Do Awards Actually Matter? 🏆

Some thoughts on success, recognition, and the myth of “making it”

May 01, 2025

Happy Friday 👋🏼 The Tony nominations dropped this week. With that, the season of speculation ends—and the “race” begins. Campaigns ramp up. Performances (and performers) get more press. The full machinery of capital B Broadway is in motion now.

The Off-Broadway show I’m currently doing, All the World’s a Stage, didn’t receive any major nominations. (We weren’t eligible for the Tonys, but there are several other awards we were in the running for.) We did get a Drama Desk nod for lyrics and orchestrations—and we’re proud of that—but if I’m being honest, there was still a pit in my stomach. A quiet, familiar tinge of disappointment.

At the same time, I’ve felt this wild warmth watching friends and former colleagues get recognized. It’s hard to describe—the mix of joy, pride, and something like affirmation. It reminds me: you’re part of this. These are your peers. This is your community.

It’s a strange and tender contradiction to hold.

So I thought this week might be the right moment to examine what “success” really means in this industry—and maybe in the arts at large. How do we measure our worth as creatives, when so much of what defines that worth is subjective, inconsistent, and mostly out of our hands?

I don’t have answers. But I do love a good question.

Let’s get into it.

The Myth of Making It

When I was growing up—and all through college—“making it” meant Broadway. And I don’t think that dream was misguided. It’s what we were taught to want. The system trains us to tie our worth to visibility.

But here’s the truth: I’ve done the thing I went to school to do. I’ve performed across the country. I’m leading a show in New York City right now. And still, some part of me is waiting for a sign that I’ve really made it.

Maybe it’s a Broadway credit.
Maybe it’s a Late Night appearance.
Maybe it’s an award.
Or maybe—“making it” is a myth entirely.

Because the finish line keeps moving.

And the longer I do this, the more I realize that external validation—awards, press, recognition—can’t do the thing we hope it will. It doesn’t quiet the self-doubt. It doesn’t keep the imposter syndrome away. It doesn’t make the next audition less nerve-wracking, or the next rejection less painful.

According to one report, fewer than 10% of professional actors in the U.S. earn their full-time income from acting. The vast majority of us are cobbling it together—creating work, teaching, picking up shifts—still chasing the thing we once believed was binary: you either make it, or you don’t.

But what if the reality is less like a line, and more like a spiral? What if success isn’t something you land—but something you live inside of, even when you don’t recognize it?

The Tony’s Awards Matter (and They Don’t)

It’s tempting to dismiss awards entirely—to say they don’t mean anything. That they’re political. Flawed. Shaped by access, budget, bias. And…that’s not wrong.

The Tony Awards are decided by a very small group of people: Roughly 40 nominators. Around 800 voters. That’s it. A tiny sliver of the theater industry, let alone the culture at large.

And yet—for all their limitations—they still carry weight.

They boost ticket sales. Extend runs. Put shows on national television. They can open doors for the people involved—not just actors, but designers, stage managers, musicians, and marketers too. They give an art form that often feels underfunded and overlooked a moment in the spotlight.

And beyond that—they’re a ritual. A gathering. A way for this fragmented industry to say: Here’s what mattered this year.

Do they capture everything that deserves recognition? No.
Do they shape perception anyway? Absolutely.

So yes, the Tonys are imperfect. And yes, they matter.
Both things can be true.

The Big Win

If I could tell my 13-year-old self anything, or 23-year-old self (or, honestly, my 33-year-old self right now...) it might be this:

There may never be a moment when it all clicks into place.
No job that finally makes you feel legitimate.
No award that erases the doubt.
No headline or article that says, you’ve arrived.

What if this—the striving, the heartbreak, the quiet pride, the weird backstage laughter, the Mondays you want to quit and the Tuesdays you fall in love with it again—is the thing?

Yes, recognition matters. Yes, it helps.
But it’s not the reason we started.
And it can’t be the only reason we stay.

We spend so much time reaching for a version of success the world can see. But what if the deeper kind—the kind no one can give you—is right here? What if the real “success” is just being present for your own life? Experiencing each moment as it comes, fully. All the highs. All the lows.

So I don’t know if I have—or ever will—“make it.”
But for today, I’m still here.
And that’s a big win.

☝🏼 One last thing…

We have one more week of performances of All The World’s a Stage. Just a few more chances to step into that space, sing those songs, tell this story. And as we near the end, I’ve been sitting with something I don’t always let myself say out loud:

I’m really proud of the work I’m doing.

Not in the flashy, look-at-me way. Not because it was deemed award-worthy. But because I know what it took to get here. I know what it costs to keep showing up. I know the quiet discipline it requires to bring your full self to something—especially when no one’s clapping.

And what’s made it even more meaningful is sharing it. With friends. With strangers. With people who walked in not knowing what to expect and walked out a little more awake. I’ve felt that. Every night. And that, more than anything, has been the affirmation.

Recognition is beautiful. It can be thrilling.
But there’s a deeper kind of pride that comes from knowing you did the thing.
You showed up. You gave something your full attention. You cared.

And if you’ve done that lately—if you’ve written something, or cooked something, or made someone laugh, or held space for a friend, or created a moment you’re quietly proud of—I just want to say: I see you.

No one needs to hand you a trophy for it to count.
You don’t need applause for it to matter.

We made something. And that’s more than enough.

See you next week ♥️
—Matt