another good day. And we enjoy those good days so, so much.”

She squeezed me tightly. We stood there with tears in our eyes holding hands and the lady behind us in line let out a little gasp. I glanced back and she smiled at us, a little tear in her eye too. She had heard everything.

These days, my only taste of performing is belting out whichever Disney soundtrack is the current  flavor of the month with my kids. And that’s OK. I am thankful that my daughter has already learned some powerful lessons about life and perseverance from being born of a mother in chronic pain. She knows to be realistic with expectations. She knows to fight for what is truly important. And above all, she knows that she is LOVED and WANTED.

On those days that it is an impossible task to function as a wife and mother, when giving up feels tempting because the pain is too great, I remind myself: this is the dream I won’t give up on.

The show must go on.