I found out that superstars Winkler and William Shatner are real

When Terry Bradshaw declares, “I found out that superstars Winkler and William Shatner are real people, and I was so thankful for that,” his words rise beyond the laughter of conversation and strike at an eternal truth: that behind the masks of fame and glory, all men and women remain human. In a world where idols are placed upon pedestals, where the glow of celebrity blinds the eyes of the common soul, Bradshaw speaks with humility and relief that even those draped in the robes of stardom can reveal hearts of simplicity, kindness, and authenticity.

To call someone real in this sense is not to speak of flesh and blood—for all are mortal—but to testify to the presence of sincerity. The stage and the screen often forge illusions, creating characters larger than life, untouchable by the struggles of the everyday. Yet Bradshaw discovered in Henry Winkler and William Shatner not the unreachable gods of entertainment, but men who could laugh, listen, and dwell as equals. His thankfulness is a gratitude born from recognizing that the mighty need not become arrogant, and that greatness can dwell side by side with humility.

This lesson is not new to the ages. Consider Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Rome, who wielded dominion over armies and nations. Though hailed as a god by his people, he chose instead to remind himself daily of his mortality, writing in his Meditations that he was but a man, subject to the same frailties as any other. He walked among his soldiers, shared their hardships, and carried himself not as a distant idol but as a real person. Like Winkler and Shatner to Bradshaw, Marcus revealed that the truest measure of greatness is not in spectacle, but in humanity.

Bradshaw’s words also carry a hidden fear: that many who ascend to heights of fame lose touch with this truth. The world has seen emperors, generals, actors, and athletes who became captives of their own image, no longer accessible to those who admired them. Their arrogance built walls, and their glory became hollow. Thus, when Bradshaw says he was “thankful” to find realness in these stars, he confesses a rare joy—joy in discovering that celebrity had not swallowed the soul, that stardom had not silenced compassion.

From this wisdom flows a call to each of us: do not worship the images of men, but seek their hearts. Honor their talents, but do not mistake the glitter for the gold within. And when fortune lifts you to any place of influence—whether in work, community, or home—guard yourself against pride. Remain real, as Winkler and Shatner did, and let others find in you a spirit they can trust, not a mask that keeps them at a distance.

So let us learn: humility in greatness is a gift, both to the one who holds it and to all who behold it. To be admired and yet remain approachable is a high virtue, for it bridges the gap between the extraordinary and the ordinary. The ancients would call this the virtue of philanthropia—the love of mankind, even by those who stand above them in power or talent.

Practical wisdom follows. In your daily life, do not let titles, achievements, or recognition harden your heart. Speak plainly, listen deeply, and treat every soul with respect. If you admire others, honor them not as idols but as fellow travelers on life’s path. And if you yourself are admired, wear that honor with grace, remembering always to be thankful that others look to you at all.

Thus the teaching of Bradshaw becomes clear: that in a world full of illusion and spectacle, the greatest treasure is to find that those we revere are not statues of pride, but real people. To be real is to be human, and to be human with humility is to leave behind a legacy brighter than any star.