I love auditioning. Since 'The Notebook' and 'Wedding Crashers,'

In this reflection, Rachel McAdams speaks of the deep and often unseen side of the actor’s journey: the process of auditioning. She expresses a love for auditions, for they are not merely tests but sacred moments where an artist unveils their interpretation of a character, breathing life into words on a page. The audition is a battlefield and a temple all at once, where courage and vulnerability meet. Yet with fame and success, brought by films such as The Notebook and Wedding Crashers, she no longer faces this ritual. What others might see as freedom, she sees as loss—for without this proving ground, doubt creeps in: “What if they hate what I want to do?”

The origin of this sentiment is found in the timeless relationship between creator and audience. In ancient times, bards and storytellers stood before kings and villagers alike, offering their tales to be judged. Like the auditions of today, these moments demanded both skill and daring. In the courts of Athens, actors performed scenes before crowds to earn roles in the great tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides. To stand before others and declare, “This is my vision,” has always been an act of both bravery and humility. McAdams’s words remind us that art is forged through this crucible of risk.

Her love for auditions also reveals a profound respect for the craft. When the path to a role is effortless, there is no struggle to sharpen one’s skills or to test the depth of one’s understanding. History offers a lesson in this through the life of Leonardo da Vinci, who often welcomed challenges that forced him to innovate. Had his genius been met with constant approval and ease, his restless spirit might never have created works like The Last Supper or his visionary sketches of machines. In the same way, McAdams longs for the challenge that auditions once brought, knowing that growth lies in the tension between acceptance and rejection.

The nervousness she speaks of when she does not audition is a reminder of the artist’s deepest fear: to be misunderstood. Without the dialogue of an audition, she wonders if her performance will align with the vision of others. This fear is not weakness but a mark of integrity, for it shows her desire to serve the story faithfully rather than impose her will upon it. It echoes the ancient craftsman who prayed before carving stone, fearing that his work might not honor the gods or his people.

Ultimately, McAdams’s words are a lesson for all who walk the path of creation and purpose. Success may free us from certain trials, but we must never lose the sacred rituals that keep us humble and connected to our craft. Whether in art, leadership, or daily life, the act of standing before others and saying, “Here is my offering,” keeps the heart sharp and the spirit alive. Let her wisdom remind future generations that growth dwells in vulnerability, and that the proving ground we sometimes dread is often the very place where greatness is born.