Meet Me at the Theater. I’ll Be the One Crying at the Curtain Call

(TRENTON, N.J.) — The first time I saw “The Fiddler on the Roof,” it wasn’t on a stage. It was performed right in front of me, as I sat on my grandfather’s knee. He was a one-man show with no stage, no costumes, and definitely no microphones — he didn’t need them. Through his own sound effects, intonation, and a wholehearted conviction, my grandfather told a story better than anyone I knew. 

And suddenly, they’d appear: Tevye, the milkman who wished he were a rich man, his daughters who longed to marry for love, and his wife Golde who asked her husband, “Do you love me?” It wasn’t just imagination anymore — through his version, I could see a full-scale production.

He even typed out the story in a Word document so I’d remember it exactly how he’d told it —  in his own words. Once the story was over, he snapped out of it, and there he was, my grandfather as himself again. 

As I grew up, my emotional connection to storytelling only grew. I went on to perform in my school’s theater program, became a member of the choir, and sang “La Vie Boheme” in the shower. Seeing shows became a regular occurrence — almost as regular as my tendency to well up in tears at every single curtain call. 

Just like my grandfather, the actors snap out of their performance, come back to themselves, and on cue — here come my waterworks.

It doesn’t even have to be a sad show. In fact, I’m not one to get emotional over the content of a story. You won’t find me gushing over rom-coms in my living room. But plop me at the end of a live performance where the audience is clapping and cheering, and I’m sure to be left in a puddle. 

So, what is it exactly? 

For years, I combed through the options of what might be happening to me. Something in that room, right at the end, is chemical — almost cosmic. I feel a deep respect for the actors, the sanctity of the auditorium, and the rise and fall of the emotions shared. As we reach the end of the experience all together, it’s a mix of delight and sadness that it’s over. It’s like the lights coming on at the end of a movie, abrupt and reflective. 

So I wanted to know: Where does this emotional response come from? I’m not only interested in what’s happening out there in that crowd, but also, what’s going on in my brain?

Asking the experts

To better understand the connection between theater and the brain, I spoke with  Jamie Ward, head of the School of Computing at Goldsmiths University of London. He works at the “intersection of wearable computing, theater, and psychology,” using “body-worn sensors to study human behavior.”

Ward understands the craft and even took a brief hiatus to go back to his first love — acting. 

He and his collaborators produced NEUROLIVE,  an interdisciplinary research project supported by the European Research Council, studying how humans react to live performances. NEUROLIVE creates art to study it, Ward explains.  Researchers host live performances of dancing, acting and singing for small audiences whose members don wearable computers to measured their brain’s responses. 

The data showed that audience members’ brains synchronized to the ups and downs of events in the plot — together. 

“People’s Delta wave signals synchronized,” Ward said. “That means they were moving together. So these frequencies of their brainwaves were moving in sync with each other more when they were in person and watching engaging parts of the [show.]” 

Perhaps this was happening to me when I watched a live performance. Another possible explanation for my curtain call reaction could be linked to a term called “collective effervescence,” or CE. It’s described as intense emotional activation from people sharing a common experience, usually in a crowd. The phrase was coined in 1912 by Emile Durkheim, one of the founders of sociology, who studied it in terms of organized religion. In 2026, the term can be applied to any group, from marathon runners to concert-goers.

The concept of “collective effervescence” can apply to any group, from marathon runners to concert-goers. [Credit: Pexels / Maor Attias]

Across the Atlantic, Nicole Koefler, a Ph.D. candidate in social psychology at the University at Buffalo SUNY, also researches CE. She studied the positive effects of performances including live music. She says CE “promotes a ton of positive wellbeing outcomes like meaning in life, positive mood, decreased loneliness, a sense of social connection, and more. And sometimes we find that these effects last awhile after the event.”

Could this be what is happening to me when I watch live theater?

‘A bit of a hug’
When asked about my curtain call situation, the experts had differing opinions. Some said it was too personal to assess from afar. Others thought it could be explained by CE.

“It may be that certain parts of a performance (like curtain call) are moments people feel even more connected than usual,” Koefler said citing  research showing ” how some people are more likely to experience CE than others.” Perhaps, she thought, I could be one of those people.

Ward, the computer science professor,  theorized that I’m “realizing [at curtain call], these are real human beings that have been performing the stories.” He added, “You’re taken out of that world now and reminded, ‘Oh right: they’re people,’ and you kind of need a hug to finish it. That’s kind of what a curtain call and an applause can often be – a bit of a hug.”

In truth, that’s how theater feels to me. Like a hug, taking me back to what I love most in the world. The combination of the warm feelings from the audience and the power of the story can make us all feel like one collective body.

Whatever doctors or researchers want to call it, I know I’ll cry at my next curtain call. When an audience watches something together, we’re one with each other, but also with the story itself. And I’ll cry — not because it’s sad, and maybe not even because it’s over. I don’t need flashy stage lights or moving parts. Just being in the room is enough to make me feel that I can let go — and let the tears flow.