THE (ONE WOMAN) SHOW MUST GO ON

Dylan Mulvaney on finding community, reclaiming her story, and stepping into the spotlight one performance at a time

By Ricky Anderson

The screens weren’t working.

For a one-woman show built around the digital footprint of one of the most recognizable queer faces on the internet, it felt like a particularly poetic kind of theatrical crisis. The avatars of Dylan Mulvaney that lived behind her onstage, the carefully constructed digital echoes of herself that helped tell the story of The Least Problematic Woman in the World, had suddenly disappeared. Without them, the machinery of the show had stopped.

At least, that was how it felt in the moment.

Standing outside the Lucille Lortel Theatre that evening, Mulvaney emerged from the building to personally apologize to the audience waiting outside. She walked the line, thanked people for their patience, and acknowledged the frustration of a delayed performance. There was no obligation for her to do that. There was no requirement that a performer step outside the traditional boundaries of the stage and engage with every person who had purchased a ticket.

But for Dylan Mulvaney, that interaction was not a responsibility; it was instinct.

The audience had not yet seen the show, so they did not understand how essential those screens would become. They did not know that these digital versions of Dylan functioned as additional characters within the story, reflecting back the many versions of herself she had created, shared, and survived publicly. They did not yet understand that the technology was not simply a backdrop. It was part of the language of the piece.

And yet, before anyone knew that, before the lights came up and the story began, Dylan had already done the thing that has defined so much of her journey: she made it personal.

Because the most compelling part of Dylan Mulvaney’s story has never been the virality. It has never been the millions of views, the headlines, or the conversations that have surrounded her existence. Those moments may have introduced her to the world, but they do not explain why people continue to show up. That has always come back to connection.

“I think that’s a big part of the one-person show,” Mulvaney says. “In many ways, if this goes really badly, it’s my fault.”

A one-woman show, as it turns out, is never actually one person.

It is the director who helps shape the story. The writers who help find the words. The crew members who make sure the lights come on. The collaborators who challenge an artist to look deeper. The audience members who sit in the dark and decide to listen.

And for Dylan Mulvaney, whose life has often been experienced through the isolating lens of a phone screen, theater has offered something far more powerful than virality.

Presence.

Mulvaney rose to fame, and eventually notoriety, by documenting her transition on TikTok. For 365 days, she invited millions of strangers into an experience that was at once deeply personal and remarkably universal. What began as a chronicle of gender discovery quickly transformed into something larger. People saw pieces of themselves reflected back in her curiosity, her awkwardness, her joy, and her vulnerability.

But visibility is a double-edged sword.

For every person who found comfort in her openness, there was another eager to project their frustrations, fears, and political anxieties onto her existence. The internet has a remarkable ability to flatten human beings into symbols, and before long Mulvaney found herself at the center of a cultural firestorm she never auditioned for.

The incident that became known as “Beer Gate” fundamentally altered the trajectory of her career. Opportunities that had once appeared limitless suddenly disappeared. Partnerships evaporated. The noise became deafening.

For many performers, that might have been the moment the curtain came down. Instead, Mulvaney did what performers have always done when faced with uncertainty. She found another stage.

“I felt such a lack of joy and purpose,” she recalls. “I was so afraid to make content.”

The answer was not to retreat. It was to return to the art form that first taught her how to tell stories: theater.

The Least Problematic Woman in the World was initially conceived as a distraction from the controversy. A way to redirect the conversation. But somewhere in the writing process, Mulvaney realized she was avoiding the very thing she actually needed to confront. “A one-person show,” she says, “should tell the story only you can tell.”

For her, that meant acknowledging the elephant in the room.

The result is a piece that is not interested in litigating headlines so much as reclaiming authorship. If social media had allowed millions of people to tell Dylan Mulvaney who she was, the stage offered an opportunity to tell audiences herself.

What emerges is not a defense. It is a declaration and a celebration of who she is despite the opposition.

This distinction matters, because what makes the show resonate is not its relationship to controversy. It is its relationship to humanity.

Again and again throughout our conversation, Mulvaney returns to the importance of connection. Not followers. Not views. Not engagement metrics.

People. Real people sitting in a room together, sharing space, and listening.

“I’d rather do a show for 100 people in a black box theater than get a million views on a video,” she says.

It is a striking statement from someone whose rise to prominence was built on digital platforms, but it reveals the fundamental presence theater continues to offer in an increasingly fragmented world. The audience cannot scroll away. The performer cannot hide behind edits. Everyone is simply there together in the dark.

And for a performer whose life has often been filtered through screens, algorithms, and public discourse, there is something almost radical about that intimacy. That intimacy prepared her for another lifelong dream: making her Broadway debut.

Long before she would step into the boots of Anne Boleyn in SIX, Mulvaney had auditioned for the musical in 2021 as a newly out nonbinary performer. The opportunity represented possibility. Perhaps it was a glimpse of a future she wasn’t entirely sure existed yet.

Years later, after collaborating with SIX creators Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss on her one-woman show, the opportunity returned.

This time, it came with a crown.

If The Least Problematic Woman in the World allowed Mulvaney to tell her own story, SIX offered the opportunity to inhabit someone else’s. Yet she found unexpected parallels between herself and Anne Boleyn, a woman whose reputation has often been shaped more by public perception than personal truth.

As the run progressed, Mulvaney discovered that the strongest performances arrived when she stopped trying to fit herself into anyone else’s expectations. “I tried playing the role more cis…but the better show is when I play in all the different textures of my voice,” she says.

It is a lesson that feels applicable far beyond the confines of a Broadway stage. Authenticity is not something you arrive at once. It is something that you refine and practice as a ritual. Night after night. Performance after performance. Choice after choice.

Perhaps that is why the image of Mulvaney standing outside the Lucille Lortel while technicians scrambled to repair malfunctioning screens feels so fitting.

The audience had every reason to be frustrated. The schedule was delayed. The technology was failing. The carefully constructed machine of live theater had broken down.

Yet instead of retreating backstage, she walked into the crowd.

She apologized. She thanked people for their patience. She made herself available.

The show could not begin yet, but she understood something that has become central to her career.

Connection does not start when the lights come up; it starts long before that. Connection is the contract between the people who choose to invest in you and the responsibility you carry, as the performer, to honor that investment by giving them something honest in return.

In many ways, Dylan Mulvaney’s story has always been about continuing the performance when circumstances suggest otherwise. When public opinion shifted. When opportunities disappeared. When the internet became hostile. When the screens stopped working.

The show must go on!

Not because performers are fearless. Not because they are immune to disappointment. But because somewhere beyond the setbacks is an audience waiting to hear the story. And somewhere, within every performer, is the desire to step back into the light and share something with the people willing and eager to receive it.

And for Mulvaney, whether that audience exists on TikTok, in a black box theater, or on a Broadway stage, the goal remains remarkably consistent.

Tell the truth.

Create connection.

Keep showing up.

No matter what.

For more follow: @dylanmulvaney @rickypresents @stagelightmag 

Cover photo by Tati Bruening