Why We Open Our Books

We often talk about the approximate 72 cents of every donated dollar that goes directly to artists. It's a number we're proud of, and one that reflects our budgeting priorities over time rather than a fixed promise attached to every dollar we raise. The real story behind that number is based in the philosophy that produces it, and the two practices we build that philosophy on: open book management and a formal pay equity policy.

Open books, on principle

We practice open book management, a concept common in the business world that we first encountered through producing theater on a shoestring budget. The idea is straightforward. Anyone working on a Flying Leap project can see that project's budget at any time, and anyone on our admin team can see both project budgets and our overall operating budget.

We think this matters because of what our industry actually looks like. We live in an economy that doesn't have much room for what we do. Theater isn't a luxury good, and it isn't mass replicable, so it struggles to fit a model built around scale and margin. That mismatch tends to produce an extractive ecosystem, where artists are underpaid and it's genuinely hard to tell who, if anyone, is profiting.

We can’t independently change the economy in which we operate, but opening our books is our answer to addressing those built in inequities. It does two things.

First, it helps people understand why we set rates the way we do and where our financial priorities sit, which builds trust and gives people room to push back on us. Someone might look at a budget and say a line item feels unfair, and that conversation only happens if the budget is visible in the first place. 

Second, it opens up opportunities. A collaborator might offer to do part of a job in kind to build their portfolio, or point us toward a college intern looking for credit, or mention a Materials for the Arts membership we can use for free. Transparency turns the budget into something collaborative instead of something guarded.

What our pay equity policy actually promises

Our pay equity policy is the second pillar of financial transparency, and it's public on our website. We commit to meeting or exceeding whichever is higher: the MIT Living Wage Calculator figure for where a given artist lives, or the comparable union or guild rate for that kind of work when one exists.

Those two benchmarks come from different places. The union and guild rates tell us what the theater industry itself considers standard, for example what an actor earns on a TYA tour under an Equity contract. The MIT calculator, run by the Living Wage Institute, tells us what someone actually needs to earn to live in a specific place, and it's almost always the higher of the two figures. Because our artists and touring partners live in different cities, this means our rates flex by location. As one example we checked while writing this, the living wage for a single adult with no children in Kings County, New York was $32.48 an hour, and it drops closer to $21 an hour per adult in a two-adult household with no children. Those numbers update roughly annually, so we recheck our own rate table against the calculator regularly to make sure we're still in compliance with our own standard.

We also look to W.A.G.E. (Working Artists and the Greater Economy, found at wageforwork.com), which sets suggested pay rates for artists across visual and performing arts based on an organization's operating budget tier. W.A.G.E. certifies both organizations that meet its standards and individual artists who commit to turning down underpaying work. Between union and guild rates, the MIT Living Wage Calculator, and W.A.G.E.'s broader arts-economy view, we're triangulating fair pay from three different directions rather than relying on any single standard.

Being honest about the limits

None of this solves the underlying problem. We work in an industry where even Broadway actors often don't earn enough to live comfortably, and no organization our size can single-handedly fix that. 

What we can do, while we don't live in an economy where every artist gets paid what they deserve, is make transparency the best available interim practice. We try to build a rehearsal and production environment where people are treated with respect, paid as well as we're able, and able to cover rent and groceries with what we pay them, even when that's not the number we wish we could offer. The quality of that experience is part of the compensation too. You can work in far worse conditions for a lot less money, and we're trying hard not to be that.

That's what sits underneath the 72 cents. Not a guarantee stamped on every donation, but a running record of an organization trying to be honest, in public, about where the money goes and why.

If you’d like to make it easier for us to pay our artists what we think they deserve, make a tax-deductible donation today.

Site-Specific, Not Site-Bound

How did Flying Leap become the site-specific production company we are today?

If you think one day we sat down and decided to become a site-specific theater company, that’s not what happened. We started by making work, and then looked back at what we'd made. It took our collaborators Logan Schulman and Susanna Brock pointing out a pattern at one of our earliest company retreats, while we were workshopping our mission statement, for us to connect the dots.. 

