I get very nervous whenever I think about it. I've never done a

The words of Judy Holliday, spoken with candor and trembling humility, carry the weight of reverence and human vulnerability: “I get very nervous whenever I think about it. I’ve never done a serious play, and I have such awe of the woman—she’s really my only idol. It’s going to be a big stretch—certain people come out on stage and your face muscles automatically tense and you get ready to smile.” In these lines, we hear the voice of an artist confronting both fear and wonder—the fear of untested ground, and the wonder of standing before greatness.

To feel nervous is to recognize the gravity of what lies ahead. Holliday admits her inexperience with a serious play, revealing that she walks into uncharted territory. Yet her words remind us of an eternal truth: that nerves and trembling are not signs of weakness but of significance. Only the shallow heart feels no tremor before sacred tasks. The one who quakes before their calling shows that they understand its weight. To be nervous, then, is to honor the work, to acknowledge that it demands more than the ordinary.

Her confession of awe before her idol reveals another timeless principle: that greatness in others can awaken both fear and inspiration within us. The idol, the figure she reveres, is not merely a performer but a beacon of possibility, someone whose very presence commands respect. History has seen such figures in every art and discipline—the master before the apprentice, the general before the young soldier, the philosopher before the student. Holliday shows us that reverence is not chains that bind, but fuel that drives us to reach beyond ourselves.

She speaks of the “stretch,” the effort of moving beyond comfort into challenge. Every growth in life demands such stretching. Just as the athlete must strain muscles to gain strength, so too must the artist strain the soul to gain mastery. Her awareness of the stretch is not despair, but courage—for only those willing to be stretched, to risk failure, can ever taste true transformation. Thus, her trembling words are not of retreat but of readiness.

And then she speaks of the automatic smile, that involuntary response when greatness steps into view. This image is rich with meaning: the smile is both respect and surrender, the body’s acknowledgment of the other’s power. Think of the crowds who once smiled as Pericles rose to speak, or the audience whose faces brightened as Sarah Bernhardt walked upon the stage. The smile is not commanded; it is born of admiration that cannot be contained. In Holliday’s words, it is the sign that her idol’s presence awakens something deep, something beyond reason, something sacred.

History offers us a mirror in the story of Mozart’s young rival Antonio Salieri. When Mozart played, Salieri’s heart was torn between envy and admiration. His soul tensed, much like Holliday describes, though for him the response was bitter rather than joyful. Yet even he could not deny that his spirit leaned forward, his very being compelled to acknowledge the brilliance before him. Holliday chooses the better path—not envy, but smiling awe, not resentment, but reverence.

The lesson for us, then, is both humbling and uplifting. When you stand before greatness, do not shrink in despair nor harden in envy. Allow yourself to tremble, to feel nervous, to admit the stretch it calls from you. Let your heart smile in reverence, for this is the seed of your own growth. Idolize not in blind worship, but in inspiration, using the brilliance of others as a mirror of what you yourself may become if you dare to strive.

Thus, Judy Holliday’s words, though born of her own artistic struggle, become a teaching for all: that reverence, humility, and courage are companions on the path of mastery. To tremble is not to fail; to smile in awe is not to diminish yourself. Rather, it is to open your spirit to the greatness that already stirs within, waiting for its moment to step upon the stage.