UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON SCHOOL OF DRAMA: KEYNOTE ADDRESS
June 12, 2025
June 12, 2025
What country, friend, is this?
Good evening graduates, families, faculty, and friends. My name is Julia Welch and ten years ago, I stat where you are all currently sitting when I received my MFA in scenic design from the University of Washington. I want to thank the School of Drama for inviting me here today. They seem to think I’ve learned something in the decade since I graduated. Something that I may be able to pass on. Well, we'll see. As I sat in those seats, I was excited and nervous and proud of all that I had achieved in my time at UW. What I did not recognize, is that the things I would bring forward into my career and my life where more than the models, drafting, plays, and art I had created while in school.
But let's take a step back. I don't like public speaking. I said yes to being here today before I really processed what that would entail. Had I paused for a bit longer, you would have found me at home on my couch tonight instead of standing here with butterflies in my stomach. But here I am. And I’m glad. Because as I thought about what to share today, I realize that I was not always afraid of public speaking. I was on the speech and debate team in high school. I performed weekly with an improv troop in college. I played Ajax in a production of Troilus and Cressida on Capitol Hill. So when did I become afraid? Did I decide that I didn't have anything important to share? Did the world tell me that I wasn't good enough? Did the anxieties about having to succeed stop me from doing what I used to enjoy?
There are lots of things that are or seem scary in life and in art. Perhaps the best piece of advice I ever received was from Ronald Thomas, the president of my undergraduate program at the university of Puget Sound. He told us students to “lean into your discomfort”. Lean into your discomfort. It’s advice that I have fallen back on again and again and again. It is one of the keys to unlocking growth and opportunity.
When you lean into your discomfort, you push yourself a little bit. Now I'm not saying to go do something that truly terrifies you. There's a difference between discomfort and danger. No one is going to suggest that go wrestle a boa constructor because it might build character. But walking into that open call audition? Sending a bind email to a director you admire? Calling the taco truck to place an order instead of using the app and actually talking to a human? I see you Gen Z. If it makes you a little nervous, you're probably stepping in the right direction.
What country, friend, is this?
It requires bravery to take that first step. And I want to applaud you for the bravery you’ve shown so far. Many of you finished your high school careers remotely during a pandemic. Even without the traditional launching pad, you came to UW and remained focused and determined, arriving here today. The MFA students in the room chose to pursue a higher degree in the arts, even when the pandemic was rocking the financial foundation of our field. Over these past years, you learned that bravery is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s showing up to a rehearsal when you feel like a mess. Sometimes it’s saying “I don’t know” in a room full of people who seem sure. Sometimes it’s letting go of the role you thought you wanted, to find the one that challenged you. You took a leap of faith and have seen it through. Well done. Now it is time for the next step forward.
All of you are approaching a time of transition. As a parent of two young children myself, I am constantly reminded that transitions are hard. For most of you, this will be the first time your life does not revolve around an academic calendar. The rhythm of school, short break, school, summer break will be replaced by time moving ever forward unrelentingly and without pause. Learning this new rhythm, is like learning a new dance. Your educational training has taught you some steps, now you need to put them together in a different order and add some new ones to boot. In a somewhat-futile attempt to help, I have a few pieces of advice. Some practical, some philosophical and most of which I ignored myself.
First. You have to pay your bills. You don't have to like your job. Kind of depressing for a graduation speech, right?
I asked a few friends, what advice they would give to Theatre graduates today. Hilariously, one couple gave me seemingly contradictory answers. My friend Jake, said to avoid debt, and practice fiscal responsibility with an eye toward building a stable foundation for your future. His wife, Sarah, said, go wild, live in the now, make mistakes, and take lots of risks. While it certainly gives insight to their personalities, it also presents one of the many paradoxes of being a young adult. Possibility is also uncertainty.
