As it turned out, the theater was called Fanatic Salon, and they were putting on a long-form improv show called Immediate Theater. The date was June 17, 2016.
At that point in my life, I knew next to nothing about the craft. I had taken exactly one improv class, so I understood the basics—kind of. Before the show started, I overheard people mentioning that many of the cast members came from “Second City.” I remember thinking, Wow, Second City must be a really popular city. Like Los Angeles.
That was the exact boundary of my improv knowledge.
Then, the lights came up.
Everything I thought I understood about performance vanished. It truly was immediate theater—a world being built from absolutely nothing right before my eyes. One moment, a butler (played by Rick Hall) was sobbing on stage. The next, the universe expanded. Relationships shifted, tension evolved, and nobody—not even the performers—knew what would happen next.
Yet, somehow, everyone in the room trusted that something would. The audience leaned in. I leaned in.
And then, there was Jane Morris.
To this day, I don’t know exactly what it was, but she completely captivated me. I watched her every move. When she mimed making tea, I could see it all perfectly: the teacups, the kettle, the table, the stove. When another actor accidentally stepped on an imaginary object, she caught it instantly and integrated it. Right place. Right moment.
She made the invisible things visible.
After the show, I went home and Googled her. The search revealed that she taught a writing workshop, and I joined immediately.
Whenever I join a new group, a familiar anxiety creeps in: Will they accept me?
People always say, “Everyone is welcome.” But do people still welcome you when you speak with an accent, or when your thought process differs from theirs? Suddenly, the room shifts. You sit there quietly wondering, Am I actually adding value to this space, or am I just a chore for them to deal with?
But this group genuinely welcomed me. When I succeeded, they celebrated. When I struggled, they offered extra support, suggestions, and patience. And Jane was the leader of this very good cult (and I mean that as the highest compliment). She possesses a kind of weird brilliance—the exact combination of traits I love and appreciate.
In Japanese, we have an expression: 一期一会 (Ichigo Ichie).
Literally translated, it means “one time, one meeting.” The core philosophy is to treasure every single encounter, because it will never happen in exactly the same way again.
We may meet again in the future. We may even try to recreate the exact same circumstances. But the version of us meeting in this precise moment will never return. That is why encounters matter.
It has now been ten years since I first walked into that theater and met Jane. In those 10 years, she has directed not one, but two of my solo shows, and coached me through countless stories.
And then there are the unexpected spin-offs of the universe. Another artist friend, Hope Levy, came into my life from a completely different source—someone who saw me perform and told her she needed to check me out. Meeting her felt almost arranged by fate, as if the universe looked at both of us from across separate rooms and said, “These two will get along.” The universe was right. Since then, Hope and I have exchanged support, ideas, collaborations, opportunities, and probably far too many emails.
My comedy journey was another beautiful accident. I had never dreamed of taking a comedy stage myself—until I attended an open mic just to support a friend. Through the countless delightful encounters that followed, I met another brilliant artist, Jenn Sterger. The stand-up comedy world isn’t always known for being as nurturing as the storytelling community, but in Jenn’s world, it is all about fun and collaboration.
I don’t know how you stumbled onto this page. Maybe a friend sent it to you, or maybe a Google algorithm guided you here. Whatever the reason, I am grateful you are here, and I hope something I’ve shared sparks something within you.
One evening.
One theater I mistook for a hair salon.
One person.
Sometimes, that is all it takes to change your entire life.
