Burnout doesn’t knock politely. It crash-lands in your inbox like a flaming email chain where everyone is still hitting “Reply All.” And if you’re a lawyer, entrepreneur, or philanthropist (or worse – some mutant cocktail of all three like me), burnout isn’t a risk, it’s practically a job perk.
We spend our days juggling statutes, employees, donations, and a calendar that looks less like a planner and more like a losing game of Tetris. And what’s the advice? Self-care. As if lighting a $7 lavender candle while answering client emails at midnight is going to fix the existential dread of billable hours.
So no – I didn’t find my sanity in yoga retreats or meditation apps narrated by Australians. My oxygen mask, my pressure valve, my escape hatch is something louder, stranger, and far less predictable: community theatre and playwriting.
Why Theatre? Because Courtrooms Have Scripts Too.
Let’s be honest: law is already theatre. A closing argument is just Shakespeare in a slightly cheaper suit. The judge is your audience of one, the jury your critics, and the bailiff your stage manager who actually carries a taser.
But there’s no improv in litigation. Precedent is the script, procedure is the choreography, and one misstep gets you a mistrial. In playwriting, though? I get to bend the laws of physics, language, and sanity. I can put a duck on trial, resurrect ghosts, or write a monologue about key lime pie that makes strangers cry. No one objects. The only ruling is applause (or silence, which is a ruling of its own).
Creativity as Court-Mandated Therapy
Stress doesn’t just exist for people like us – it’s curated. Tailor-made. A bespoke three-piece suit of anxiety. And left unchecked, it turns us brittle.
Writing a play is how I sand down the sharp edges. It’s therapy with better lighting cues. Characters say the things I can’t say in court or at board meetings. Rehearsals become confessionals, and opening night? Group catharsis, with cheaper tickets than therapy and a two-drink minimum.
Healthier Than Pretending You’re Fine
Attorneys are trained to grind until we’re ground down. Entrepreneurs worship hustle like it’s a second religion. Philanthropists pretend our batteries are solar-powered. Spoiler alert: none of this is sustainable.
Theatre, on the other hand, demands something radical – vulnerability. You can’t fake your way through a script. You can’t “per my last email” your way out of a monologue. On stage, you bleed or you bore. And strangely enough, that bleeding feels more like healing.
The Closing Argument
Burnout is not weakness. It’s your body shouting, “Objection! Assumes facts not in evidence!” Creativity, though – that’s the sustained objection that actually gets overruled.
So when you see me scribbling dialogue in the margins of a legal pad or stepping into stage lights at Stage West, don’t think I’m avoiding my responsibilities. Think of it as cross-training for the soul. Law and business may pay the bills, but art? Art is the thing that keeps me from billing myself into oblivion.
Because every lawyer, every entrepreneur, every do-gooder needs an escape hatch. And mine just happens to have a spotlight and a script.
Brian Brijbag 