Being a teen idol or being a heartthrob on all the magazines

Hear the words of Willie Aames, who looked back upon the days of youth and fame and spoke with bewilderment and humility: “Being a teen idol or being a heartthrob on all the magazines, with Shaun Cassidy, Leif Garrett, and Scott Baio—it was embarrassing! I never understood it. I mean, why me? I never really got it.” Though he speaks of embarrassment, there lies within this confession a deeper current: the strange burden of adoration, the mystery of fame unearned, and the soul’s quest to understand its place in the eyes of others.

The life of a teen idol is a peculiar fate. To be lifted suddenly, not for deeds of greatness or works of wisdom, but for the accident of appearance or the glow of a smile, is to be placed on a pedestal one does not know how to stand upon. Aames confesses this unease: he did not understand why he, among many, became the one plastered across magazines, his face worshiped as though it bore eternal significance. It is the burden of beauty, the confusion of fame—when the world praises what feels shallow, and the soul longs for something deeper.

His mention of fellow idols—Shaun Cassidy, Leif Garrett, Scott Baio—shows that this was not his plight alone. All were young men caught in the whirlwind of adulation, their likenesses sold, their names shouted by crowds of strangers who did not know them truly. The ancients would say this is the danger of false crowns: to be exalted not for what you are, but for what others project upon you. Many a man has stumbled beneath such a weight, for it is not easy to live up to an image that was never truly yours.

History itself offers parallels. Consider the story of Lord Byron, the great poet of the Romantic age. His face and verse made him the “idol” of Europe; women fainted at his presence, men envied him, crowds adored him. Yet Byron himself confessed torment, never understanding why the public worshiped him so fervently. His fame felt like a prison, his image like a mask. Like Aames, he asked, “Why me?”—for he knew that adoration is not the same as love, and public acclaim is not the same as self-worth.

The meaning of Aames’ words is thus twofold. First, they reveal the hollowness of shallow fame: to be worshiped without being known, to be praised without being understood. Second, they speak of humility: for he did not let adulation swell his pride, but instead stood baffled, embarrassed even, that such attention was lavished upon him. His humility itself is a lesson—better to be confused by unearned praise than to be consumed by it.

The lesson for us is clear. Do not envy those who stand on magazine covers or in the spotlight, for what seems like glory may feel to them like a burden. Seek not to be adored for what is superficial, but to be respected for what is true. Build a life not on fleeting popularity, but on lasting character, wisdom, and compassion. For while the crowds will move on to another idol, the soul that has built itself upon truth will endure.

Therefore, let us act with discernment. Let us teach the young that fame is not the measure of worth, and beauty not the root of value. Let us honor instead the quiet virtues—the courage to be honest, the strength to endure, the humility to serve. For as Willie Aames reminds us, even those lifted highest by the adoring masses may stand bewildered, asking, “Why me?” It is better to live a life of meaning, understood by a few, than to be exalted for what one never truly was.