Nearly everything in our founder's body of work had been made for real, specific places, with one exception: an indoor playground built to tour black box theaters, which in hindsight probably should have just been staged on an actual playground.

Site-specific was built into our DNA, but we had to run with it first to realize.

What "site-specific" means for us

There's an important distinction we make between site-specific and site-responsive work. A lot of site-specific theater is built around one exact location and its history: a particular pier, a particular former asylum, a piece that can only exist in that one place. Our work is site-specific in a different way. We design for types of sites rather than one irreplaceable location. The Garden wasn't built exclusively for one park in the Bronx; it was built for public parks broadly, which means it needs to flex to fit different sizes and shapes of space while holding firm on a few non-negotiables, like needing somewhere flat and grassy. Figuring out where we can bend and where we can't is a real creative and practical conversation every time we tour.

We also think it's worth untangling site-specific from two words people often use interchangeably with it: immersive and participatory. They're related but not the same thing. Site-specific theater is always immersive, because your awareness of the actual space you're standing in becomes part of the dramaturgy, part of the work itself. But site-specific theater doesn't have to be participatory. You can sit in a chair, aware of the real space around you, and never touch a prop. 

Immersive theater doesn't have to be site-specific at all. A show can build an entirely constructed world that could be rebuilt in any warehouse in any city, and moving it wouldn't change a thing about the show. Our work is the opposite of that. It's built around being in the real, specific world you're actually in, not a constructed stand-in for it.

Why we build this way on purpose

Traditional venues come with constraints we didn't want: rows of fixed seating, a proscenium orientation, an assumption that the audience will sit still and watch. That model was never designed for kids, who are wired to be participatory rather than passive, and site-specific work gives us the freedom to configure each show, whether promenade, in the round, or something else, around the actual audience we're serving.

It also gets us to the families we exist to reach. Arts venues tend to cluster in centralized, well-resourced parts of a city, while a lot of people, especially people who are marginalized, live somewhere else entirely. Site-specific work lets us go to public parks and public spaces instead of asking families to come to us.

The Power of Site Specificity

One of our favorite moments came during our very first work-in-progress sharing of The Garden in Sunset Park, a neighborhood with a lot of new immigrant families. A mother in the audience, a Spanish speaker and recent arrival who hadn't spent much time in that park before, started the show visibly tense, trying to keep her baby quiet, unsure what was expected of her as an audience member. By the end, she was calm, smiling, and enjoying the performance. Something in her relationship to the space itself had shifted into something closer to belonging.

That's the effect we're chasing on purpose. We do this work in public spaces specifically, not in buildings most families can't access, because we want people who don't always feel ownership over a place to leave a performance feeling like the space, and the art in it, is actually theirs. This park is for me and my family. This wall is part of my community. That sense of cultural belonging is, in a real sense, the whole point of building theater this way, and it’s something we hope to encourage as we take The Garden back on tour.

Costuming The Garden: A Conversation with Designer Megan Rutherford Murray

When Megan Rutherford Murray first heard about The Garden, she was in the middle of cold-stratifying a batch of milkweed seeds in her refrigerator. Having been introduced to the show through a mutual friend, and as an avid gardener herself, she decided to apply for the position. 

"I found out it was time to take them out right when I got the job," she said. "It all works out the way it needs to." 

Megan brings over a decade of New York theater experience to the production. Originally from outside Houston, she studied at UNC Chapel Hill before coming to New York for grad school at NYU, and she's been a freelance theater artist in the city for the eleven years since. She's designed for site-specific and outdoor productions before, and she's worked with student performers, though mostly at the high school level. The Garden marks her first time designing for theater made specifically for very young audiences.

With an audience of mostly under 5, she’s thinking all about interaction.

"It's the part about little hands and the grabbiness and that level of interaction which is an exciting new challenge," she said. "How do we capture attention? How do we make sure that these things feel interesting, and maybe a little strange to look at, something that really makes you want to just lean in and be closer to it." 

Her garden designs aim to lean into texture and movement: metallics that catch the light, pieces that hang and dangle, elements built to draw a young child in and hold their focus; all while being able to survive a wash cycle and come back ready for the next performance.

