We didn’t go looking for a lesson in pausing. We just wanted to see the magic.

But somewhere between the death-defying acrobatics, live music, and one absurdly bendy performer who looked like she had no bones at all, the show… paused.

Right after one act ended, there was a noticeable lull. A beat that kept stretching. The kind of pause that starts out feeling routine… and then lingers just a little too long.

Eventually, a calm voice came over the speaker: “We’re experiencing a minor issue with one of the stage elements. The performance will resume shortly.”

The tone was composed. Professional. So much so that for a moment, we weren’t entirely sure if it was still part of the show.

But after several long minutes, maybe ten, though it felt longer, you could feel the collective shift in the room. This wasn’t planned. Something had gone wrong. Not dramatically, but enough to interrupt the rhythm. Enough to require a reset.

Later, we learned the issue wasn’t with the set or the rigging, it was a costume. One of the performers’ outfits wasn’t stage-ready, and in a show where timing and safety are everything, they waited.

And honestly, I’m glad they did.

Because that kind of pause, however small or awkward, is a decision. A choice to protect the people behind the performance rather than preserve the illusion for the people watching it.

After the show, our family had the chance to go backstage. And what struck me most wasn’t just how different it looked from the front, it was how simple it all was.

I had imagined a high-tech command centre, sleek and permanent, built into the bones of a grand theatre. Instead, what we found was a pop-up world of efficiency.

The backstage area was surprisingly simple. Mobile. Efficient. Designed for tear-down and reassembly, because this entire production packs up and moves to the next city like a travelling circus should.

The props were huge. The costumes were impeccably arranged. The crew was focused, fast, and calm. Everything was labelled, stored, and ready to go, not because it was easy, but because it had to be.

There was no wasted motion. No sense of panic. Just steady choreography, I guess behind the choreography.

And as we stood there watching them begin to dismantle the magic we’d just witnessed, I found myself smiling. Because there, among the crates and cables, was the real magic: resilience, trust, and an unspoken rhythm held together by a team that knows when to push forward and when to pause.

That, to me, is the deeper performance. The one we don’t always see.
The one that happens behind the scenes in boardrooms, in parenting, in creative work, in leadership.

The awe we feel watching Cirque isn’t just about talent. It’s about the dozens of quiet, deliberate choices that happen offstage. The micro-pauses. The behind-the-scenes care. The courage to stop when something’s off, even if the audience would never know.

I’m grateful we got to see the show from both sides: the performance itself, and the beautiful, messy system that holds it up.

And I’m even more grateful that it didn’t all go perfectly.

Because perfection isn’t the point.

Trust is. And trust, the kind that lets you leap, spin, and try again, isn’t built in the performance.

It’s built in the pause.