From late-night rehearsals to law lectures, Hayden Rivas is redefining what it means to pursue your passion. A professional dancer and graduate of legal studies at USC, Hayden has balanced two high-performance worlds both on stage and in the classroom. A professional dancer and USC law graduate, Hayden has performed in Broadway-scale productions around the world including shows at sea with high production value and intensity. While building an impressive résumé, he’s remained grounded in the support of his family, crediting them as a constant source of strength and motivation. Now graduating with a Master’s in Studies in Law alongside his BFA, Hayden is working to become not just a standout performer, but a voice for equity and inclusion in the arts.
Growing up, I never imagined I’d be someone who could navigate both a legal brief and a Broadway audition with equal confidence, but that’s exactly who I’ve become—and it’s changed everything about how I approach my life and career.
Coming from a background where I was working professionally as a teenager, I was exposed to the business side of entertainment before I even understood what I was seeing. But I didn’t have the language or knowledge to articulate why certain practices felt wrong or unfair. Studying law gave me that vocabulary and, more importantly, the analytical framework to understand the systems I was working within.
What’s been most transformative is how legal thinking has fundamentally changed my relationship with uncertainty, something that’s constant in both dance and life. In law school, you learn to build arguments from multiple angles, to anticipate counterarguments, and to find solutions even when the path isn’t clear. That same analytical approach has made me more strategic about my dance career. Instead of just hoping for the best at auditions, I’m thinking about market trends, building relationships intentionally, and creating multiple pathways to success.
The discipline required for law school also pushed me in ways that dance training alone never could. Those late nights reading case law after full days in the studio taught me about a different kind of endurance; mental stamina that complements physical stamina. I found myself becoming more focused, more efficient with my time, and honestly, more confident in my ability to tackle complex challenges.
But perhaps the most personal shift has been in how I define success and plan for my future. Before law school, success felt very external: booking the job, getting the role, receiving recognition. Legal studies taught me to think in terms of building something sustainable, something that serves a larger purpose. I started asking myself not just “What do I want to achieve?” but “What kind of legacy do I want to create?”
This perspective has completely changed my relationship with my hometown and my roots. Instead of seeing where I came from as something to leave behind in pursuit of bigger opportunities, I now understand it as part of what makes my perspective unique and valuable. The work ethic, the down-to-earth values, the understanding of what it means to fight for opportunities. These aren’t things to shed as I grow professionally. They’re assets that inform how I want to practice, how I want to treat other artists, and what kind of leader I want to become.
Studying law has made me more intentional about the milestones I’m working toward. It’s not just about the next audition or the next role anymore. I’m thinking about how to build expertise, how to create opportunities for other artists, how to be part of changing an industry that I love but know needs improvement. Those late-night study sessions weren’t just about memorizing legal precedents, they were about preparing me to be someone who can make change happen.
The growth has been internal as much as external. There’s something powerful about proving to yourself that you can master something completely outside your comfort zone. Every time I successfully argued a case study or grasped a complex legal concept, it reminded me that I’m capable of more than I knew. That confidence carries over into everything including how I walk into audition rooms, how I advocate for myself in professional situations and how I envision my future.
Most importantly, studying law has taught me that my artistic practice and my desire to advocate for others aren’t separate pursuits; they’re different expressions of the same core values. Whether I’m performing a piece that moves audiences or helping a fellow artist understand their contract, I’m using different tools to serve the same mission; creating a world where artists can thrive and tell the stories that matter.
Looking back, I realize that pursuing law wasn’t just about adding another credential or expanding my career options. It was about becoming the kind of person who doesn’t just adapt to the industry as it is but works to shape it into what it could be. That’s a much more fulfilling way to build a life and career.
Family is my everything, and honestly, I wouldn’t be where I am today without the foundation they gave me. The sacrifices my parents made to support my dreams such as driving me to countless classes, competitions and auditions, investing in training even when it stretched the budget, believing in me when success felt uncertain—those sacrifices are woven into every performance I give. They didn’t just support my passion; they showed me what it means to be fully committed to something you believe in.
My grandparents’ story of immigrating to Canada has profoundly shaped how I approach my career and artistry. They left everything familiar behind to build something better for their family, and that courage to step into the unknown, to work incredibly hard for a vision of the future—that’s in my DNA. When I moved from British Columbia to Los Angeles for USC, when I decided to pursue both dance and law simultaneously, when I’m taking risks in my career now, I’m channeling that same fearlessness they showed in starting over in a new country.
What I learned from talking to my grandparents is that dreams require both vision and relentless work ethic. They didn’t just hope for a better life; they built it through daily dedication and sacrifice. That immigrant mentality, where nothing is guaranteed and everything must be earned, shows up in how I approach every audition, every class and every opportunity. I never take anything for granted because I understand how precious these opportunities are and how much went into creating them.
