by Zach Dulli, The Scene

But fear not, noble director of high school theatre, brave wrangler of hormones and harmonies. You are not alone. And while I cannot physically teleport to your auditorium and prevent your soundboard from mysteriously resetting itself every 12 minutes, I can offer a lovingly sarcastic, yet hopelessly optimistic guide to help you and your actors stay relatively sane during tech week. Let’s begin.

1. Your Brain is Lying to You. Sleep Anyway: I know you want to go full Gandalf, shouting “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” but the truth is, after 9 p.m., you shall not function. After about 9 p.m., your brain turns into a bowl of microwaved oatmeal and starts assigning character arcs to the spike tape. Sleep deprivation makes you worse at decision-making, memory, and emotional regulation, basically the entire job description of a director. So, stop. Go home. Sleep. And if that feels impossible, at least take turns with an assistant or student stage manager who has youth and caffeine on their side.
2. Everything Feels Like a Crisis—It’s Probably Not: Someone lost their prop sword. The leading lady’s voice is cracking. The sound cue came in late. Again. Here’s a hard truth: tech week is built on the illusion that everything is falling apart—and that’s precisely how it’s supposed to feel. In fact, when tech week runs too smoothly, that’s when I start to panic. Because if no one is crying, coughing, or calling for a missing mic pack, something unnatural is happening. A smooth tech week is the theatrical equivalent of the quiet toddler—you know something’s brewing. The good news is, it almost never goes smoothly. And that’s okay. The curtain will rise. The actors will find their light. And the sword? It will inevitably turn up in a senior’s backpack two days after closing. Keep your cool. Model grace under pressure. Remember: unless there’s actual fire, like flames and a fire marshal, it’s just tech week.
3. Rehearsal Notes: Use Them Wisely or Don’t Use Them at All: You know that urge to give a few hours of notes right after a brutal ten-hour tech run? Fight it. Actors, especially teenagers, are emotionally raw, physically exhausted, and teetering on the edge of tears or TikTok stardom at all times. So, unless a note is vital to safety or basic functionality, let it ride. Prioritize kindness. Give two compliments before a critique. Save the nitpicks for the post-mortem. Or therapy.
4. Tech Week is Not the Time to Rewrite Act Two: You’ve had weeks—weeks!—to decide whether Scene 6 ends with a blackout or a tableau. If it’s Tuesday of tech week and you suddenly think the show needs a tap number, I hate to break it to you: you are the problem. Respect the time. Trust the plan. Make a note for the revival.
5. Build in Laughter—on Purpose: Yes, your actors need to focus. Yes, this show matters. But if you don’t build moments for joy, the pressure will build up like an over-carbonated LaCroix until someone explodes in a cloud of sequins and regret. Play a dumb warm-up game. Hold a pre-show sing-along. Do a group scream in the wings. Tech week is stressful, but it doesn’t have to be joyless. Let them laugh. Let yourself laugh. You’ll all remember that more than the missed cue.
6. Your Tech Team Is Not Psychic. Tell Them What You Want. Nicely: Tech week is a collaboration between the creative and technical sides of the theatre—two groups who, during this week, tend to communicate with all the clarity of a fog machine on a tilt. If you’re yelling things like “It needs to be more blue, but like… sadder!” you’re not giving cues. You’re giving abstract art. Be specific. Use actual words. Reference timestamps. Use your stage manager as a communication liaison and not just a human notepad. And above all, be kind. That 14-year-old lighting op who missed Cue 47. She’s not a saboteur. She’s trying not to fail geometry and operate a light board with 96 buttons and no labels.
7. Eat Real Food: An alarming number of teenagers believe Hot Cheetos constitute a food group. You cannot stop them. But you can model better behavior by actually eating a vegetable and not just surviving on black coffee and stray Twizzlers from the concessions box. Encourage a potluck or “snack squad” system. Feed your cast, feed your crew, and most importantly: feed yourself. The show runs better when everyone’s blood sugar isn’t actively plotting against them.
8. Some Things Will Break. That’s Not a Sign—It’s Just Gravity: Someone will drop a prop. A microphone will go rogue. A costume zipper will fail at the worst possible moment. This is not a test. This is the job. Theatre is live. Theatre is human. Theatre is, at its core, a controlled catastrophe with a great lighting plot. Your job is not to prevent every disaster. Your job is to stay calm enough that your students learn how to handle chaos with grace and laughter instead of panic and group crying in the wings. (Although, let’s be honest, there will be crying in the wings. That’s also normal.)
9. Students Are Looking at You Like a Lighthouse. Stand Tall: You are the steady beam in the middle of their emotional hurricane. They are looking to you for stability, approval, and occasionally snacks. So try…try…not to melt down in front of them when the fog machine floods the stage 16 minutes early and won’t shut off. Model the behavior you want from them. Show them what problem-solving looks like. Use humor. Use patience. And when in doubt, remind them that “theatre is problem-solving at the speed of story.” They’ll nod like they understand. They don’t. But they’ll remember it later when they’re directing in college, and they do.
10. Trust the Process (and the Kids): This one’s big. At some point, you’ve got to let go. And yes, that’s terrifying, especially if you’ve seen your lead try to exit stage left into a wall. But high school actors are more resilient than you think. The adrenaline of opening night does wild, beautiful things to young performers. So trust them. Guide them. But let them fly, even if it’s on a slightly wobbly zipline held together with gaffer tape and a prayer.
11. Find the Joy (Even in the Dumpster Fire): If your entire tech week experience is a slow-motion stress scream, you’re missing the point. This week is hard—but it’s also beautiful. It’s when your students discover what they’re capable of. It’s when your stage manager finally nails the transition that’s been haunting their dreams. It’s when your shyest freshman glows under the spotlight like they were born to be there. Celebrate those wins. Out loud. To the room. Often. Theatre is hard enough without making joy a luxury. Make it standard. Make it part of the culture. Laugh at the mishaps. Cheer the small victories. And if the whole scene collapses, but they stay in character and keep going? Give them a standing ovation right then and there.
12. Remember Why You’re Doing This: You’re not just staging a play. You’re giving students the space to be seen, to be heard, to be brave, to be human. You’re building community. You’re creating memories. You’re changing lives in a way that no standardized test ever will. And yes, it comes with long nights and messy rehearsals and the occasional onstage nosebleed. But it also comes with magic—the kind that only happens when the curtain rises and a group of young people become something bigger than themselves. That’s why we do this. That’s why you do this.

So here’s to you, high school theatre director. May your cues be tight, your actors be hydrated, and your principal not pop in during the one tech run where everything falls apart. Tech week is a beast. But it’s your beast. You’ve tamed it before, and you’ll do it again. And when you’re sitting in the back row on opening night, watching it all come together, watching them come together, you’ll remember that it was worth it. Every late night. Every mic check. Every dramatic sigh. Now go conquer the week. And maybe…order yourself something from Uber Eats. You’ve earned it.