Inter Alia — a night that stayed under my skin

I didn’t expect Inter Alia to stay with me like this.

Hours later, I’m still awake — replaying faces, words, silences that hung in the air like questions no one dares to ask.

It’s strange, how a play can open a space inside you you didn’t know existed.

Suzie Miller’s writing doesn’t tell a story — it exposes one.

It strips away the roles we’ve worn for safety — woman, mother, partner, survivor — until there’s only a trembling pulse left: a human being trying to be seen, to be believed, to be whole.

The play moves between light and darkness, between tenderness and fury.

At times I felt like I was watching the anatomy of truth itself —

how it lives in the body, how it bruises the skin, how it insists on breathing even when no one listens.

It’s about motherhood, yes — but not only that.

It’s about creation: the act of carrying, birthing, holding — not just a child, but an identity, a voice, a self.

It’s about what it costs to love, to nurture, to speak.

And how society so often demands that women give until there’s nothing left —

then calls them selfish when they ask for air.

There were moments that felt unbearably close.

A line about justice — how it can love the law more than the truth.

A glance that carried the weight of centuries.

The quiet dignity of a body refusing to be reduced to evidence.

And yet, Inter Alia is not despairing.

It’s fierce, luminous, defiant.

It reminds us that vulnerability is not weakness — it’s resistance.

That empathy is a political act.

That art can still be a form of witness, a way to say: this happened, I saw it, it mattered.

When the lights faded, I didn’t clap right away.

I just sat there, breathing, letting the silence settle.

Because something inside me had shifted — quietly, irreversibly.

I felt seen, but also summoned.

As if the play whispered:

“Now you know. Don’t turn away.”

So I won’t.

I’ll speak about it, write about it, share it.

Because Inter Alia deserves to be seen —

not only for its brilliance, but for its truth.

For the way it reaches into the hidden rooms of our lives and turns on the light.

Maybe that’s what theatre is meant to do —

not entertain, but awaken.

Not end, but begin again.