"This Isn't My First, and It Won't Be My Last"

A 13-year-old's rejection story, a mother's wisdom, and the reframe that will save your career.

You know the best day of your life when you’re 13?

It’s this: you’re a professional actor, and you’re taking the Acela, the fast one, the “big deal” train, into New York City with just your mom.

And it’s Christmas.

The city is pure, unfiltered magic.

Life is a movie, and you are 100% the star.

I was riding that high, walking into a huge audition for a regular role on Guiding Light.

This wasn’t some cattle call. This was a reading with the casting director.

I wasn’t just ready. I was readyyyyy. (Said that with a Dusty Olgesby accent IYKYK)

I knew my lines cold. This was it.

I walk into the office and mom waits outside. It’s just me and the director.

I do what I always do: I try to be an actual human being. You know, build rapport. “Hey, how are you? Did you see the Knicks game last night? Unbelievable, right?”

He doesn’t smile. “Let’s get to the read, kid.”

(Okay... so, not a big Knicks guy. Got it.)

So I do my read. And it was, not to brag, one of the best I’d ever given. (Side note: These are lines from a soap opera…there’s only so much you can do with them)

When I finish, the director leans back in his chair and looks at me for a long time.

He says, “Kid, that was one of the best reads I’ve ever heard.” (My 13-year-old ego is already picking out a new blazer.) “...But I’ll never hire you.”

The air just... swoosh... gone. “What?”

He says, “You have too much shtick. I don’t care about the Knicks. I don’t care about the small talk. You’re here to come in, work, and that’s it.”

He told a 13-year-old that his talent was A+, but his personality was an F. He told me that being me…the “shtick”…was the problem.

I was crushed. I walked out, saw my mom, and just... broke.

We went down to that Cosi restaurant I’d been eyeing.

I proceeded to cry directly into a sandwich, which is not a great flavor combo, by the way.

I told her I was done, I’m going to just go be an accountant.

“This is horrible, Mom. He just told me I can’t act. I’m finished.”

My mom let me cry for a minute. And then, instead of coddling me, she coached me.

She didn’t try to fix the problem. She just reframed it.

She looked at me and asked two simple questions:

“Will this be your last audition?”

I sniffled. “...No.”

“Was this your first?”

“...No.”

She smiled. “Well, okay then.”

In that moment, she gave me the principle that has been the “breath of fresh air” for my entire adult life. It’s the reframe I still use to this day when a keynote doesn’t land, a client says no, or a launch fails.

This isn’t my first performance, and it sure as hell won’t be my last.

That’s it. That’s the whole game. It’s the ultimate tool for perspective.

It zooms you out from the painful, microscopic moment and shows you the panoramic timeline of your career.

This one “no” doesn’t define you.

It’s just a data point.

---

The “State Control” Playbook

Over the years, I’ve built on my mom’s lesson. I’ve realized that in high-stakes moments, you need a full toolkit to manage your state.

Here’s the 3-part system I use to this day:

1. The Mental Tool (The “First/Last” Reframe): This is the one from my mom. It’s the first line of defense. It stops the “this is the end of the world” spiral. It reminds me that this is just one rep.

2. The Physical Tool (The “Navy SEAL” Drop): The second a rejection (or any high-stress event) happens, your shoulders go to your ears.

It’s a primal fear response.

So I do this: I physically pull my shoulders down, as far away from my ears as they can possibly go. It’s a trick Navy SEALs use. It breaks the anxiety loop in your body. It sends a signal to your brain: “We are not in danger. We are in control.” (Try it right now. It’s crazy how well it works.)

3. The Emotional Tool (The “Humor” Weapon): This is the one I used to be ashamed of.

I use humor to defuse situations, to regulate my emotions, to create a little distance from the pain.

Here’s the key: As an unconscious defense mechanism, this is a bad thing. It’s just you escaping vulnerability. But when you are cognizant of it, when you know you’re doing it, it’s not a crutch.

It’s a weapon.

It becomes a high-performance tool to manage your own state, entertain others, and stay present in the conversation.

You can’t control the director.

You can’t control the client.

You can’t control the outcome.

But you can control your state.

That’s the only performance that matters.