The Speak Up: The reality of it all 🌹

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I don’t have kids (by choice). But if I was able to borrow a friend’s child for a few hours I would say:

“Back in 2009, I was an apprentice at Arden Theatre Company and one of the most dreaded tasks was cleaning the theater on a Monday night. Why was it dreaded? No, it wasn’t the stale popcorn kernels and gum leftover from the children’s theater run, it was the fact that I had to miss watching The Bachelor or Bachelorette AND Dancing With the Stars.

And here’s how long ago this was, kid.

In 2009 you could tune in to network television on something called a radio. That’s right. I could access 6ABC, and while I couldn’t see the tangos and paso dobles, I could hear them. I could feel them.”

​

As I dust-busted in between seat cushions and dove for dropped programs under the risers, I dreamed of being a contestant on Dancing With the Stars. And not one of the professional I-have been-studying-ballroom-dance-my-entire-life dancers. No. I wanted to be the celebrity that partnered up with the pro.

Bring on the dance lessons and bring on the sequins.

How could I go from apprenticing at a reputable regional theater company to a well-known celeb in a short enough period to make it onto DWTS?

The Bachelor

I was pretty public about my love for The Bachelor. I had been committed from the beginning and tuned in for every series and franchise spin-off. But as someone who deflected with humor and liked to talk about pop culture with a tinge of irony, I would often shrug off the depth of my love. In public, I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. At home, I would squeal in earnest when true sparks would fly.

One Monday night in 2009, I had a day off and was able to catch The B on an actual television. At the end of a commercial break, the TV screen flashed with an audition notice: Want to be a contestant on The Bachelor? Auditions coming to a city near you. I typed in the website listed and sure enough, the auditions were coming to Philadelphia.

This was my ticket to Dancing With the Stars. How funny would this be? And a tiny voice inside of me whispered, “This could also be your ticket to finding true love.” As I daydreamed on, that voice was quickly silenced by the deafening roar of a crowd cheering me on after Carrie Ann Inaba gave myself and Derek Hough a perfect 10.

I showed up at the Crown Plaza Hotel.

("This hotel is no longer around", I say to the friend’s child that I have borrowed to tell this tale).

I worked at a vintage store where I was acquiring quite the collection of embroidered animal sweaters, but I felt like I couldn’t show up wearing one to this audition as the real Hillary Rea. I’d have to then justify my collection of Spice Girls dolls (still in the boxes), confess that I helped organize a 60-person parade performance complete with sparkly spandex unitards, and reveal my love of owls.

So instead, on this late-summer weekday evening, I strolled into the hotel lobby in a simple white tank top, skinny jeans, ballet flats, and one day’s worth of Hollywood Tan.

I pretended I was as basic as a 2009 Lauren Conrad and hoped they wouldn’t suspect that I was something different underneath.

The lobby of the Crown Plaza was empty. I was expecting a line down the block. A bellhop took one look at me and pointed up the escalator, squeaking out a “Good luck!” as I ascended to the audition meeting hall.

Once checked in, I was handed a 10-page application and a pen and I sat down to complete it.

And because I dotted every ‘I’ with a heart, my wrists were throbbing by the end.

(“No kid, we had computers back then. I’m not sure why we had to handwrite this.")

With every question, I answered as generally as possible. Why hadn’t I found love yet? I was unlucky in love and no one fit my criteria. Was I looking to find my forever person? Why yes, yes I was.

Basic and bland. It felt safer that way.

I turned in my application and waited to be called for my one-on-one interview and screen test.

As I am waiting, I survey the room. Just a few seats down from me were two guys and a girl, all filling out applications. I make eye contact with the one guy.

Oh wow, he looks like a 2009 Jude Law.

He opens his mouth and says hello in a British accent.

Wait, is this Jude Law? No. But close enough!

Have I just found true love in a Crown Plaza conference room? Do I go back to the desk and ask for my application back? Do I yell “Get Chris Harrison on the phone, we’re having a rose ceremony right here, right now.”

Before I know it, we’re chatting about our applications. He and his friends drove from Baltimore. His one friend is snapping photos of us on a digital camera.

("This was before iPhones, child of my friend").

My name is finally called. So is his. We hear each other for the first time as we are whisked away into separate small interview rooms. “I’ll find you on Facebook,” he says.

Hilarious and yet at the same time, that whispery voice inside says "See?!"

As soon as I am in front of producers and a camera, I freeze up.

I was so uncomfortable in my own skin because I wasn’t dressed like myself, I was trying to remember the basic and boring responses I gave to each question, and I was stifling my normal anxious energy and quippy banter. I also couldn’t stop thinking about 2009 Jude Law.

