As a rising freshman in high school, Meghan Stanton ’10 had a range of interests across the academic, athletic and artistic spectrum. But an experience at an intensive theatre camp showed her that her heart was in performing. Today, she is a writer, director and performer, as well as a marketing and communications coordinator for Single Carrot Theater in Baltimore.

The summer before my freshman year of high school, I went to a sleep-away camp: a two-week theatre intensive at the end of which we put on a fully staged musical. I waltzed in, feeling confident that I would be cast as a main character. Instead, when the list was posted, I was in the tiniest part possible. I was outraged. But I was also having fun and working hard. Eventually, in the space of just a couple weeks, that outrage transformed into a real desire to prove that I was better than this tiny part. It was the first time in my life I had ever had to work hard at something, and from that moment I don’t think there was any turning back for me.

Now, I work at Single Carrot Theatre as a marketing and communications coordinator, in addition to doing outside theatre work and other jobs. For example, last summer I co-wrote, directed, and starred in a new musical that premiered at the Capital Fringe Festival in D.C. Balancing time is one of the most challenging parts of being a freelance artist. I usually work 16-hour days, bouncing from job to rehearsal to performance and back again. Trying to steal moments to write and create is difficult, especially because I also need to do things like laundry and grocery shopping. But working with other wonderfully creative people helps me stay on task; there are few things more satisfying than wrestling with an idea until it begins to take shape, and hearing the voices and opinions of people I trust is incredibly helpful.

Much of my writing is historically and politically inspired. The show my writing partner and I premiered last year was called "Romanov;" it was a concert-style pop musical that cast the five Romanov children as a millennial pop group. I am particularly interested in the friction between generations, parents and children, and class conflict.

I’m lucky to be in a community of artists in Baltimore that is incredibly supportive. Since I grew up in Baltimore, I thought I knew what the art scene was, but since I’ve come back after college, I have realized how much amazing theatre there is happening around Baltimore that people don’t hear anything about. Small theatres are plentiful in Baltimore, and I’ve worked with so many amazing companies and people who are forging paths for themselves.

This reality conflicts with what I think the biggest misconception about a life in arts is: that it is a spoiled, selfish, even childish choice. But none of the people I know in Baltimore are just doing theatre because it’s fun. It’s hard work, long days, and often means living paycheck-to-paycheck. But these same people are committed to taking personal and political risks; they regularly go into communities and provide education and opportunities to create. This kind of art has never been more important than it is now, because while big theatres are going to lose funding and have to scramble to make up the difference, these small companies never had any funding to begin with. They scrimp and save and pay artists for their time and talents. They are often looked down on, but they are the force that will keep the arts community alive in this city.

One of the only reasons I have made it this far is because of the stellar foundation laid for me at Bryn Mawr. Grace under pressure, a skill I honed in my time as a student/actor/Arts Council member/club president/Quill writer/swimmer is a huge part of my success. Bryn Mawr taught me how to be busy without sacrificing quality and without being intimidated by my own schedule. I know what I’m capable of because I spent my time in high school, and college, pushing my limits. The teachers and administrators who guided me during my time at Bryn Mawr encouraged me to do so, but also showed me that it was OK to fail sometimes. It was a safe and supportive space that informed the kind of community of which I want to be a part.

One of the things I loved about Bryn Mawr was constantly being surrounded by people who were smarter than me. Mine was a particularly small class, and every one of us knew each other incredibly well and supported each other as best we could. These women taught me that someone else’s success is not my failure, a lesson that has served me well in an industry full of rejection. My classmates are what I remember most about Bryn Mawr, and I cherish those memories.

At Bryn Mawr, I learned that my opinion was worth something. In art, and in life, it’s easy to follow along with the crowd: act in someone else’s play, follow someone else’s lead. My teachers and classmates at Bryn Mawr taught me to value myself as a thinker; they showed me, time and again, that creativity and risk-taking are better than safety.