To the Music and theater Instructors

Dear Band Instructors, Choir Directors, and Theater Directors,

Thank you for calling out the loves that lived deep within me— not because of my survivor story, but in spite of it.

There is a part of my story I do not always know how to tell.

The part where I walked into rooms already feeling seen for the wrong reasons.

Where I carried the quiet weight of being watched, measured, or misunderstood—

and so I chose, more often than I’d like to admit, to shrink.

To sit in the back.

To play small.

To convince myself that mediocrity was safer than being known.

And yet—you did not let me stay there.

You saw something I was too afraid to believe was real.

From the moment my hands first touched the brass of the tuba, something awakened—

but even then, I questioned if I was allowed to love it that much.

Still, you placed the music in front of me anyway.

You expected more from me anyway.

You looked at me not with pity, but with possibility.

I remember standing on the field, lights overhead, eyes everywhere—

and yet somehow, for the first time, I felt freedom instead of fear.

Because you taught me that excellence was not about proving something to others,

but about honoring the gifts God had already placed within me.

You encouraged me to play with the force of all my lungs could carry and thus strengthening them in the process. You accommodated when I couldn't so the marching after challenges from surgeries. You didnt just teach me music, you tought me to find joy in the melodies and peace in the pipes.

In choir, you helped me find a voice I had long silenced.

Not just in pitch or tone—but in identity.

When insecurity told me I was being judged,

you reminded me to listen for truth instead of noise.

You taught me that my voice was not something to hide,

but something entrusted to me.

You encouraged me to audition for the solos and come for the lessons, seeing potential that I didnt see.

And on the stage—

you invited me into a kind of courage I didn’t know I needed.

From the first scene to the final bow,

you gave me permission to step outside of myself—

and somehow, in doing that, I found who I really was.

You taught me how to be bold.

How to be expressive.

How to be fully present.

And maybe most importantly—

how to let go of the fear of what people think.

And in the classrooms for competitions,

You taught me to have a voice. To share personal stories in powerful ways. You awakened more of a soul for poetry and encouraged me to walk into it. You didnt criticize when a bad rating came but encouraged me for next time. And when we did go far, you encouraged us even more.

You each held me to a higher standard—

one I often resisted, because deep down I believed

“Why would I be capable of more?” "why would I be deserving of the applause?"

But you didn’t argue with my doubt.

You outlasted it.

You showed up.

You corrected.

You encouraged.

You believed—again and again and again—

until something in me finally began to believe too.

Looking back now, I see more than rehearsals, performances, or practices.

I see sacred ground.

Spaces where God met me through music, through discipline, through creativity—

through people who were willing to see me not just as I was,

but as I could become.

You didn’t just teach me how to perform.

You taught me how to grow.

How to listen.

How to lead.

How to step forward when everything in me wanted to step back.

Because of you, I did not disappear.

Because of you, I found joy again.

I found community.

I found courage.

And even now, when life feels overwhelming or uncertain,

I carry those lessons with me—

in the way I show up,

in the way I persevere,

and in the quiet confidence that maybe, just maybe, I was created for more than I once believed.

Thank you for seeing me.

Thank you for stretching me.

Thank you for reminding me—whether you knew it or not—

that my life had purpose, and my gifts had a place.

Thank you for coming to me after I attempted to end my own life and reminding me that I had a life worth living. For holding my hand that day that I returned to the stage and thanking me for coming back, reminding me that I was stronger than I ever thought.

Thank you for allowing me to work through my trauma, not wearing a dress when the PTSD was bad for performances. For allowing me space to unpack with you. For standing with me, and not in ways I was afraid to express. But in ways that were so meaningful i couldnt get words to explain.

Thank you for helping me find love in music.

Thank you for fighting for me.

Thank you for being there for me.

Thank you for everything.

With deep gratitude,

Kelsay