Workwear as a Starting Point

The costumes begin as thrifted workwear. The Garden has an interesting set of costuming challenges, and Megan wanted the base garments to carry the practicality of outdoor labor, hardwearing fabric that can take a beating.

"We're going with this idea of work wear that has been transformed by the keeping of these elements within the show," she explained, "I’ve been thinking about the hardwearing nature of gardening or outdoor labor, and things that feel extremely practical, but then transformed."

Sustainability runs through her material choices, sourcing secondhand as much as possible, from thrift stores to online resale to salvage spots like Materials for the Arts. 

"I'm really hoping to find everything I can secondhand to start with, and then build out from there". 

Sustainability has a secondary perk as well, as worn-in fabric already has a kind of movement and life that something fresh off a factory shelf doesn't.

Because The Garden is so specifically a New York story, Megan wanted the design references to feel local to the environment. She pointed to the London plane tree, the most common tree in New York City, known for its mottled, colorful bark, and to the schist rock formations visible in Central Park, right beneath New Yorkers' feet. The goal, she said, was to keep the design recognizable and grounded rather than pulling from a version of "nature" that felt distant from the city.

Designing With, Not Just For, the Performers

Sometimes when designing for a unique environment, the performers themselves have insights that you may never have considered. Keeping open dialogue is important, and an ongoing back-and-forth with Megan and the performers, several of whom have been part of The Garden since earlier stages of its development, began early in the process. 

"I really like to keep an open line of communication with all of my performers," she said. "It's so important that the costume is not restrictive, that it only helps them in their performance." 

She uses these dialogues as opportunities to listen: what concerns performers have (mud came up early), what they've seen work in past performances, what makes them feel comfortable in a garment. 

Workwear spans a wide range, from fitted to overalls to coveralls, and from typically masculine to typically feminine silhouettes, so she's given performers a chance to react to different options and find what feels like their own before any modifications begin.

Where Things Stand

The team is roughly two months into the design process. Early research included time at the American Museum of Natural History and its picture collection archive, along with long walks near Megan's home, which sit close to water and green space that have informed her thinking about the show's natural world. She's now deep in the thrifting phase, sourcing base garments with fittings hopefully starting soon.

One ongoing challenge is designing for New York's unpredictable fall weather. An October performance could hit 90 degrees or 30, so the costumes need to hold up across a wide range of conditions while keeping performers safe and comfortable. Once fittings are complete, the next phase moves into detailed embellishment: paint, fabric manipulation, and testing how different materials, including natural dyes, hold up after repeated washing.

As Megan put it, the process is still in that in-between stage of moving from ideas into physical reality.

"Check back in two weeks," she said. "There will be a huge difference." 

Building a World That Travels: Inside the Set Design of The Garden

Most set design begins with a pre-defined theatrical space. There are walls, a floor plan, and a fixed relationship between the audience and the thing they came to see. These pre-defined spaces provide clear parameters for what can and can’t be done within a design.

The Garden has no pre-defined theatrical space.

Flying Leap's outdoor performance for children aged 0–5 unfolds on the grass in public parks, NYCHA courtyards, the green spaces of botanic gardens, and settlement houses across all five boroughs. The design team at Queens Lighting Collective began working on The Garden with a question: what does a world look like when it has to be highly portable, survive the outdoors of New York, and feel like it belongs in ten different neighborhoods at once?

No Fixed Setting, No Fixed Solution

Because The Garden tours, the design has to hold across wildly different conditions. A performance might sit in dappled shade under mature trees one weekend and full midday sun on an open lawn the next. The ground could be soft grass, packed dirt, or the paved edge of a courtyard. The ambient soundtrack could be birdsong or the Bruckner Expressway.

The collective's response was not to build ten different versions of the show. It was to build one design flexible enough that each site completes it differently.

That means the environment of a particular show isn't challenged, it's embraced. Natural light is the lighting design. The sky is the ceiling. The existing trees, slope of the lawn, and surrounding flora all become part of the visual language rather than obstacles to disguise. Every location the show has played has quietly shaped what the design needed to be, and the result is a world that reads as native to whichever park it lands in.