My siblings (Sevilla, Landon and Kai) are constant sources of inspiration and keep me grounded in who I am beyond the industry. Watching them excel in their own crafts reminds me that talent and dedication come in many forms, and that success isn’t about competition but about each person finding their unique path to excellence. They celebrate my wins genuinely, but they also keep me humble and remind me of the values we were raised with.
Growing up in a family that prioritized support over individual achievement taught me something crucial about collaboration in the arts. In our house, when one person succeeded, we all celebrated. When someone was struggling, we all pitched in. That foundation is why I genuinely want to see other artists succeed, why I’m passionate about advocacy work, and why I approach every creative project as a team effort rather than a solo pursuit.
The unconditional love and support I received at home gave me the security to take creative risks. When you know your worth isn’t tied to booking a job or getting a role, when you know you’re valued simply for who you are, it frees you to be more authentic in your artistry. I can be vulnerable on stage, I can try bold choices in auditions, I can push boundaries in my creative work because I have this unshakeable foundation of love and acceptance.
That family support also taught me about resilience in a very practical way. My parents never let me quit when things like dance training, school or anything I committed to got too difficult. But they also taught me the difference between perseverance and stubbornness. They showed me how to adapt, how to find new approaches, how to keep going when the path changes. That lesson is invaluable in an industry where rejection and redirection are constant.
The immigrant work ethic combined with the unconditional family love created this unique perspective where I understand both the privilege of pursuing art and the responsibility that comes with that privilege. Every opportunity I have is built on the sacrifices of people who believed in me before I had any reason to believe in myself. That gratitude fuels everything I do. It’s why I work so hard, why I try to lift other artists up, and why I’m committed to using my platform and education to advocate for positive change in the industry.
Today, when I’m in rehearsal rooms or on sets, I carry my family’s values with me. The respect for hard work, the commitment to supporting others, the understanding that success is sweeter when it’s shared; these aren’t just personal values, they’re professional strengths. They make me someone people want to work with, someone who contributes to positive creative environments, and someone who remembers that behind every artist is a network of people who made their dreams possible.
My family didn’t just support my passion for dance; they shaped the kind of artist and person I became. Every time I step on stage, I’m not just representing myself—I’m honoring everyone who helped me get there.
My first big audition was for Disney’s Descendants 3, and I still pinch myself that I booked it as a sixteen-year-old. The whole experience felt surreal. I remember walking into that audition room knowing this was unlike anything I’d done before, but not fully grasping how much it would change my perspective on what was possible.
As someone who was completely obsessed with the High School Musical movies directed by Kenny Ortega, getting to work with him for an extended period felt like stepping into a dream I didn’t even know I was allowed to have. I had watched those films countless times, studying every dance sequence, every camera angle, every moment where music and movement came together to create pure magic. Suddenly, I wasn’t just watching that magic; I was part of creating it.
What made this feel like an “I made it” moment wasn’t just booking the job, though that was incredible. It was the realization, somewhere in the middle of those long days on set, that this could actually be my life. I was getting paid to do what I loved, working alongside professional dancers who had built careers out of their passion, learning from a director whose work had inspired me for years. For the first time, pursuing dance as a living felt tangible rather than just a distant dream.
The experience taught me so much about professionalism, about the collaborative nature of large-scale productions, and about my own capabilities. At sixteen, I was learning to navigate early call times, multiple takes, costume changes, and the unique demands of dancing for camera versus live performance. I was also discovering that I could hold my own in that environment. That I belonged there not just because of luck, but because of the years of training and preparation that had led to that moment.
But perhaps most importantly, it taught me about the responsibility that comes with opportunities like that. Being on a Disney production meant understanding that your work would be seen by kids around the world, that you were part of storytelling that could inspire the next generation of young artists. That awareness of impact, of being part of something bigger than yourself, has stayed with me throughout my career.
Looking back now, I realize that “making it” moment was also the beginning of all those questions I started asking about the industry. Even as I was grateful for the opportunity, I was observing the dynamics on set, noticing how different departments were treated, starting to form opinions about how things could be better. In many ways, that experience planted the seeds for my later interest in arts advocacy and entertainment law.
The gratitude I felt then, and I still feel now for that opportunity, has become a driving force in how I approach my career. It reminds me that every “yes,” every booking, every chance to do what I love is a gift that shouldn’t be taken for granted. That sixteen-year-old who walked onto the Descendants 3 set for the first time is still with me in every audition room, still pinching himself, still remembering that this career I’m building started with one magical experience that showed me what was possible.
That moment taught me that “making it” isn’t just about reaching a destination. It’s about recognizing when you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re meant to do, and feeling grateful for every step that brought you there.