Whatever you decide to do, resist the idea that success, however you define it, must happen all at once. Toni Morrison wrote her first novel at age 40. Alan Rickman was 41 when he made his film debut in Die Hard. Anna Mary Robertson Moses, better known as Grandma Moses, began her prolific painting career at 78. Success will take time, and that is ok, but as you look to your future, consider what will bring value. Finances, sure, but also experiences. Travel. Self-discovery. Relationships. Continuing education. There are many ways to invest in your future as long as you do it with intension. But seriously, try to pay your bills on time.
Second. At a time of shifting uncertainty, make your own routine. This might be by taking five minutes to journal each day. Or to make your bed every morning. To take a daily walk, rain or shine. Or to call your parent on your lunch break. A short, simple daily practice can provide a sense of continuity. Self-care doesn't always look like manicures and spa days. Self care can be doing your laundry.
Self care is also feeding your art heart. In the three years I took between graduating with my BA and entering my MFA program, I made myself a promise: I would see one performance a week. And remarkably, I kept it. I’m not saying I dropped a hundred bucks each week to see a touring show. Instead, I saw experimental plays in tiny theaters with no air conditioning and locally produced musicals from literally the last row of the balcony. Alone, I took myself to open mic nights and theatre in the park. I saw new works and classics and everything in between. I expanded this to include museums and galleries and studio tours. It was my church. My spiritual education. My journey. Aside from being incredibly formative, this art-pilgrimage pushed me outside my comfort zone. I was anxious about going to see a show alone. I was intimidated by people and ideas and experiences outside my bubble. But I leaned into my discomfort over and over and over again, until I found that these excursions no longer made me nervous. Instead, they simply brought joy, and growth, and awe.
Third. And this is a big one. Find, support, and make use of your community. All three of these things require commitment. Finding a community (really just a clever way of saying making friends) gets harder when you are not automatically thrust together with peers pursuing the same objective. You have to seek out individuals who align with your values and passions.
Supporting your community means actually showing up, and not just saying that you will. How many of us have sent a text saying “let’s meet up soon”, and then never do? We've said “call me if you need anything”, but never bothered to check in again. Supporting your community means being proactive.
And then it's about learning how to ask for help. This can be the hardest part of building community. Societally, we have been taught that asking for help is showing weakness and that it is a bad thing. I believe that asking for help can be a gift. You're giving another person the opportunity to meet you in a hard place. You're showing trust by sharing vulnerability. You’re acknowledging another person’s expertise. You are allowing space for a deeper connection. You’re making it easier for other to follow your example and ask for help when they need it. And sometimes, you just need a friend to bring you a cup of coffee sit and hang out after that audition didn't go the way you wanted.
Your community extends beyond your peers. As graduates of the University of Washington and of the School of Drama, you are a link in a chain that goes back decades, and will also go forward. As a prospective student, I distinctly recall the work of Matthew Smucker. I remember seeing Matt's résumé and thinking wow, that's the career I want to have. I had not met him, but his legacy drew me towards being a part of this chain. It wasn't until several years later that I had the great honor of being mentored by him. I now consider him a peer and a friend. His influence on my career has been invaluable. I hope that I will have that same kind of impact on artists that come after me. And all of you will, eventually, do the same.
What country, friend, is this?
Ten years ago, I was frantically writing my thesis about a production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. One week ago I was sitting in this audience, watching an exuberant production of Thrive. Both plays, subtitled, “or what you will”. Both plays explore a journey. One of discovery, self discovery, of complexities, of inner and outer strength, of hard truths, of high stakes, of bravery.
Twelfth Night opens in chaos. Viola washes ashore in a strange land, separated from her brother, her past, and even her name. She asks: “What country, friend, is this?” And then—she does something extraordinary. She makes a choice. She becomes someone new. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. Because survival requires transformation.
Every artist is, at some point, shipwrecked. We are tossed out of the familiar, pushed beyond the safe harbor of what we know, and we are asked to reinvent ourselves. This is not failure. This is the work. And you’ve already done it. College is its own strange land. You arrived not knowing who you’d become. And through long rehearsals, challenging projects, last-minute rewrites, and the occasional production that made you swear you were never doing theatre again—you discovered not just what you can do, but who you are.
