“Fear, Faith, and That Audition”

"This happens for other people, not me." "What if I fail?" "What if I’m not enough?" That spiral of self-analysis that doesn’t always help—it can be m

The other day, someone asked if I’d audition for a cable read at the Cannes Film Festival. And I thought—wow, okay. But not even a heartbeat later… fear settled in.

That subtle but powerful fear—the kind that dresses up as imposter syndrome, as self-doubt, as “who am I to do this?”—crept in without permission. And as I sat there, I realized something: I was on the verge of letting another opportunity pass me by. Not because I couldn’t do it—but because fear made me think I didn’t deserve to.

I started to really listen to the thoughts in my head. You know the ones: "This happens for other people, not me." "What if I fail?" "What if I’m not enough?" That spiral of self-analysis that doesn’t always help—it can be maddening. Like being pulled between two polarizing forces: faith and fear.

Sometimes I wonder, why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we recoil just as life cracks open a window?

I’m learning that faith in your dreams isn’t always about having a perfect vision or five-year plan. It’s about moving—imperfectly, unpredictably—in the direction of what lights you up. Because no, dreams don’t come true just by wishing. But they also don’t arrive just by forceful, linear action either.

Sometimes it’s serendipity. A random phone call. A moment that feels accidental but only happened because you took one small, brave step.

So no—you can't say, “In two years I’ll make it big,” and then white-knuckle your way there. That’s not how this works. Our timelines, our paths, our breakthroughs—they don’t run on predictable clocks.

Expectation can be the killer of dreams. But imagination? That’s the birthplace of freedom. And when you live in that space—when you allow yourself to imagine boldly, to act even when you’re scared—that’s when things shift.

I only wish I had this wisdom earlier. I spent so many years letting fear steer the wheel, and I didn’t even recognize it. I didn’t stop to analyze it. I didn’t confront it.

Now, I must. Or I have to accept where I am. And honestly? That sometimes feels like accepting defeat.

But I’m not here to accept defeat. I’m here to reclaim myself.

To speak my truth.
To let my words carry weight.
To be expressive.
To be fully human in all my messy, emotional glory.

Because that’s not weakness. That’s my core.
That’s me.