Something Different
- Katherine Tatsuda
- 7 days ago
- 2 min read
January 25, 2026
There was an event this weekend that stirred something deep in me—an echo from years past.
First City Players’ Jazz & Cabaret Festival.
For nearly ten years, I was part of it.
Ten years of facing a very real fear:
singing solo on stage—
while living a dream at the same time.
Each year followed a familiar rhythm:
choosing a song,
memorizing lyrics,
rehearsing endlessly with a track,
then graduating to rehearsals with a live band.
All of it building toward just a few minutes under the lights—
bringing energy, emotion, and life to the stage, and hopefully to the audience too.
I loved it.
I learned so much—
about working with musicians,
about myself,
about being seen.
About performing under pressure.
About how my body responds to a massive flood of adrenaline and cortisol.
And about joy.
It was exhilarating.
It was fun.
I am deeply grateful I got to do that show for so many years.
The last time I performed was January 2020.
Right before the landslide.
That year, I did two songs.
I opened the show with the jazz favorite “De-Lovely,”
and later brought people to tears with “I Dreamed a Dream.”
They were my absolute best performances.
And after that… I stopped.
Part of it was knowing those performances were the peak—
and feeling the quiet anxiety of wondering if I could ever live up to them again.
And part of it was simpler, heavier truth:
life after the landslide was not the same.
In the years that followed,
I stayed connected in a different way.
I volunteered in the kitchen—
something I genuinely loved.
It reminded me of my time working in our delis,
and it felt good to be surrounded by theater friends again,
contributing without performing.
But this year, I didn’t do that either.
I wasn’t pulled to participate.
I wasn’t pulled to reconnect in the old ways.
Instead, I did something different.
Something special.
Something that mattered to me in a completely different way.
There was nothing fancy about it.
Just quiet moments.
Laughter.
Easy conversation.
Stargazing.
Shared creativity.
At one point, a shooting star streaked across the sky.
And in that simplicity, I was reminded of something important:
I don’t have to be on a stage.
I don’t have to be in the spotlight.
I don’t have to perform.
To experience the magic of life.
Or to be seen, valued, loved, and appreciated.