Being part of this show has been this incredible gift that I never saw coming. I’ve been able to visit seventeen countries while doing what I love. My ideal day off starts with waking up in a place I’ve never been before, grabbing my Fujifilm x100vi, and just wandering with absolutely no plan. There’s something magical about having no agenda and letting a new city or town reveal itself to you. Maybe I’ll stumble upon a hidden cafe, or find myself in a local market, or discover some incredible street art that I never would have found if I’d been following Google Maps.
Food is always a huge part of these explorations. I try to eat as much food as I can, not just at the tourist spots, but the places where locals go. Some of my best discoveries have happened when I’ve just pointed at something on a menu I couldn’t read and hoped for the best. Those moments of culinary adventure often lead to the most memorable experiences and the best stories.
Having my camera with me transforms the whole experience. I’m not just visiting these places, I’m documenting them, looking for those perfect moments of light or unexpected compositions. The x100vi has become this extension of how I see the world, and it forces me to really pay attention to details I might otherwise miss. Plus, there’s something about having a creative outlet that’s completely separate from performing that keeps me balanced and inspired.
What makes these days even better is when I can share them with friends from the ship. There’s something special about experiencing new places with people who understand the unique lifestyle we’re living. We’re all in this together; performing every night and then getting to explore the world during the day. It creates these bonds and shared memories that are unlike anything else.
The best part about having no plans is that you’re open to whatever the day brings. Maybe we end up spending hours in a tiny museum, or we find ourselves hiking to a viewpoint we didn’t know existed, or we get caught in a rainstorm and must duck into a safari jeep where we end up having the most incredible conversation with locals.
These unstructured days also give me time to process all the performing and traveling we’re doing. It’s a lot to take in; different audiences every night, new ports every few days, constantly adapting to new environments. Having those slow, explorative days helps me stay present and grateful for this incredible opportunity rather than just rushing through it.
I think what I love most is how these perfect days off feed back into my performances. Every new place I visit, every person I meet, every unexpected moment I capture, it all becomes part of who I am as an artist. When I step back on stage that night, I’m bringing all of those experiences and emotions with me, which makes every show feel fresh and alive.
There’s something beautifully ironic about exploring these places around the world while literally living on a cruise ship, but I think it speaks to how adaptable and grateful this career has taught me to be. Every port is a new adventure, and every day off is a chance to see the world through fresh eyes.
I have to say, booking Frozen at North Shore Music Theatre holds such a special place in my heart because it represents so many firsts and taught me invaluable lessons about this industry. It was my first booking post-college, which already made it feel like this beautiful validation that everything I’d worked for at USC. The dual degrees, the long days, the sacrifices, it had all been worth it.
What makes it even more meaningful is how it happened. I went to an Equity Chorus Call in New York completely on a whim. I wasn’t particularly expecting anything from it, but I’ve learned that sometimes the opportunities that change everything come from those spontaneous decisions where you just show up and see what happens. Walking out of that audition with a callback, and then eventually with the job, reminded me that you never know which audition will be the one that opens the next chapter.
Being part of one of the first regional productions of Frozen was absolutely incredible. There’s something magical about being involved in a show that’s still finding its identity outside of Broadway, where you get to contribute to how the story translates to different venues and audiences. We weren’t just performing the material—we were helping to establish what this production could be in a regional theater set in the round, which felt like a real responsibility and honor.
But beyond the excitement of the show itself, this contract taught me so much about working as a professional musical theater artist. It was my first time navigating the rhythms of a full production run, understanding the stamina required for eight shows a week, learning how to maintain vocal and physical health throughout an extended contract. These are things you can study in school, but there’s no substitute for living it (especially coming from a BFA Dance program).
I also learned about the collaborative nature of regional theater in a way that was completely different from my previous experiences in film and television. In musical theater, you’re building something together night after night with the same group of people, and that creates this unique intimacy and trust. Everyone depends on everyone else in a very immediate way. If someone’s having an off night, the whole cast rallies to support them.
Getting the chance to go on as King Agnarr in the final performance was an unforgettable moment. I had been watching and learning this role throughout the run, but actually stepping into it for that last show was this incredible rush of adrenaline and gratitude. It reminded me why I fell in love with live theater in the first place: anything can happen, and you have to be ready to rise to the occasion.
What I’m proudest of isn’t just that I booked the job or even that I successfully handled the understudy opportunity. It’s that this experience confirmed for me that I could thrive in professional musical theater while maintaining the values and work ethic I’d developed throughout my training. I showed up every day ready to contribute not just my talent but my positive energy, my collaborative spirit, and my commitment to serving the story and the audience.
This role also validated my decision to pursue such a multifaceted education. The analytical skills from my legal studies helped me break down the character work more effectively. My dance background gave me confidence in the movement and staging. Everything I had studied and experienced came together in this one beautiful opportunity.
