At precisely seven o’clock in the morning, I am jolted abruptly from sleep by a repetitive, muffled thudding coming from the roof above me — a steady rhythm of dull impacts that instantly banishes any trace of slumber. My dog, ever vigilant and fiercely loyal, reacts before I can fully comprehend what’s happening; her ears snap upright, her muscles tense, and she stands ready to defend our fragile mobile home from whatever unseen invaders are attempting to breach it from above. The next sound is a chaotic blend — another heavy thud interlaced with an unmistakable gurgling squawk. Within moments, the mystery reveals itself: a whole rowdy congregation of seagulls, those opportunistic aerial scavengers, is divebombing my caravan with relentless enthusiasm.
Still half-asleep, I groggily wipe the grit from my eyes, push open the small door, and stumble into the broad, dew-damp field that we have transformed into our temporary home for the week. The morning air hits my face with a chill, and before me lies the extent of the gulls’ mischief: they have invaded my garbage bag, tearing into it like pirates plundering buried treasure. The remains — shredded food wrappers, scraps, and unidentifiable refuse — are strewn in a grotesque trail leading all the way to the entrance of the big top itself. I sigh, muttering some choice words about nature’s supposed grace. So much for a quiet start to the morning.
Life on the road has become my norm because I am, in every sense of the phrase, a full-time circus performer. My livelihood depends on suspending myself high above the ground — often thirty feet in the air — where I hang, twist, and glide from gleaming metal apparatuses, sometimes using nothing more precarious than my teeth. When I reveal this to strangers, their eyes light up with wonder and they usually exclaim that my life must be impossibly glamorous, as though I live within some permanent spotlight of sequins and applause. My best friend, however, is quick to dispel this illusion. She enjoys recounting tales of me hammering tent poles into the mud under torrential rain or recounting performances in which I’ve shared the stage with far less elegant company — including the occasional goat dropping.
Still, I must admit that the life of a circus artist does carry its own kind of allure, one I never could have imagined as a child. I’m a girl from Virginia, raised somewhere along the thin and uncertain line of poverty, in a world where owning a passport felt like an unattainable luxury and the most common career pathways for young women stopped abruptly at teacher, store clerk, or homemaker. Yet somehow, through a mixture of passion, perseverance, and luck, I’ve found myself performing on five continents. I’ve shared meals with members of British aristocracy and put on private shows for royalty of every possible variety, sometimes in exquisite hidden theatres set within resorts that feel plucked from the dreamlike worlds of fiction.
Despite those moments of splendor, the heart of this job lies in the performance itself. When I step onto the stage, enveloped by the sharp scent of sawdust and the collective hum of a waiting audience, I feel an electric joy unlike anything else. Performing in a sold-out arena filled with four thousand shouting, ecstatic children makes me feel — if only for a fleeting moment — like a genuine rock star. But the exhilaration comes at a price. In our world, the concept of work-life balance is almost mythical. The typical year unfolds as a sequence of tours: spring and summer blur into Halloween and Christmas residencies, with little pause to catch a breath. Personal milestones — weddings, birthdays, anniversaries — must be negotiated around the immutable rule that the show must go on. Our troupe rarely has understudies; if you fall ill or your heart breaks, you still perform. The tent waits for no one.
Living with work mere steps away from where you sleep distorts time and space until there is no real separation between who you are and what you do. Many of my closest friends in this realm end up dating or marrying fellow performers; it’s easier, after all, to share a life with someone who understands the peculiar rhythm of constant travel, erratic hours, and public spectacle. I too dated within the industry — until fate introduced me to someone entirely different. I fell in love with a lawyer, and now we are deep in the intricate chaos of planning our wedding.
My partner, I often joke, missed her true calling as a clown. She possesses a natural comedic brilliance that rivals the professional jesters I’ve spent my life among. Yet her humor is matched by her wholehearted embrace of my unconventional lifestyle. She has joined me on countless tours, delighting equally in the rare splendors of opulent hotel suites and the dubious pleasures of sleeping in damp, mold-speckled caravans parked in chilly English villages. During one particularly demanding tour, she even took it upon herself to learn the mechanics of the winch — the very machine responsible for hoisting aerialists heavenward during performances — proving once again that love, like circus life, often requires trust, flexibility, and the willingness to improvise.
This year has been an unbroken chain of travel: Germany, England, Wales, Ireland, the United States — each new contract demanding relocation and reinvention. Amid that relentless movement, we’ve been orchestrating what we affectionately call “the big one,” our grand wedding celebration. Earlier this year, we quietly eloped in Las Vegas, exchanging vows in the sunlit vastness of Red Rock Canyon. My former performance partner, now an acrobat with Cirque du Soleil, officiated the ceremony on her one day off. It was simple, unpretentious, and perfect. But the upcoming February celebration in England will be something else entirely — a jubilant fusion of love and circus spectacle featuring dear friends we have shamelessly recruited to perform on their supposed day of rest.
Planning such an event while juggling show contracts has been an exercise in endurance and coordination. We managed to tour numerous venues between my professional commitments, though my fiancée has inevitably shouldered much of the burden herself, attending meetings in my absence. This coming November will epitomize our constant juggling act: I’ll finish my Halloween contract, dismantle the tent, dash off to a hair and makeup trial, attend a food tasting the following morning, then immediately board a flight to Las Vegas to prepare for a national tour. Through it all, she remains astonishingly patient — a virtue I find saintly.
Even in rare moments of downtime, I cannot resist filling the gaps. I built our wedding website backstage during show intervals and somehow decided that an ambitious amount of DIY decoration could be achieved between contracts. With only a single month left at home this year before embarking on a U.S. tour that spans thirty-four cities across eighteen states, I find myself living in a state of perpetual motion. Come the new year, we will return home only long enough to finalize every detail and, at last, reaffirm our vows before family and friends bathed in sequins, glitter, and laughter. And then, as always — because there is no resting in this life I’ve chosen — we will load up the caravan, hit the road once more, and step willingly back under the lights. Because, in the end, the show must go on.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/full-time-circus-performer-theres-very-little-work-life-balance-2025-11