And that, to me, is the heart of it all: not disguise, but discovery. Not illusion, but identity. And each of you, whether you know it or not, have spent the last few years slowly uncovering the voice that is uniquely yours.
It is my greatest hope for you that you root into your soil through community, through skill and technique, through a chain of connection, and through bravery. To thrive takes bravery. Because what is thriving, but growing into the fullest most exceptional version of yourself. That growth doesn't happen without challenges along the way.
The core curriculum of my UW master’s program was a studio class in which we presented a new set design every week. As a first year grad student without any drafting, model building, or drawing abilities, it was incredibly stressful. I got about five minutes into my very first presentation and completely lost it. I left the classroom and had a cry in the Hutchinson shower until one of the third year costumers came and got me. Later, walking around campus with Geoff, I recall him asking me "do you think you can't be a designer?”
It catches my memory because it was not a question of who I was at the time. It was not a question of current skill. It was a question if I could be brave. Was I going to try. Could I thrive? Would I going to stand up every week, present my work, and be prepared to take critique. Was I prepared to put in the hours needed to build the necessary skill set. Was I brave enough to voice my true opinions and fight for my point of view. That is still something I struggle with today, but when I look back at that person ten years ago, I am proud of the journey, fortitude, and bravery it has taken to become the designer I am today. I know that life will challenge you. I know it will continue to challenge me. I am excited about those challenges and I hope you are too.
What country, friend, is this?
Practice having thick skin. Practice kindness. Practice living with intention. Practice the impossible. Practice authenticity. Practice audacity. Practice caring deeply about something other than yourself. Practice changing the world. Practice being brave.
We live in a time that desperately needs storytellers. People who understand nuance. People who listen deeply. People who are brave enough to ask, “What country, friends, is this?”—and then to step forward and make of it what you will.
What country, friend, is this?
It is yours. Go and be brave. Thank you.
Good evening graduates, families, faculty, and friends. My name is Julia Welch and ten years ago, I stat where you are all currently sitting when I received my MFA in scenic design from the University of Washington. I want to thank the School of Drama for inviting me here today. They seem to think I’ve learned something in the decade since I graduated. Something that I may be able to pass on. Well, we'll see. As I sat in those seats, I was excited and nervous and proud of all that I had achieved in my time at UW. What I did not recognize, is that the things I would bring forward into my career and my life where more than the models, drafting, plays, and art I had created while in school.
But let's take a step back. I don't like public speaking. I said yes to being here today before I really processed what that would entail. Had I paused for a bit longer, you would have found me at home on my couch tonight instead of standing here with butterflies in my stomach. But here I am. And I’m glad. Because as I thought about what to share today, I realize that I was not always afraid of public speaking. I was on the speech and debate team in high school. I performed weekly with an improv troop in college. I played Ajax in a production of Troilus and Cressida on Capitol Hill. So when did I become afraid? Did I decide that I didn't have anything important to share? Did the world tell me that I wasn't good enough? Did the anxieties about having to succeed stop me from doing what I used to enjoy?
There are lots of things that are or seem scary in life and in art. Perhaps the best piece of advice I ever received was from Ronald Thomas, the president of my undergraduate program at the university of Puget Sound. He told us students to “lean into your discomfort”. Lean into your discomfort. It’s advice that I have fallen back on again and again and again. It is one of the keys to unlocking growth and opportunity.
When you lean into your discomfort, you push yourself a little bit. Now I'm not saying to go do something that truly terrifies you. There's a difference between discomfort and danger. No one is going to suggest that go wrestle a boa constructor because it might build character. But walking into that open call audition? Sending a bind email to a director you admire? Calling the taco truck to place an order instead of using the app and actually talking to a human? I see you Gen Z. If it makes you a little nervous, you're probably stepping in the right direction.