I heard “thank you” almost immediately and exited the hotel.

While I waited to hear back from casting directors, I exchanged Facebook messages with my one-true-love new audition friend. After spending far too much time lurking on his profile page, I noticed we had a mutual Facebook friend -- someone that I knew in High School that I hadn’t talked to in years.

Until I bumped into him on the street a week later.

“I met someone that you know!” I blurted out with my normal anxious energy. I said his name and explained that we met at an audition for The Bachelor.

“Really?” Our mutual friend looked puzzled.

“The whole reason I know him is that when I lived abroad, he was my roommate Tom’s boyfriend. Is there a same-sex version of The Bachelor now?”

“No. I guess he was just pretending to be someone else.”

And so was I…

Shortly after this audition, I said yes to performing at a friend’s comedy night at an art gallery. The theme was prop comedy and I brought my Dylan, Brandon, and Donna 90210 dolls (in boxes) to act out a story from my life. I brought my own laugh track and had a friend hit play any time he felt like I needed an extra boost of audience support. I wore an animal sweater.

The whole experience was electrifying.

I felt fully in my element, fully in my own skin.

I was having fun.

I was sharing parts of my life that normally felt embarrassing or insignificant. But I was in control of how I was sharing these moments and how I was sharing myself with an audience of strangers.

And from there I continued to tell stories on stage.

Fewer props but way more of me.

Tinged with irony, I told my Bachelor audition story and the love story that took place in the waiting room. I highlighted the punchline that I was fooled by 2009 Jude Law, he was totally not into women, and that he must have been at the audition for the same exact reason as me: to score a spot on Dancing With The Stars.

In those early years versions of the story, I never once examined my own choice to conceal who I was in that audition room. I couldn’t ever turn that part into a joke because showing up inauthentically to pitch myself to a television show, isn’t funny.

Regardless of shifting perspectives, I am grateful that I felt comfortable enough to share a version of this story on a stage at all. Storytelling shows became a place where I knew I was being true to myself and could share who I was without fear of judgment.

But now that I have evolved, this story needs to.

Looking back now, why did I let that fear of judgment get in my way in that audition setting? Was it risky or threatening to just be me? Yes. Especially if I did indeed make it onto that show and then was all of a sudden in the public eye.

But isn’t sharing my stories with a room full of strangers being in the public eye in some capacity?

Yes.

And you said you were totally comfortable being yourself in that setting?

Yes.

What’s the difference?

In the second scenario, I know that I am always going to be in control of my own narrative. I’m also able to see the crowd and feel the energy of the room. I trust my stories, how I tell them, and the connective, collective power of an experience shared with a beginning, middle, and end.

And because I've made a career telling stories and helping other people tell theirs, I am a pretty good judge of when someone’s story is being told for them or they are showing up as a watered-down, inauthentic version of themselves. I see it with reality TV characters all the time.

And now I can see it in 2009 Hillary. If she knew what I know now, she'd know that she'd never stand a chance of getting cast on Dancing With The Stars.

​​Who are the Bachelor and Bachelorette contestants that make it onto Dancing With The Stars?

Kaitlyn. Hannah. Gabby. Charity.

The ones who take the risk and show up authentically. They aren’t afraid of personal and professional growth. They continue to explore and challenge who they are. They have normal anxious energy. They act weird. They make mistakes. They learn. They are in the public eye and are constantly pushing against who the public expects them to be.

And they all believe in the power of storytelling and owning their narrative.

While there is definitely a thing or two that each of them could learn about crafting a narrative (hi, let’s work together!), the fact that they are even trying to tell their story in a public way — whether on their own podcast or when interviewed by someone else — is proof enough that hiding who you are isn’t going to help you take up space and grow your visibility on whatever platform, stage, or microphone you desire.

Recently, while watching The Bachelorette finale, like with every final rose ceremony that passes by, I sat on my couch and celebrated who I am.

If it wasn’t for those radio-listening, dust-busting daydreams in a dark theater, I never would have discovered who I wasn’t.

And if I had never discovered who I wasn’t, I never would have discovered my own stories.

And if I had never discovered my own stories, I never would have discovered myself.

Now, at the time of sharing this story with you, it feels like I am here, showing up and sharing my voice, for the right reasons. Finally.

And this is worth far more than a Neil Lane engagement ring or a mirror ball trophy.

I still don't know how to quick step,

Hillary

Ps. One more newsletter in this welcome series to go!

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