Is Work My Whole Personality? How an Improv Class Helped Me Rediscover Myself (2025)

An improv class can be more than just fun and games. There's a freedom in saying "yes, and," in coming from a place of yes, that I hadn't considered until I took Improv 1 at The Second City in Brooklyn.

As 2025 began, I wasn't in a great place mentally. Like so many people I know — and I'm sure many of you as well — the previous year had been filled with challenges, and I completely burrowed into work. As the Executive Editor of TV and Events here at PEOPLE, it's easy to do: The 24-hour news cycle is real and busy is our daily baseline. But, to be frank, I was beginning to wonder if I had lost myself, if my job, exciting as it may be, had become my entire personality. And when I raised my hand offering to take a beginner improv class for a "we tried it"-type story, I questioned whether I had just dug that hole a little deeper.

Little did I realize it would become one of the greatest acts of self-care I've given myself in years.

Before my first class, my experience with improv consisted of a few games played in high school several decades ago. I have no fantasies of becoming an actor or a comedian of any kind. But I'm not afraid of public speaking — I often moderate celebrity panels at events like 90s Con and TV festivals — and I can be funny (despite my parents jokingly reminding me that my younger brother is the funny one). And taking a class, any class, with a regular cadence seemed like a great way for me to take a break from work, from my laptop and my phone, for a few hours a week.

Walking in the first day, I was nervous. I had no idea what to expect, either from my classmates or the syllabus. Was everyone hoping to join comedians like Amy Poehler and Mike Myers on the list of successful Second City alums? Or were they just wanting to try something new, like I was? Mostly I wondered if I would really be able to shift out of work mode, quiet the noise in my head of all the things I didn't finish and Slack messages I was overanalyzing and just be present.

At 6:30 on the dot, instructor Louie Pearlman entered the small classroom and welcomed the 17 of us gathered to learn the value of "yes, and." He began with a very short history lesson on modern improv, explaining that its roots began as games for children and reminding us all that, once upon a time, we learned through play... and that's what we were there to do, to play.

Rather than hand out a list of rules for the class, Louie asked us what we all needed in order to create a safe community to play. "Be patient," "Listen," "Be respectful of boundaries," and "Assume the best" were among the bulletpoints on our official code of conduct, which Louie emailed to all of us the next day.

Then came the moment I was (irrationally) dreading: introductions. I wasn't trying to be a different person in the class, but I also feared that once everyone knew I worked for PEOPLE, that would be my identifying trait, and my hopes of an escape would be shattered. But I also wasn't going to lie; eventually, I would be writing this article. It soon became very clear that Louie was creating a safe bubble in that drab classroom, and people only had to share what they felt like sharing. The introductions were merely first names, pronouns, and if you had any needs for that day's class, physical (like "my ankle hurt") or otherwise. And those three things were confirmed every week at the start of class.

To a very large extent, those pieces of information were all I knew of my classmates' lives outside of that room — and all they knew about mine. Everyone was warm, friendly, open, and immensely respectful of the safe space we'd created. When one person's "needs" at the beginning of class was a request for a moratorium on cancer jokes (there had been one the week before), no one asked why or looked at her with pity. We were able to just be.

I was able to just be. I was able to just play.

And there was a rejuvenating freedom in that. Through countless games — from ones where we actually responded to every statement with "yes, and" to others where we attempted to have a conversation in part-English, part-gibberish. The fun and the challenge of improv is not knowing what your scene partners are going to say or do next, but going along with it, always coming from a place of "yes." If someone says the sky is purple, then the sky is purple, and we go from there.

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Often, I didn't know what I was going to say next either — and sometimes, I had no idea where what I had said even originated. One moment, I was a pirate whose gun had just been taken, but, yo-ho!, I had a backup gun! Another time, I was a mom thrift-shopping and taking all the best outfits from her friend's hands.

As our scenes grew longer and more complex, we began to understand that each person's responses and reactions were a gift. One person telling another how much they enjoy making pizza together is an information gift to the other performer: now they have a setting and a relationship, and their exchange can build from there.

As our scenes grew longer and more complex, we began to understand that each person's responses and reactions were a gift. One person telling another how much they enjoy making pizza together is an information gift to the other performer: now they have a setting and a relationship, and their exchange can build from there.

In the second or third class, I was performing with one other classmate, and we were pretending to run a yoga studio that was in dire straits. At one point, he made a suggestion, and I had no idea how to respond. I didn't freeze, though. I just said, "That's the best idea I've heard all week." When we were finished, Louie applauded the moment and explained what a gift that was to my partner. It was an endorsement and a confirmation to him that I was along for the ride, wherever it took us, and offered him continued freedom to create.

That exchange really stuck with me, and I've tried to remember it as I am brainstorming with my colleagues. I certainly put it into practice a few weeks later at 90s Con as I took the stage with the casts of Beverly Hills, 90210 and Scream.

For seven weeks, my Improv I class and I laughed, we cheered each other on, and we learned to be truly present.

For seven weeks, I was just Breanne, not Breanne from PEOPLE, so when the class ended and the time had come to tell them I would be writing this article, I was terrified I was about to burst the safe bubble we'd created together. That fear was unfounded. They couldn't have been more supportive (and all consented to the group photo in this post).

In the time since, that support hasn't wavered. We've learned more about each other: one's an incredible singer, we have a puppet-maker and a doctor and a professional French horn player, the impressive list goes on. A group chat was created and remains active; it's mostly us sharing our real-life wins and celebrating each other's projects.

I can't wait to share this post with them so they can see how much our experience together helped me. And yes, I'll be saying "yes, and" to another improv class in the future.