Sarah Ruhl is a playwright, a poet, and a teacher (professor at the Yale School of Drama). In 2025 she published an interesting book of essays titled Lessons from My Teachers: From Preschool to the Present. One essay, on pages 116 to 118, is titled Stage fright and mothers and daughters:
“When she was six, my daughter Anna was invited to participate in a small violin recital in our friend’s apartment in our Brooklyn building. Anna waited her turn, walked to the front of the room, picked up her bow, played three notes, looked around, and froze. Then she fled the room, leaving her violin behind, and ran up two floors to our apartment, where she hid behind a chair. I ran up the stairs to follow her. Anna wouldn’t speak to me, but she wrote notes, which she passed to me from behind the chair.
After an hour, she emerged, and told me that there were two kinds of stage fright: sticky stage fright and liquid stage fright. She said, ’Liquid stage fright is when you feel scared before you go onstage, but once you begin to act, the fright falls off you like liquid.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘And what about sticky stage fright?’
‘Sticky stage fright,’ she said. ‘is when the fear stays on you in front of the audience and can’t be rubbed out.’
‘And you had sticky stage fright just now?’ I asked.
She nodded solemnly.
I guess sticky stage fright runs in my family. One time a theater threatened to put me on stage in my play Eurydice because the leading lady had vocal-rest issues and we had no understudy. I was the only one who knew the lines. I was beside myself with anxiety. Thankfully a shot of cortisol came at the right moment for our leading lady, and I did not have to go onstage.
My father often told us a story about his first piano recital, when he was playing ‘I Got Rhythm’ at the age of seven in Davenport, Iowa. He got onstage, played the first four notes, froze, and ran out of the room. His mother made him come back and apologize to the whole auditorium. Apparently, he never played the piano after that.
Stage fright is such a bizarre phenomenon; we do something quite happily without being watched, and then while being specifically watched, we cease to function. Before having children, my mother acted constantly in Chicago, no stage fright. After having children, she would go onstage and her heart would pound and she would feal clammy, like she was going to die. She learned later that these episodes were anxiety attacks. They kept her from the stage for a good fifteen years.
When I was twelve, we were about to go on a family trip to New York City on the train from Chicago to see theater and take in the sights. My mother longed to go to New York City and devour plays. But this time, when we arrived at Union Station in Chicago, about to board, my mom started hyperventilating. She sat down and breathed into a paper bag. Her heart pounded, and she felt like she was going to die. It was quickly determined that my father would take my sister on the trip, and I would stay home with my mother, her helpmeet. I gravitated toward the caretaker role even at that tender age. My mom and I ate brownies for breakfast, popcorn for lunch, and watched movies all day. I was a little wistful for Neew York City, imagining my sister roller-skating in Central Park. Now that I’m about my mother’s age, I wonder, more psychologically, what induced her panic attack en route to New York city. Was it that she was anxious to see the theater she probably wished she could have been acting in?
I have a photograph of my mother from her college years, looking glamorous and joyful, visiting New York City, the lights of Broadway on her face. She would have loved to have lived and acted in New York City. When she married my father and moved to Chicago from Iowa, professional theater in Chicago was just beginning, and my mother acted in that fledgling scene with great excitement, doing the work of Megan Terry and Maria Irene Fornes, acting in plays that protested the Vietnam War.
She continued to act when we were little, but took a solid break from acting for a decade, because of stage fright. In retrospect, I wonder if she was having hormonally induced panic attacks during menopause; she never suffered from them after her fifties. She started acting professionally again in her seventies, never lacking for roles. No more sticky stage fright.
Sometimes mothers watch their daughters perform, but their daughters want privacy; and sometimes daughters want their mothers to perform bring brave.”
The cartoon was adapted from pouring coffee and a glue stick at OpenClipArt.