What country, friend, is this?
It requires bravery to take that first step. And I want to applaud you for the bravery you’ve shown so far. Many of you finished your high school careers remotely during a pandemic. Even without the traditional launching pad, you came to UW and remained focused and determined, arriving here today. The MFA students in the room chose to pursue a higher degree in the arts, even when the pandemic was rocking the financial foundation of our field. Over these past years, you learned that bravery is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s showing up to a rehearsal when you feel like a mess. Sometimes it’s saying “I don’t know” in a room full of people who seem sure. Sometimes it’s letting go of the role you thought you wanted, to find the one that challenged you. You took a leap of faith and have seen it through. Well done. Now it is time for the next step forward.
All of you are approaching a time of transition. As a parent of two young children myself, I am constantly reminded that transitions are hard. For most of you, this will be the first time your life does not revolve around an academic calendar. The rhythm of school, short break, school, summer break will be replaced by time moving ever forward unrelentingly and without pause. Learning this new rhythm, is like learning a new dance. Your educational training has taught you some steps, now you need to put them together in a different order and add some new ones to boot. In a somewhat-futile attempt to help, I have a few pieces of advice. Some practical, some philosophical and most of which I ignored myself.
First. You have to pay your bills. You don't have to like your job. Kind of depressing for a graduation speech, right?
I asked a few friends, what advice they would give to Theatre graduates today. Hilariously, one couple gave me seemingly contradictory answers. My friend Jake, said to avoid debt, and practice fiscal responsibility with an eye toward building a stable foundation for your future. His wife, Sarah, said, go wild, live in the now, make mistakes, and take lots of risks. While it certainly gives insight to their personalities, it also presents one of the many paradoxes of being a young adult. Possibility is also uncertainty.
Whatever you decide to do, resist the idea that success, however you define it, must happen all at once. Toni Morrison wrote her first novel at age 40. Alan Rickman was 41 when he made his film debut in Die Hard. Anna Mary Robertson Moses, better known as Grandma Moses, began her prolific painting career at 78. Success will take time, and that is ok, but as you look to your future, consider what will bring value. Finances, sure, but also experiences. Travel. Self-discovery. Relationships. Continuing education. There are many ways to invest in your future as long as you do it with intension. But seriously, try to pay your bills on time.
Second. At a time of shifting uncertainty, make your own routine. This might be by taking five minutes to journal each day. Or to make your bed every morning. To take a daily walk, rain or shine. Or to call your parent on your lunch break. A short, simple daily practice can provide a sense of continuity. Self-care doesn't always look like manicures and spa days. Self care can be doing your laundry.
Self care is also feeding your art heart. In the three years I took between graduating with my BA and entering my MFA program, I made myself a promise: I would see one performance a week. And remarkably, I kept it. I’m not saying I dropped a hundred bucks each week to see a touring show. Instead, I saw experimental plays in tiny theaters with no air conditioning and locally produced musicals from literally the last row of the balcony. Alone, I took myself to open mic nights and theatre in the park. I saw new works and classics and everything in between. I expanded this to include museums and galleries and studio tours. It was my church. My spiritual education. My journey. Aside from being incredibly formative, this art-pilgrimage pushed me outside my comfort zone. I was anxious about going to see a show alone. I was intimidated by people and ideas and experiences outside my bubble. But I leaned into my discomfort over and over and over again, until I found that these excursions no longer made me nervous. Instead, they simply brought joy, and growth, and awe.
Third. And this is a big one. Find, support, and make use of your community. All three of these things require commitment. Finding a community (really just a clever way of saying making friends) gets harder when you are not automatically thrust together with peers pursuing the same objective. You have to seek out individuals who align with your values and passions.
Supporting your community means actually showing up, and not just saying that you will. How many of us have sent a text saying “let’s meet up soon”, and then never do? We've said “call me if you need anything”, but never bothered to check in again. Supporting your community means being proactive.
