By: Caitlin Condy, director of project management

I’ve never been able to draw or paint. My mom paints. My sister animates. I’ve always admired people who can make things with their hands, who can bring something into the world that didn’t exist before.

My medium has always been words. And while I’m a classically trained actress (yes, really), I’ve found my greatest joy not in being the one on stage, but in supporting the ones who are.

My first job was at the Drama Book Shop in Times Square. Down in the basement, a scrappy little production company called Backhouse Productions was just getting started. I began volunteering—producing, editing, even handing out homemade promo postcards on the corner of 40th and 9th. There was a buzz in the air, the sense that something was happening. That energy—that feeling of pitching in, of helping artists figure it out together—that was joy. That team would go on to create In the Heights and Hamilton. But back then, it was just about being in the room (where it happens) and doing what needed doing.

That instinct to support stayed with me. Today, as the Director of Project Management at PETERMAYER, a New Orleans-based agency that lives at the intersection of strategy, creativity, and joy, my job is to help creative teams do great work by making sure the right systems are in place. That means building timelines that flex without breaking, designing feedback loops people actually want to use, and shaping communication rhythms that keep everyone aligned without overwhelming anyone.

We’ve been exploring what it means to put joy at the center of operations—not as a mood, but as a method. What if joy isn’t the reward for getting it right, but the energy that helps us get there?

That idea builds on a path that hasn’t exactly been conventional. I’ve built staff systems and inventory models in retail. Helped stand up a startup that operationalized a fleet of nail technicians to bring manicures to offices. I’ve led operational change for hair stylists and makeup artists, built employer brands, and helped Fortune 500 companies turn culture into something they could actually live. But the throughline has always been the same: Make the lives of working people easier and support great creative work. And while I truly believe everyone is creative—I’ll just say it: The people I’ve worked with and work with now? They make the coolest shit.

That brings me to why I started writing this.

I meant to write a short post about my friend Lougè on LinkedIn. Years ago, we worked together in a shoe store—before either of us knew what our paths would be. That little store felt like a crew: part retail team, part mutual support society. We covered for each other, cheered each other on, and gave each other space to dream bigger.

Now, Lougè is the founder of Dapper Studios. He recently released a short film with National Geographic about returning to Kenya to reconnect with the Maasai community. It’s about rediscovery, honoring tradition, and following the spark that calls you back to yourself. Watching it moved me. And it reminded me of how powerful it is to support someone as they step into their voice—and how much of that starts with a structure of care.

That reflection brought me back to another friend.

During the pandemic, I got certified as a health coach. Not because I was planning a new career—I’ve just always been interested in nutrition, and like a lot of people, I had time and curiosity on my hands. There were moments, deep into the Krebs Cycle, where I thought: Why am I doing this?

But I finished.

My first “client” was my dear friend Brad Bradley, a wildly talented Broadway performer preparing for a film role that included a shirtless dance number. He wanted to feel strong, look great, and be ready. I built him a personalized cookbook, set up weekly check-ins, tracked his macros. There was joy in the structure—the rhythm of building something together.

And he did it. He looked amazing. But by the time the film came out, Brad was in the hospital. Cancer had taken his ability to walk, to dance. On one of my last visits, he looked at me and said, “I’m going to give you a great review—because didn’t I look amazing in that number?”

Yes, Brad. You did.

A few weeks later, he was gone.

And that’s when I understood. I hadn’t gotten that certification to become a coach. I had done it to support creativity. To support Brad. That’s what this has always been about: the structures we build for the people we care about, so they can keep doing what they’re here to do—for as long as they can.

So when I talk about the joy of supporting creatives, I do mean timelines and task boards. I mean frameworks that hold space for brilliance. When the process is human-centered—when it creates clarity, safety, even delight—people don’t feel boxed in. They shine.

I’ve found my greatest joy not in being the one in the spotlight, but in helping others shine.