We recently had the chance to connect with Mattilyn Kravitz and have shared our conversation below.
Mattilyn , we’re thrilled to have you with us today. Before we jump into your intro and the heart of the interview, let’s start with a bit of an ice breaker: What makes you lose track of time—and find yourself again?
Storytelling. Whether I’m writing, performing, editing a vlog, or deep in conversation with a friend, I lose all sense of time when I’m sharing stories. They’re how I connect, how I teach, how I heal. A friend recently reminded me of stories I told her over a decade ago — she remembered every detail because, she said, I make her feel like she’s there.
But what I’ve realized is that storytelling isn’t just something I do — it’s something I am. It’s how I make meaning from my life. Especially the hard parts — like healing my relationship with my mother through her illness, finding forgiveness in grief, and learning to love myself in the process.
That inner architecture — the resilience, the forgiveness, the humor, the boundaries — is what allows me to create freely. People see the show, the performance, the smile, but what they don’t see is the courage it took to speak when silence felt safer, or the faith it took to keep showing up.
When I tell those stories — whether through a show, a conversation, or a simple reflection — I rediscover the strength I’ve built quietly over the years. In those moments, I’m not performing — I’m remembering. And in remembering, I find myself again.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
I’m Mattilyn Rochester Kravitz — an actress, writer, singer, storyteller, and whole-living creative who believes that healing and humor can coexist. I wear many hats — performer, dancer, voiceover artist, writer, home chef, maker — but at the heart of it all, I’m a storyteller. My work weaves together art and life, turning lived experience into stories that inspire, entertain, and remind us we’re not alone.
I am the creator, performer, and writer of “The Long Goodbye – A Mother Who Can’t Remember, A Daughter Who Can’t Forget,” a funny and deeply personal one-woman show about love, loss, and the healing that comes when we face hard truths with grace. I also co-wrote the TV pilot “GetGlad,” based on that show, with my husband, Josh.
I’ve had the privilege of performing in transformative stage works that connect deeply to my own family’s history. At Lincoln Center’s Clark Studio Theater, I performed in “Sheila’s Day,” written and directed by Ricardo Khan (co-founder of the Tony Award-winning Crossroads Theatre Company and writer of “Fly”). That experience changed my life — it was during that production that I discovered my mother, a student at Bennett College, had taken part in the historic Woolworth’s Counter Sit-ins that helped spark the Civil Rights Movement. That revelation reshaped my understanding of her courage and became a cornerstone of my artistic purpose.
I later reunited with Ricardo in “Freedom Rider,” a play he conceived and directed, written in collaboration with Kathleen McGhee-Anderson (whose mother was also a Freedom Rider), Murray Horwitz (“Ain’t Misbehavin’”), Nathan Louis Jackson (“Luke Cage,” “Southland”), and Nikkole Salter (“In the Continuum,” Obie Award). I originated my role and also sang in the production, which premiered at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival and continued at George Street Playhouse in New Brunswick, New Jersey.
Other recent credits include “Her Portmanteau” by Mfoniso Udofia (recipient of the 2024 Steinberg Playwright Award; TV writer for “13 Reasons Why,” “Pachinko,” and “Lessons in Chemistry”), two episodes on “The Young and the Restless,” two on “House of Payne,” and the upcoming short film “Zora: A Song for Earth,” where I star as Queen Lavia.
Singing is also an integral part of my storytelling. I’ve sung professionally in musicals and concerts, including a year-long engagement at Tokyo Disney. A recent highlight came on my birthday in London at Cahoots Underground — a 1940s-themed bar built in a former air-raid shelter. I sang a single line of a vintage song, and a couple stopped me, saying they’d follow me forever just from that one line. That moment reminded me that my voice — both spoken and sung — is part of my ministry.
My brand motto is: “Jack of All Trades. Master of Whole Living.” Because I’m not just mastering crafts — I’m mastering how to live with joy, intention, and authenticity.
Right now, I’m completing my new website, editing my Europe vlog (where the Cahoots story will appear), developing original music, and preparing to bring my solo show to audiences across the U.S. in 2026 and 2027. Everything I create — whether it’s a show, a song, or a handmade piece — is rooted in connection, courage, and the quiet, unseen work that allows me to stand fully in my light.
My journey is about turning art into healing — and life into art.
Appreciate your sharing that. Let’s talk about your life, growing up and some of topics and learnings around that. Who saw you clearly before you could see yourself?
My parents saw me clearly before I could see myself.
They both modeled a life of purpose, faith, and integrity. My father was fearless — he spoke truth to power and stood tall in the face of injustice. I remember watching him being arrested at Six Flags for challenging unfair treatment, and even then, he carried himself with humor and dignity. My mother, a lifelong educator who rose from teacher to superintendent, taught me that who I am has nothing to do with how I’m treated — that I was meant to walk among kings and queens and never lose the common touch.
They poured wisdom into me early. I memorized poems like If by Rudyard Kipling, Still I Rise by Maya Angelou, and Desiderata, which told me I was “a child of the universe” with a right to be here. Those words became my compass. They gave me courage and a sense of belonging long before I fully understood who I was.