It also means the design must work with limitations most theater never faces: no grid to rely on, no power access, no trace left behind. Public park permitting standards are a core part of the brief, and the reason the show can travel anywhere families already are.

Materials, Texture, and the Sensory Experience

The material instincts here run parallel to costume designer Megan Rutherford Murray's work: weathered over new, tactile over slick, secondhand wherever possible. Worn material already carries movement and history that fresh-off-the-shelf stock doesn't, and it sits more honestly next to real bark, real seed, real dirt.

The palette stays grounded in the city's actual nature rather than a generic idea of the outdoors, the idea being that these are textures a child will encounter on the walk home.

Running underneath the naturalism is a deliberate note of sensory experience. Objects that catch light unexpectedly. Elements that hang and shift in the wind. Something a child hasn't seen, and keeping it close enough to reach for.

What Families Carry Home

Before any text is spoken, the space has to communicate that this is somewhere you are allowed to be. Nothing is roped off. Nothing is out of reach. The audience sits on the same ground the performers move across, and the boundary between watching and participating is deliberately soft. That's the design's real function, and it's the same thing the production is built to do at every scale: remove the barrier. 

The hope isn't that a family remembers a particular object. It's that they walk out of the park holding something more portable, the sense that this green space, and the arts more broadly, belong to them. That a public lawn ten minutes from home can be a place where something extraordinary happens, and that they were welcome there without having to earn it.

The set travels light on purpose. What it leaves behind is meant to stay.

What We Mean When We Say "Radical Access"

Access is a word that gets used a lot in the arts. Sometimes it refers to disability accommodations. Sometimes it means free tickets or sliding-scale pricing. These things matter, but when Flying Leap talks about radical access, we mean something bigger.

The concept emerged during development of The Garden, and is the brainchild of Director and Community Engagement Director Susanna Brock. It's one of the things that most distinctly shapes how we work. At its core, radical access is about asking the broadest possible question: what is actually getting in the way of a family experiencing this show, and what can we do about it?

A Wider Frame

Most conversations about access start with disability and economics. Those are essential starting points. But radical access adds geography, language, migration status, and something called cultural capital to the equation.

Cultural capital is the idea that not everyone feels they belong in a given space. In the world of performance, this extends to the feeling that art or theater is “for me” or “not for me”. Someone might be able to afford a Broadway ticket in theory, but if they've never been to a Broadway theater, don't know how to dress for it, aren't sure how to behave, and have spent their whole life receiving signals that that world isn't for them, the ticket price is only one of many barriers.

For families in many of the communities we serve, the barriers can be numerous and overlapping. Maybe they live in Parkchester and the idea of navigating 90 minutes of subway with a stroller to get to Midtown is simply not realistic. Maybe they're a multilingual family and most family theater assumes English fluency. Maybe their immigration status makes navigating unfamiliar institutional spaces feel risky rather than joyful.

Radical access means holding all of these barriers in view at the same time, not as a checklist, but as a lens that shapes every decision we make.

Built In, Not Added On

In the American theater, access is often an afterthought. Two sign-language interpreted performances. A scholarship program for school groups. A community outreach initiative that runs parallel to the main production.

We try to do the opposite. Radical access isn't something we add on at the end of our process; it's something we build into the beginning.

That shows up first in how we assemble a devising company. When we're pulling together the artists who will make a show, we ask: who has the lived experience of the communities we're hoping to reach? What perspectives do we need in the room to make good decisions about barriers we might not personally face?

It shows up in our producing model, too. We work in partnership with organizations that are based in and trusted by the communities we're bringing theater to. Those partners don't just help us find spaces. They help us ask better questions: What time works for families in this neighborhood? What languages do people here speak? What does this community actually need from an experience like this?

When you're working with a community-based organization rather than just an arts organization, the lines of inquiry naturally open up. Physical accessibility is one piece of a much larger conversation.

The Curb Cut Effect

One common example in disability rights discussions: curb cuts. Curb cuts, the places where a sidewalk slopes down to meet the street, were designed for wheelchair users. But they benefit everyone: people with strollers, people with injuries, people carrying heavy things, people who just had knee surgery. Designing for the people most excluded from a space tends to make that space better for everyone.

