Ready to Make Waves of Impact?

Join us on **Thursday, August 13th at 6:30 PM** at the Elision Playhouse in Crystal for the ultimate MNprov Summer FUNdraiser! Enjoy an exciting live improv show, inspiring stories of community impact, and a chance to support our programs.

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Can’t make it in person? You can still make a splash! Thanks to a generous matching gift, every donation will be DOUBLED up to $1,000. Help keep our improv workshops for neurodivergent teens and adults afloat.

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What Improv Taught Me About Belonging & Redefining Success

It took me about six months to actually sign up for my first improv class.
Like so many autistic people, I have a deep fear of being perceived. The idea of likely making mistakes in front of a room full of strangers was terrifying. I finally worked up the courage to register after I met Kelly Kautz at the State Autism Conference. Her joy was simply contagious.
When the day came, I almost didn't go.

I got lost on my way there and arrived 15 minutes late! This only served to feed my fears. I knew being late meant I couldn't slip in unnoticed. I pictured the whole class turning to stare at the "new girl" walking in late and interrupting them.

On the verge of a full-blown autistic meltdown, I convinced myself to just put one foot in front of the other. I wanted to be here, but walking toward the building felt almost impossible. Each step felt like wearing lead shoes on my walk toward certain doom.

By the time I reached the door, the sound of my racing heart roared in my ears. My hand shook as I turned the knob and stepped inside – ready to meet my fate.

Everyone turned and looked at me—as I knew they would. I held my breath and waited for what seemed like an eternity. I felt my body brace itself for the social firing squad to open fire.

Then, I heard my name.

"You must be Sheila! We’re so glad you were able to make it," the instructor said. (I later learned his name was Michael.)

I snapped back to the present moment and allowed myself to actually see what was in front of me. It wasn't the room full of annoyed "improv experts" that I had pictured in my head. It was a small group of warm, smiling faces seated in a circle. There was no stage—thank goodness!

Several people pointed toward an empty chair.

"We saved you a seat!" someone called out.

I almost turned around to look behind me. Are they talking to me? I thought.

I walked over and sat down. Okay, I told myself. I did the thing. I sat in the chair. I prepared to sit on the sidelines for the rest of the class, assuming that was the social expectation.

Again, I was completely wrong.

To my surprise, my fellow students kindly invited me to participate in every game. Not in a pushy, high-pressure way, but with genuine support. When I seemed hesitant, they gave me space to think. If I said "no" at first, they held space for me and gently extended another invitation before moving on.

I ended up joining in all the games, and I actually had fun doing it! I was genuinely excited to go back the following week – and no one was more shocked by that than me.

It wasn't until a couple of days later that it hit me: by the end of that first class, I felt a deep sense of belonging. That feeling is so rare and foreign to me that I couldn't even name it in the moment. But there it was.