My parents also gave me the gift of the world. By 18, I had traveled to Europe, Africa, and Asia. Those experiences expanded my understanding of humanity and faith — I saw that love and truth exist in many forms. When I later accepted a singing contract in Tokyo, it felt like returning to a place my spirit already knew.
Even in moments when I doubted myself or drifted into unhealthy situations, their lessons anchored me. My mother used to say, “It’s how you deal with a challenge that makes you who you are.” And that has shaped everything — my art, my choices, and my healing.
They saw my voice, my resilience, and my calling long before I did. And when I look at my life now — the storytelling, the music, the teaching through art — I know I am the living reflection of their vision.
When did you stop hiding your pain and start using it as power?
I stopped hiding my pain when I realized it was my purpose.
For years, I carried grief like a secret — almost a shame. I would apologize for my sadness, for my tears, for needing time to heal. I thought strength meant pretending I was fine. I told myself other people had it worse, that my heartbreak didn’t deserve space. But in trying to protect others from my pain, I buried myself beneath it.
When my mother’s illness began stealing her memory, I tried to stay strong — to hold on to the version of her I knew — but I was unraveling. Silence felt safer than breaking open. Until one day, I stopped apologizing and started speaking.
I wrote about the love, the loss, the laughter, the confusion. I stood on stage and told the truth — all of it. That became my one-woman show, “The Long Goodbye – A Mother Who Can’t Remember, A Daughter Who Can’t Forget.” And in that telling, I found power.
The thing I once hid became the thing that connected me most deeply to others. Pain turned into poetry. Grief became grace. I realized healing doesn’t mean erasing what hurts; it means transforming it — honoring it.
And because of everything I’ve been through, I’m able to meet people where they are — with empathy and low judgment. For almost any situation I encounter, I carry both a story and a solution. My experiences have become a guidebook for compassion.
Still, I’m human. There are moments I enter spaces quietly, almost disguised — holding back parts of myself until I feel safe enough to unfold. When I do, people often say, “Who are you?” And I smile, because I’m still learning that showing up fully is also a form of courage.
Now, my art is a mirror, not a mask. Every story I share, every note I sing, is an offering — proof that what once felt like shame can become strength, and that vulnerability is its own kind of victory.
Next, maybe we can discuss some of your foundational philosophies and views? Is the public version of you the real you?
I grew up watching my parents live as their whole selves in every room they entered. My father, a pastor who later became a bishop, was the same person in the pulpit that he was at home — funny, honest, and human. My mother, too, was unwaveringly herself. There was never a “holy version” and a “home version.” They were integrated. That’s what I saw, so that’s what I became.
I don’t really know how to separate my public and private self — they’re seamless. The same woman who’s on stage performing is the one who’s cooking, sewing, praying, or listening to a friend. Sometimes I share too much; I’ve had to learn when to stop speaking mid-sentence if I feel myself giving too much away. But the truth is, my art and my life come from the same well.
If I ever have a “representative,” it usually shows up in moments that scare me — like a red carpet. Those spaces can make me feel unworthy or invisible. It surprises people who know me well, because they see me as confident and fearless. But the truth is, I’m shy sometimes. I get nervous. My best friend once told me, “You don’t even know how powerful you are. Before you walk into a room, you’ve already entered it.”
Paul Sand, the great actor and director who once directed a version of The Long Goodbye, said something similar. He told me, “If I could tie a rope around you and have you just stand and speak, I would — that’s how powerful you are.” He said a famous director once told Judy Garland the very same thing. I was so flattered by the comparison — it blew my mind.
Paul also once shared something Truman Capote told him: that the world you create is your universe, and while people can visit that universe, they don’t tell you what belongs there — because it’s yours. He encouraged me to trust that, to follow my own voice.
So I’m learning to do just that — to trust that I am enough, that my universe is mine. Whether I’m onstage, on camera, or just in the world, I’m the same woman: grounded in truth, humor, and grace.
Thank you so much for all of your openness so far. Maybe we can close with a future oriented question. What light inside you have you been dimming?
For a long time, I dimmed the light that wanted to take up space — the one that said, you’re allowed to be powerful and soft at the same time. I used to shrink myself to keep other people comfortable, or to avoid being misunderstood. I learned early on that my voice, my presence, even my joy could be “a lot” for some people. So I got quiet, even when I had something to say.
But that light was never gone. It was just waiting for me to stop apologizing for it.
These last few years — through loss, caregiving, and rediscovery — I’ve learned that my light doesn’t take from anyone else. It creates warmth. It invites people closer.
Now, whether I’m performing, writing, dancing, or just existing, I try to show up fully. That means letting myself be seen in the silly, the soulful, the glamorous, and the gritty parts of life. I’ve stopped editing myself to fit into smaller frames. My light is truth, humor, love, and presence — and when I let it shine, other people find permission to shine too.
That’s my quiet rebellion and my legacy: no longer dimming, but glowing on purpose.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.mattilyn.com
- Instagram: @mattilynrochesterkravitz
- Facebook: https://facebook.com/mattilynrochesterkravitz
- Youtube: @MissMatt1