The same logic applies to how we at Flying Leap think about access. When we bring The Garden to a NYCHA community, choosing a site that families can walk to, creating an experience that doesn't require English fluency, making it free so cost is never the deciding factor, we're not just removing barriers for one group. We're building something that more families can say yes to.

And when a family sees a piece of theater for the first time in their own neighborhood, something shifts. The show becomes the beginning of a new relationship with what theater is, who it's for, and whether it's for them. That sense of belonging, once established, has a way of growing.

That's what we mean by radical access. Not a policy. Not a program. A way of working, from the first conversation in the room to the last performance in the park.

Recap from the 2026 TYA/USA Conference

Recap from the 2026 TYA/USA Conference

Every year, the TYA/USA Conference is a chance to step outside the day-to-day work of making theater and look at the bigger picture: what's happening across the field, what's shifting, and where our work fits inside all of it. This year, the conference was hosted by the Alliance Theatre in Atlanta, and it was one of the most energizing and clarifying we've attended. Logan joined for the first time, making it the first conference we've attended as a full team!

Here's what we took home.

A Growing Focus on Theater for the Very Young

This year had a notable concentration of programming centered on theater for the very young, or TVY: performances, breakout sessions, and new institutional investment all pointed in the same direction. Part of what made it feel special was the Alliance's Toddler Takeover, a multi-day festival of TVY programming that ran alongside the conference. The Philharmonic set up meet-a-musician sessions for families, TVY shows filled the Alliance's stages and the adjacent museum campus, and the energy was unlike anything we'd seen at a TYA gathering before.

Adding to that, the Alliance and TYA/USA jointly launched a new TVY development fellowship this year, a grant and support program that selected one TVY project from 45 national submissions to develop and present at the festival. Jess served on the grant panel, which meant she got the rare experience of reading a project's proposal and then seeing what it became in performance, with real kids in the room. That full arc, from idea to stage, was exciting to witness.

And it's worth naming what it felt like to be in a space where so much of the work shared our values. For artists who have sometimes felt like outliers in the field, it was genuinely affirming.

Negotiating Risk, and Rethinking Our Pre-Show Speech

One of the breakout sessions Jess attended was led by artist and choreographer Amanda Pintore, whose work centers on dance-based theater made with and for very young children. Amanda's session focused on how we navigate risk in TVY performance: how do we actually give adults permission to step back and let their kids experience a show the way the kid wants to experience it?

Amanda's company uses the phrase "If it's okay with you, it's okay with us" as an invitation at the top of their shows. But as she pointed out, saying it once isn't enough. Permission has to be earned, felt, and held throughout the experience.

That conversation sent Jess straight back to thinking about The Garden, and specifically our pre-show speech. How much of what we say is genuinely opening up space, and how much of it is actually narrowing it? It's a question we're sitting with as we build toward the fall tour.

Amanda also took home an award this year for her production Red, and we were so happy to see her honored.

The Intersection of Theater and Community Health

Another breakout session that stuck with us explored partnerships between arts organizations and health organizations, using the Orlando Family Stage as a case study. The panel laid out something we found both practical and exciting: a theater company and a health organization can serve overlapping communities in complementary ways, and when they work together, each one extends the reach and trust of the other.

The theater's community connects people to cultural programming and arts experiences. The health organization's community connects people to healthcare access and wellness resources. There isn't always overlap between those pools, which is exactly the point. Working together creates access that neither could generate alone.

The session also touched on performing arts medicine, a field that, remarkably, doesn't really exist yet in any formal way. The Orlando partnership began developing a team of specialists who treat performers the way sports medicine doctors treat athletes, attending to vocal health, physical health, and nutritional needs specific to the demands of performance work.

For us, this opened up real questions about The Garden and what community health partnerships might look like alongside our NYCHA programming. The work we're already doing connects families to community spaces and shared experiences. How might we be more intentional about the health and wellness dimensions of that work? We're curious to find out.