I wouldn’t trade that Frozen experience for anything because it taught me that post-college success isn’t just about landing the biggest jobs. It’s about finding opportunities that challenge you, inspire you, and remind you why you chose this path in the first place. That role gave me confidence as a professional artist and set the foundation for everything that’s come since.
Honestly, I think having multiple interests has been my saving grace. When the dance world feels overwhelming or rejections start piling up, I can channel that energy into my photography, my legal studies, or my advocacy work. It keeps me from putting all my identity into one basket, which I think is crucial for long-term sustainability in this industry.
My family and closest friends are also essential in keeping me grounded. They knew me from day one, and they remind me of my values when the industry pressures start to feel all consuming. They celebrate my wins genuinely, but they also call me out when I’m getting too caught up in the hustle and losing sight of why I started this journey.
I’ve also learned to reframe what growth actually means. Instead of measuring progress solely by bookings or external validation, I focus on whether I’m becoming a more skilled artist, a better collaborator, and someone who’s contributing positively to the industry. My advocacy work gives the grind deeper purpose. I’m not just chasing personal success; I’m working toward systemic change that helps other artists.
Having creative outlets that are purely mine, like my film work, serves as this reset button. When I’m behind the camera creating or working on a photography project, I’m creating without commercial pressure or external expectations. It reminds me that art, at its core, should be joyful.
The USC Kaufman “scholar artist” philosophy really shaped how I think about this balance. Growth comes from curiosity and exploration, not just grinding in one area. Every legal concept I learn, every film technique I master, every new perspective I gain through my advocacy work, it all feeds back into making me a more well-rounded artist and human being.
At the end of the day, I try to remember that the grind should serve my growth, not the other way around. The moment the hustle starts compromising who I am or what I value, that’s when I know I need to step back and reconnect with my why.
My short film is a perfect example of how stepping outside your primary discipline can actually enhance everything you do. Winning at the PNB Film Festival and being selected for CineVox Dance Film Festival, Fuselage Dance Film Festival, and Festival of Recorded Movement felt incredible, but what meant even more was the process of creating something entirely from my own vision. Writing, directing and editing it reminded me that I’m not just a performer, but a storyteller in many forms.
These creative pursuits also give me perspective on the dance industry. When you’re creating your own content, you understand the challenges that directors and choreographers face, the countless decisions that go into every frame. It makes me a more empathetic collaborator and a more well-rounded artist. Plus, there’s something liberating about having creative outlets that belong completely to you, where success is measured by personal satisfaction rather than external validation.
I feel incredibly fortunate that I was born in a very diverse city that allowed me to feel supported and celebrated for who I am from day one. Growing up in an environment where different cultures, backgrounds, and artistic expressions were not just tolerated but embraced gave me this foundation of acceptance that I carry with me everywhere. It taught me early on that success isn’t about fitting into one mold; it’s about bringing your authentic self to whatever stage you’re on.
My support system is everything to me. The friends and family who knew me before any of this happened, who still call me out when I’m being hard on myself, who celebrate my wins genuinely but also remind me of who I am at my core—they’re my anchor. These are the people who drove me to dance classes, who stayed up late helping me prepare for auditions, who FaceTimed me during stressful law school finals. They’ve seen me at my most vulnerable and most triumphant, and their love isn’t contingent on my latest booking or achievement.
What really keeps me grounded, though, is maintaining creative outlets that are entirely my own. Photography and videography have become these incredible spaces where I can explore storytelling without the pressure of commercial success or external expectations. When I’m behind the camera, I’m creating purely for the joy of creation, which reminds me why I fell in love with art in the first place.
Traveling between different stages, from local studios to professional sets to international venues, has actually reinforced how important it is to stay connected to my roots. Every new experience adds layers to who I am as an artist, but the core values I learned growing up in that diverse, supportive community remain constant. Whether I’m in a rehearsal room in New York or performing a musical out at sea, I’m still the same person who believes in lifting others up, who approaches every opportunity with gratitude, who knows that talent without kindness means nothing.
I think what really keeps me grounded is remembering that every stage I perform on, every opportunity I receive, is built on the foundation of community support. The diversity of my hometown taught me that success looks different for everyone, and that’s beautiful. My family and friends remind me that my worth isn’t tied to my achievements. And my creative outlets ensure that I’m always growing as an artist and human being, not just chasing the next professional milestone.
At the end of the day, staying grounded means remembering that the stages might get bigger, but the heart that brought you to dance in the first place should remain the same. Whether I’m performing for thousands or creating a film in my bedroom, I’m still that kid who fell in love with movement and storytelling—just with better technique and more life experience to draw from.
You can find more moments from Hayden Rivas’s journey—and some of his photography—on Instagram: @haydenrivas and @capturedbyhayd.
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