Sometimes, the moment you think will break you... does. But sometimes, the next one saves you.

I still remember exactly where I was when the call came in.

My agent’s voice was almost giddy ... there was an audition, a final callback, a shot at an NBC pilot. A real one. Not a background role, not a workshop. This was the final round for a national TV spot. And it was mine.

I was going to play a Middle Eastern cab driver ... funny, warm, classic network comedy vibes. The kind of role you tell your parents about. The kind that could change things.

I parked, walked into the building, and waited. It was quiet. Eerily quiet. No line of actors outside. No shuffling of scripts. Just me.

For a second, I let myself believe… this is it.

I sat there rehearsing the lines, trying not to overthink it. The voice in my head kept looping: Just don’t mess this up. Don’t mess this up.

Then the door behind me opened.

Tony Shalhoub walked in.

He said “hi” ... casual, kind, disarming ... and disappeared into the audition room with someone from the production team.

And everything in me broke.

I heard the shift before I saw it. The volume in the room changed ... laughter, applause, warmth. The energy turned electric the second he entered. They loved him. Of course they did.

My stomach dropped.

Tony Shalhoub. Tony Shalhoub?!

I admired him. Respected him. I LOVE that guy. My Dad religiously watches Monk! And in that moment, I convinced myself I was competing against him!? That I didn’t belong in the same building, let alone the same audition slot.

My excitement twisted into panic. The walls felt like they were expanding and contracting. My vision blurred. My chest tightened.

He walked out smiling, still laughing with whoever he was with. And then it was my turn.

I walked in… but I wasn’t really there. I was a shell. A ghost.

I could feel my hands trembling, my voice uneven. I stumbled through the lines. The casting director paused me. Told me to try again ... to collect myself, and “get my stuff together.” I couldn’t, and that just made it worse. In Hollywood, that was the firing squad executing you.

I wasn’t acting anymore. I was unraveling.

I was excused politely, but their faces said what their words didn’t.

I walked back to my car and sat behind the wheel. I didn’t drive. I didn’t breathe. Then the phone rang.

It was my agent. She was furious ... 30 seconds of disappointment compressed into what felt like an hour. I deserved it. I felt like a complete failure. Not just for the audition… but for believing I could ever belong in a room like that.

And then I did something I never did: I called my mother.

I was crying, hard. I couldn’t hide it. Couldn’t fake it. I told her everything ... and she listened the way only a mother can. Then she said, gently but firmly, “Go do something. Anything. Move your body. Take your mind off it.”

So I drove towards home to curl up and disappear.

Somewhere in the haze of that movement, I passed a Halloween store just starting to set up. It triggered a random memory ... months earlier, I’d seen someone at Comic Con with the most incredible vampire fangs. I’d asked where they got them, and they told me the artist was based in North Hollywood, and had to be by referral.

So I called them up and asked for the referral.

They called me back and said he had only one opening that same afternoon, or two months later after Halloween.

I showed up early. Sat on the hood of my car. Waited.

3:00 p.m. Not before, and not 5 minutes after.

I waited in silence. Still hurting, still hollow. That shame... it doesn’t leave quickly.

Then I saw Paris Hilton walk out of his studio. I blinked. Was that…? It was.

And suddenly this moment became even stranger. Surreal.

3:00PM sharp, I pressed the buzzer and walked into his space. The door creaked open like a coffin. The studio looked like a dark cave. Props everywhere. Black cinefoil on the walls giving it a rock formation. I sat in the chair ... the only thing brighter than the rest of the room ... and he started preparing.

But then he paused. Looked me straight in the eye.

“You’ve got something heavy on you,” he said.

My breath caught.

“Whatever it is,” he continued, “you need to let it out. You’re throwing off my energy.”

And just like that… I broke.

Not a polite cry. Not a silent tear.

I sobbed.

I told him everything. The audition. The failure. The crushing sense that maybe all I was meant for was mediocrity. That maybe I had believed in a dream that didn’t believe back.

And he just listened. This strange man, in this cave-like studio, with the aura of someone who truly thought he might be a vampire… just listened.

Then he turned around. Pulled out his wallet. And handed me something old, weathered, and creased.

A fake one-million-dollar bill.

He held it out gently, like it was sacred.

“I came to Hollywood with a dream,” he said. “I never thought I’d amount to anything. I had talent… but no belief. Then one day, someone gave me this. Told me this is what I’m worth. But that it’s just paper ... unless I believe it.”

And then he looked at me.

“I’m giving it to you now,” he said. “But you’ve got to believe it too.”

That was the moment.

Not the audition. Not the callback. Not the agent. Not the network.

That was the moment that changed me.

Not because he gave me money. But because, in a room full of shadows, he gave me permission to believe in my worth again.

Sometimes, the moment you think will break you... does.
But sometimes, the next one saves you.