What's Happening in the Field

A few broader themes stood out from the week as a whole.

Eco-theater and environmental sustainability are having a moment. The TVY fellowship piece worked with recycled and upcycled materials. And the centerpiece of the weekend was getting to see the final dress rehearsal of Basura, a new musical by Gloria Estefan and her daughter, created in collaboration with TVY playwright Debra Wicks LaPuma. Basura tells the story of the Paraguayan trash orchestra, a real ensemble of children who built instruments from landfill scraps and created something extraordinary. There's a documentary, Landfill Harmonic, if you want to go deeper. The keynote conversation with Gloria Estefan and her daughter to close the conference was warm, honest, and worth every minute.

The other thread running through lunches and coffee conversations all week was sustainability in a different sense: what makes new work financially and structurally sustainable over time, without narrowing what the work can be? Not every show is designed to pack into a trunk and tour to any elementary school in the country, and that's okay. The field is working through what long-term viability can look like for work that resists easy scaling.

We came home with full notebooks, new connections, and a lot to think about. TYA/USA is always an incredible experience, but this year had such a substantial impact we will be thinking about it for months to come. We’re excited to see how what we learned over these last impactful few days changes our approach to the work!

Reflections from the 2026 Spring Flying Leap Retreat

Every year, the Flying Leap team steps away from the daily work of making theater to do something harder: think about why we make it, and where we want to go next. This year's retreat brought together our staff and board members for the first time as a 501c3 nonprofit, and what emerged was a weekend we've been carrying with us since.

We asked everyone on the team the same three questions:

1. What did you take away from the retreat?

2. What was a moment of care you experienced?

3. What are you most excited to work on next?

Here's what the team shared.

What We Took Away

Every retreat has its own descriptors. This one felt expansive, grounding, and electric.

Logan gabrielle Schulman was reminded about how unique this company is. "Flying Leap cares so much about our artists and audiences. It's unlike any place I've ever worked."

For Susanna Brock, one of the most energizing moments came during the dreaming sessions: post-it notes on the wall, no idea too big. "During the year we're just in the trenches working on tasks and specific projects, and it's hard to zoom out and think about the big dreams," she reflected. "I always love seeing what dreams come back year to year, and when there are new ideas or projects that come up."

Eve Epstein left with a clearer picture of what board membership at Flying Leap can look like. "Fundraising should be focused on ambassadorship," she said. "We are all connected to the mission. By sharing our enthusiasm, we can direct donors and participants to Jess."

Jess Kaufman was left feeling the weight of the work get lighter. "Now that we have this board, we've gone from a tiny, mighty team of three to something bigger. There are five of us doing admin work for the organization, and we have these three board members, and extra help from Amy Fiore at Nonprofit Help Desk. It was really exciting to dream big in a space where that feels less intimidating, because there are so many brains in the room helping figure out how we get to the next thing."

Carla Zanoni left with a sharper strategic lens. The biggest shift for her: separating the organization-wide pitch from the project-level pitch, and treating them as parallel workstreams rather than nested ones. "We're really good at talking about the projects. The Garden and Beyond the Wall have clear theories of change, clear audiences, clear impact. What we haven't cracked is how to pitch Flying Leap itself." Naming that gap and getting excited to bridge it was the clearest strategic shift to come out of their time together.

Amanda Zamora left inspired and clear-eyed about the challenges ahead. Jess has built, in partnership with the community and her team, an extraordinary model for interactive theater that goes to people and meets them where they are. But the headwinds are real: a culture that rewards scale, speed, and prestige over the kind of slow, care-first work Flying Leap does. "The good news is we have the people and expertise to chart a strategic path forward that is both values-aligned and sustainable in terms of revenue, and the physical and mental resources that Flying Leap's care-first, community-first approach requires."

Moments of Care

Care isn't just a word in our mission statement. It's how we show up for each other, especially when no one's looking. We asked the team to name a specific moment from the retreat that embodied that.

Logan’s moment came in the form of a blizzard and a stuck car. "Jess literally drove out to me in a blizzard to help me push my car uphill through snow and ice. After pushing it a quarter mile up the hill, she called a local tow company, and that's after I had just whooped her in a 6-hour long board game. What a sport!"