And then it's about learning how to ask for help. This can be the hardest part of building community. Societally, we have been taught that asking for help is showing weakness and that it is a bad thing. I believe that asking for help can be a gift. You're giving another person the opportunity to meet you in a hard place. You're showing trust by sharing vulnerability. You’re acknowledging another person’s expertise. You are allowing space for a deeper connection. You’re making it easier for other to follow your example and ask for help when they need it. And sometimes, you just need a friend to bring you a cup of coffee sit and hang out after that audition didn't go the way you wanted.
Your community extends beyond your peers. As graduates of the University of Washington and of the School of Drama, you are a link in a chain that goes back decades, and will also go forward. As a prospective student, I distinctly recall the work of Matthew Smucker. I remember seeing Matt's résumé and thinking wow, that's the career I want to have. I had not met him, but his legacy drew me towards being a part of this chain. It wasn't until several years later that I had the great honor of being mentored by him. I now consider him a peer and a friend. His influence on my career has been invaluable. I hope that I will have that same kind of impact on artists that come after me. And all of you will, eventually, do the same.
What country, friend, is this?
Ten years ago, I was frantically writing my thesis about a production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. One week ago I was sitting in this audience, watching an exuberant production of Thrive. Both plays, subtitled, “or what you will”. Both plays explore a journey. One of discovery, self discovery, of complexities, of inner and outer strength, of hard truths, of high stakes, of bravery.
Twelfth Night opens in chaos. Viola washes ashore in a strange land, separated from her brother, her past, and even her name. She asks: “What country, friend, is this?” And then—she does something extraordinary. She makes a choice. She becomes someone new. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. Because survival requires transformation.
Every artist is, at some point, shipwrecked. We are tossed out of the familiar, pushed beyond the safe harbor of what we know, and we are asked to reinvent ourselves. This is not failure. This is the work. And you’ve already done it. College is its own strange land. You arrived not knowing who you’d become. And through long rehearsals, challenging projects, last-minute rewrites, and the occasional production that made you swear you were never doing theatre again—you discovered not just what you can do, but who you are.
And that, to me, is the heart of it all: not disguise, but discovery. Not illusion, but identity. And each of you, whether you know it or not, have spent the last few years slowly uncovering the voice that is uniquely yours.
It is my greatest hope for you that you root into your soil through community, through skill and technique, through a chain of connection, and through bravery. To thrive takes bravery. Because what is thriving, but growing into the fullest most exceptional version of yourself. That growth doesn't happen without challenges along the way.
The core curriculum of my UW master’s program was a studio class in which we presented a new set design every week. As a first year grad student without any drafting, model building, or drawing abilities, it was incredibly stressful. I got about five minutes into my very first presentation and completely lost it. I left the classroom and had a cry in the Hutchinson shower until one of the third year costumers came and got me. Later, walking around campus with Geoff, I recall him asking me "do you think you can't be a designer?”
It catches my memory because it was not a question of who I was at the time. It was not a question of current skill. It was a question if I could be brave. Was I going to try. Could I thrive? Would I going to stand up every week, present my work, and be prepared to take critique. Was I prepared to put in the hours needed to build the necessary skill set. Was I brave enough to voice my true opinions and fight for my point of view. That is still something I struggle with today, but when I look back at that person ten years ago, I am proud of the journey, fortitude, and bravery it has taken to become the designer I am today. I know that life will challenge you. I know it will continue to challenge me. I am excited about those challenges and I hope you are too.
What country, friend, is this?
Practice having thick skin. Practice kindness. Practice living with intention. Practice the impossible. Practice authenticity. Practice audacity. Practice caring deeply about something other than yourself. Practice changing the world. Practice being brave.
We live in a time that desperately needs storytellers. People who understand nuance. People who listen deeply. People who are brave enough to ask, “What country, friends, is this?”—and then to step forward and make of it what you will.
What country, friend, is this?
It is yours. Go and be brave. Thank you.