(gentle music) ♪ Ah ♪ - Hello.

- Hi.

- I don't know if I've ever belonged anywhere.

When I was in high school, I got pregnant, and the future I had imagined for myself shifted.

My stagecraft teacher said, "You can't do those things right now, but you can sew, so you'll costume."

I didn't wanna be pushed into a corner, but I said, "Yes," because even if it wasn't the belonging I had hoped for, it was a doorway.

They sent me into a back room, a costume closet I had barely noticed, and it was chaos.

Piles of fabric in dusty corners, a sewing machine older than me.

But in that mess, I found a rhythm.

I brought in my own sewing machine from home and I set up a little studio, and I claimed that space for myself.

Our show that year was "The Crucible."

And in that dusty, forgotten room, I felt something like belonging.

Not because somebody had offered it to me, but because I had shaped it with my own hands.

And I thought that I belonged in that first community theater I joined until I realized that the smiles were only for the stage and the kindness was only as good as the next cast list.

And then, I thought that I found a belonging in a conservatory program at a repertory theater until my mentors had me do their laundry in the middle of the night and call it experience.

And I thought that I found it again in professional spaces and independent film projects that promised collaboration, but never really cared for the safety or dignity of those they used.

And even in 2024, when I created a seat at the table for myself and I tried to create something new, I discovered that belonging still wasn't guaranteed.

The more I poured myself into that project, the more I felt like an outsider.

It was like every new idea and every risk I took somehow it was met with a pause on the surface, but like quiet sabotage underneath.

And it's not just here either, I've traveled all around the world.

I've been in many countries.

I've worked in countless jobs and worn many hats.

I've had many different friendship groups.

Some of the best years of my life were in Germany, surrounded by friends I cherished and who cherished me.

But even there, I didn't feel like I belonged.

I always felt like I was there to provide my skills, or my stories, my time, rather than to just be.

I had lived in Norfolk before I moved away in 2013, but I came back because I thought I belonged here.

I thought in this city and in this community, I had found my place.

But it has become quite clear that there's a very large number of people that don't believe I belong here.

And, over time, I've learned that belonging isn't always what it seems.

I've seen how easily it's offered and how quickly it's taken away.

In creative spaces I believed in doors opened, until I used my voice, until I asked for fairness and safety and the simple dignity of being heard.

And then, those doors closed as if they were never there at all.

And looking back, I realized that in my search for belonging, I often compromised myself.

I stayed small and silent and I played along even when it hurt.

The need to belong can make you wear a mask and bite your tongue or accept spaces that only want part of you.

But when you're forced to stand alone, when crisis and betrayals strip away everything, well, then you discover something else.

You discover that belonging cannot be borrowed, it has to be claimed.

In 2020, everything shifted.

I was navigating a court case, a betrayal in my work, and the sudden loss of a place I thought was secure.

And then, the world shut down.

And in that enforced isolation, I found a quiet truth.

Well, I didn't need to chase somebody else's sense of belonging.

I can build it for myself.

So I began to shape spaces of my own.

A studio that's mine alone, dark academia with warm, wood floors, and cats that curl into corners, and music that carries me forward.

And a place where the furniture can move, just like my ideas, and the air feels alive with possibility.

A place where I'm not just a caretaker or a helper, I'm an artist speaking in the language of thread, and color, memory, and light.

I poured that same spirit into the Portraying Pauline Project, the Virginia Costuming Guild, and, most importantly, the Safe Artist Initiative.

Now, the Safe Artist Initiative isn't just like another project, it's an environment.

It's a space shaped by self and collective advocacy.

A place where artists can refuse to be silenced, where safety and belonging aren't privileges to be earned, but birthrights to be claimed.

And it's an evolving space, one that I hope will grow into shared policies and practices that can be adopted by other environment, guidelines that say, "We see you, we hear you, and your safety matters here."

Because, in the end, belonging isn't about applause or clicks.

It's about the environment we build together and making sure that nobody, not one person, has to trade their voice for a seat at the table.

And maybe I've never belonged in the homes and the communities I was born into, and maybe I've never belonged to the roles that were handed to me or the friendships that fell away, the places that asked me to be small.

But in the environments I'm shaping now and the spaces that grow from self-advocacy and collective care, I have found a kind of belonging that's truer than any invitation I've ever received.

Because belonging, for me, it isn't about the group or the people, it's about the environment that the group creates.

It's about ensuring that every artist, no matter how quiet their voice or how unconventional their path, can find safety and dignity and a space to create without fear.

And maybe, just maybe, that's good enough for now.

Thank you.

(audience applauding) (gentle music) ♪ Ah ♪