Susanna said that care showed up at the table, literally. "We always have such great food. There's always great thought going into the meals, the snacks, and we often get to go out to a restaurant together. All of us are really interested in food, and I think it's really fulfilling to try new things and to experience flavors and textures and talk about them."

It sounds simple. But choosing food with care, making sure people feel nourished and delighted, is its own kind of love language, and it's one Flying Leap speaks fluently.

Eve, who was away from her son for one of her first extended trips, experienced care through being given the space to stay connected. "There was space and time given to call him."

Sometimes care is as simple as that: permission to be a whole person.

Jess’ moment came right at the start. Running her first-ever board meeting, she was nervous, wondering if she'd prepared enough. "These three beautiful, powerful, super smart women walked in the door and immediately started putting out charcuterie and making their own coffee. We got to know each other over cheese and delicious treats, and it just made me feel like, oh, the responsibility is on me to set the tone, but actually everyone is already in the tone together. We all really showed up in a loving, caring way. It made me feel like, yes, we found the right people."

For Carla, care showed up in a moment of collective restraint. Someone raised the logo as needing work, and rather than letting it become a branding rabbit hole, the group named it as "sand, not a rock" and moved on. "Care showed up as permission to say 'that matters, and not right now.' This translated into willingness to offer the feedback, openness to receiving it, and the collective discipline to protect each other's capacity by not chasing every shiny thing."

Amanda found her moment in a pivot. When the group needed to cut workshop time to beat the blizzard home, Jess made the call quickly and warmly, and what followed was a beautiful dinner. Sometimes care looks like knowing when to let go of the plan.

What We're Diving Into Next

This retreat helped us build the runway for what's next. Here's what everyone is launching into:

Logan: "The Garden tour is my biggest project at Flying Leap right now, and I am absolutely stoked to continue confirming venues and partners."

Susanna is deep in design work for The Garden, collaborating with Queens Lighting Collective's Masha Tsimring and Krit Robinson as the world of the show takes on new dimensions. "It's been very exciting to see the Garden world really coming to life and expanding with these new artists we've brought on. And we're about to hire a costume designer, which is very exciting, to really make the world of The Garden more complete and holistic."

Eve Epstein is focused on the long game. "I'm excited to work more on diversified sources of revenue so that Flying Leap becomes sustainable. There is so much opportunity for the organization to grow. This next phase entails clarifying Flying Leap's vision and building an organization that can financially support its staff."

Jess Kaufman is thinking about reach, relationships, and infrastructure. "We spent a lot of time talking about ways to put our work in front of more families and more people who might be interested in what we do. I feel like we're on the cusp of getting to know a lot more people who are excited to get on board with our particular brand of care-driven, queer, loving theater." She's also excited about what's newly possible as a 501(c)(3): "One of the things we talked about is getting a CRM and getting our donation platform up and going. I feel like I know how I can work with everybody to find and say yes to those opportunities, which is really exciting."

Carla Zanoni is focused on audience development as ambassadorship, starting with the person-to-person pipeline that Amy Fiore walked the group through. The gap she wants to close: the in-person experience of Flying Leap is magic, and that magic too often doesn't make it into the rooms where people make decisions about time, attention, or money. Concretely, she's working on building her own ambassador muscle, identifying people in her network who should meet Jess, and thinking about how her professional communities could become a warmer feeder than a cold outreach blast.

Amanda Zamora wants to go deeper with the people who know Flying Leap best. She's excited to conduct stakeholder interviews with community members and families who have experienced Flying Leap's work firsthand, learning what they value most and how invested they are in the organization's future. That knowledge, she believes, is one of the most useful things the board can bring to the work ahead.

What Makes This Team Special

Reading back through everyone's answers, a few things stand out. Care keeps showing up in unexpected places: in a blizzard, over charcuterie, in a phone call home, in a plate of snacks nobody was asked to bring. That's not an accident. It's who we are.

We came to this retreat with big dreams and left with a clearer sense of how to reach them together. We can't wait to show you what comes next.