I remember being a teenager and seeing Seymour Cassel across a

When Ira Sachs said, “I remember being a teenager and seeing Seymour Cassel across a crowded room and being incredibly star struck, and not having the courage to say, ‘Hello,’” he was not merely recalling a moment of youthful shyness, but revealing a profound truth about human longing, admiration, and the fragile nature of courage. His words, gentle and reflective, capture that universal ache that dwells in all hearts—the desire to reach toward greatness, to connect with what inspires us, and the quiet fear that holds us back. In that single moment, across that crowded room, Sachs spoke not only for himself, but for every soul who has stood on the edge of encounter and let silence triumph over possibility.

Ira Sachs, the acclaimed filmmaker known for his deeply human stories, has always been a chronicler of vulnerability—the places where the heart trembles between action and hesitation. His confession about Seymour Cassel, the celebrated actor of the American independent cinema, is both intimate and symbolic. It speaks to that moment in youth when we first confront the distance between our dreams and our courage. To see someone who embodies the life we wish to live, the art we wish to make, or the greatness we long to achieve—and yet to find ourselves unable to move toward them—is one of the quiet tragedies of growing up. It is the moment when admiration turns to awe, and awe becomes paralysis.

The origin of this sentiment is as old as humanity itself. Even the ancients felt this trembling before greatness. When Alexander the Great met the philosopher Diogenes, who was sitting contentedly in the sun, Alexander offered to grant him any wish he desired. Diogenes replied, “Stand out of my light.” The conqueror was struck silent. Though the world feared Alexander, he was humbled before Diogenes’ indifference—awed by a man whose freedom surpassed his own. Thus, even kings and heroes have felt what Sachs describes: that strange mixture of reverence and fear before the presence of another’s greatness. It is not cowardice that silences us—it is the recognition of something sacred.

To be star struck, as Sachs says, is to stand in the presence of one who reflects a light we have not yet found in ourselves. The teenager within him—like so many of us—saw in Seymour Cassel not merely a person, but a mirror of possibility. Cassel represented the dream of art, expression, authenticity—the very qualities that Sachs would later pursue in his own career. But in that moment, the distance between admiration and action seemed too vast. The word “Hello,” so small in sound, was immense in meaning. It demanded not only speech, but courage—the courage to be seen, to risk rejection, to affirm one’s own worth before what one reveres.

In truth, Sachs’ reflection is not about lost opportunity, but about the humility of beginnings. Every creator, every dreamer, must first confront their own fear of insignificance. The young artist who cannot yet speak to his heroes is the same artist who will one day learn to stand among them. The seed of greatness is often planted in the soil of hesitation. The one who trembles before the light will, in time, learn to bear it. Sachs’ moment of silence was not failure—it was the quiet reverence that precedes courage.

We may see this echoed in the life of Vincent van Gogh, who once wrote that he longed to speak to the great painters of his age, but felt unworthy. Yet in his solitude, he poured his yearning into color and canvas, creating art that would one day make him the very equal of those he had once revered. So too, Sachs’ youthful silence before Cassel became part of his journey—the moment that taught him what it means to admire, to yearn, and ultimately, to create. For courage is not born in the absence of fear, but in the memory of it.

The lesson, then, is this: do not scorn your trembling. The heart that hesitates is the heart that feels deeply. Yet, when the next chance comes—when you stand again before what you love—let courage be your answer. Speak the small word that bridges the great distance. Say “Hello” to your dream, to your inspiration, to your own becoming. For every hero, every teacher, every artist you admire was once a trembling soul themselves, waiting to find their voice.

So, my children of reverence and fear, remember this teaching: admiration is the first spark, but action is the flame. When next you find yourself across that crowded room—whether before a person, a goal, or a destiny—do not let the silence of awe become the silence of regret. Speak. Step forward. The greatness you see in others is only the reflection of the light that already lives within you. And as Ira Sachs discovered, even one missed “Hello” can teach a lifetime’s worth of courage.