■ The stage, for me, has been a psychologist’s couch. I was the happiest in my life when I was doing Aida, because I cried through that show maybe three or four times a night. There’s something cathartic about that. My son wants to be an actor, and I’ve been explaining to him that onstage you have to be vulnerable. You have to be ready to cry. You have to be ready to have spit flying out of your mouth and just be naked to some extent. The audience appreciates it.

■ When I was leaving Aida, my future father-in-law, Johnny Musso — he’s in the College Football Hall of Fame and played for the Bears — pulled me aside and said, “Have you prepared yourself? For the past five or six years, at 10:30 every night, people have stood and applauded you. I kind of know what that’s like, running into a stadium. But in a couple weeks, you’re not going to have that.” And I said, “Yes, I’m good. I want the break.” Two weeks later, I was like, I need an IV drip of applause.

■ From early on, I was Heather, that girl who sings. Or Heather, the Tony winner. Heather, the Grammy winner. That’s how I’m defined. But if that adulation is the air you breathe, when it goes away, then, in essence, you’re dead. You have to know who you are without it, and that has been a beautiful thing.

■ “Service” has gotten a bad connotation, but it’s godly. When I was in England [doing The Bodyguard in the West End], I had a dresser named Jenni Carvell. It took me a while to accept it, but that woman became my lifeline. When I had bad days, Jenni would hold me up. Before I left my dressing room, Jenni would say, “Do you have everything? Do you have your nausea pills? Your water? Your tea?” She had, like, a contractor’s belt with all the stuff I would need. I had 20-something changes, so every time I crossed the stage, Jenni would have to run behind the stage to get to the other side to make sure my dresses were ready. She would spend an hour beforehand setting everything up, making sure every zipper was right. It just taught me so much. This was not her being subservient. It was her saying: “I’m going to make sure that girl does her job well.”

■ I cannot tell you I’ve ever gone onstage in the past five or 10 years going, “I got this.” There’s always something that keeps me off-kilter. Before I did the Kennedy Center, my ear monitors were not working. I remember walking out there scared to death. But my husband would tell you that some of my best performances were the ones where I’m having [makes panic attack sounds] backstage.

■ One time I was talking to Elton John at his house in Atlanta. And I remember saying, “You live here?” He told me he loved Atlanta because he could just be. He could go to the bookstores, he could go to the music stores. He’s like, “OK, maybe they close them down after hours for me.” But it was a community. At the time, I was young and didn’t understand that. But now I get it. I feel like the Chicago burbs are that. You get to just be. If you ever come to the burbs and see me, I have no makeup on, I have my sweats, I’m at the gym, or I’m at Mariano’s or Whole Foods trying to figure out which is a better sauce.