Lauren Velasco-O'Donovan
Noble and Greenough School
"The Star I Couldn’t See"
Growing up, I was told. “You’re going to be a star.”
I still remember the glow on my mom’s face as she said that after my first Musical. Before getting involved in theater, I spent most of my time exploring gymnastics, basketball, lacrosse, and more. Whether I fell off the beam or failed to block a goal, my mom always told me, “There’s always next time.” But theatre was different. There is no "next time" in a live performance. If you forget a line, miss a step, or slip onstage, there’s no time to dwell on it. You’ve got a show to do, which requires forgiving yourself in the moment. That urgency and the thrill drew me in immediately.
Soon enough, I traded my cleats for jazz shoes and ballet flats. I became consumed by the dream of being a star, obsessing about the careers of Broadway actors and studying their paths to success, but soon enough, my dream began to overwhelm me. I watched other kids my age become “successful,” yet I am still stuck in the same small town I started it all in. The pressure to be "a star" started to weigh me down. I began criticizing my voice, body, and face—searching for perfection I could never seem to reach. My love for performing was still there, but it was suffocated by the constant fear of not being good enough.
It wasn’t until one day in my sophomore year Chemistry class that everything changed. The chemistry and structure of Star came up. A Star, I learned, is made up primarily of Hydrogen and Helium, the two lightest elements. With the Fusion of Hydrogen and Helium balancing with the pressure of Gravity the star is placing on itself, it stays together; but if the pressure of self-gravity becomes too much, the star will collapse.
At that moment, sitting alone in Chemistry Class, my mindset switched. During all those years that I spent reaching and pushing myself past my limits to become a star, I realized that I was already one, on the verge of collapsing underneath my own pressure. The lightness of joy I used to feel when performing was dimmed because I was too focused on being perfect.
With that realization, I began to shift my mindset. Instead of chasing an ideal I could never reach, I focused on recapturing the lightness, the pure joy I had when I first fell in love with theatre. I found the little girl who felt warmth onstage for the first time and was moved by the power of storytelling. I’m still my own harshest critic, but I’ve learned how to prevent myself from collapsing under the weight of my expectations.
This past summer, I attended a summer program with some of the most talented kids I will ever meet; at the end of our final performance, the majority of the others were surrounded by their parents, with my mom unable to afford the flight from Boston to Michigan, I felt stranded in a moment I should’ve felt so fulfilled. However, one of the counselors, a junior in the university’s program, noticed me. We said our goodbyes, and he told me how proud he was of how much I’ve grown and accomplished. Then, just as I was about to walk away, he stopped me and said, “Truly, Lauren, you are a star.”
That’s when I realized that being a star isn’t about reaching an impossible ideal. It’s about learning to balance the pressure you place on yourself with the joy of doing what you love and it’s about shining from within.
Noble and Greenough School
"The Star I Couldn’t See"
Growing up, I was told. “You’re going to be a star.”
I still remember the glow on my mom’s face as she said that after my first Musical. Before getting involved in theater, I spent most of my time exploring gymnastics, basketball, lacrosse, and more. Whether I fell off the beam or failed to block a goal, my mom always told me, “There’s always next time.” But theatre was different. There is no "next time" in a live performance. If you forget a line, miss a step, or slip onstage, there’s no time to dwell on it. You’ve got a show to do, which requires forgiving yourself in the moment. That urgency and the thrill drew me in immediately.
Soon enough, I traded my cleats for jazz shoes and ballet flats. I became consumed by the dream of being a star, obsessing about the careers of Broadway actors and studying their paths to success, but soon enough, my dream began to overwhelm me. I watched other kids my age become “successful,” yet I am still stuck in the same small town I started it all in. The pressure to be "a star" started to weigh me down. I began criticizing my voice, body, and face—searching for perfection I could never seem to reach. My love for performing was still there, but it was suffocated by the constant fear of not being good enough.
It wasn’t until one day in my sophomore year Chemistry class that everything changed. The chemistry and structure of Star came up. A Star, I learned, is made up primarily of Hydrogen and Helium, the two lightest elements. With the Fusion of Hydrogen and Helium balancing with the pressure of Gravity the star is placing on itself, it stays together; but if the pressure of self-gravity becomes too much, the star will collapse.
At that moment, sitting alone in Chemistry Class, my mindset switched. During all those years that I spent reaching and pushing myself past my limits to become a star, I realized that I was already one, on the verge of collapsing underneath my own pressure. The lightness of joy I used to feel when performing was dimmed because I was too focused on being perfect.
With that realization, I began to shift my mindset. Instead of chasing an ideal I could never reach, I focused on recapturing the lightness, the pure joy I had when I first fell in love with theatre. I found the little girl who felt warmth onstage for the first time and was moved by the power of storytelling. I’m still my own harshest critic, but I’ve learned how to prevent myself from collapsing under the weight of my expectations.
This past summer, I attended a summer program with some of the most talented kids I will ever meet; at the end of our final performance, the majority of the others were surrounded by their parents, with my mom unable to afford the flight from Boston to Michigan, I felt stranded in a moment I should’ve felt so fulfilled. However, one of the counselors, a junior in the university’s program, noticed me. We said our goodbyes, and he told me how proud he was of how much I’ve grown and accomplished. Then, just as I was about to walk away, he stopped me and said, “Truly, Lauren, you are a star.”
That’s when I realized that being a star isn’t about reaching an impossible ideal. It’s about learning to balance the pressure you place on yourself with the joy of doing what you love and it’s about shining from within.
