My dad took me for an audition once, to show me, 'OK, you want to

In the humble and human words of Emilia Clarke, we find a lesson wrapped in laughter and humility: “My dad took me for an audition once, to show me, ‘OK, you want to be a child actor, this is what it’s like.’ I sang a folk song about donkeys on this West End stage with this big director, and there was a queue of 200 girls all singing ‘Memory.’ I was terrible. Terrible.” Beneath the humor of this recollection lies a truth as old as the world itself: the path to greatness begins not in triumph, but in failure. For every soul who ascends to glory must first learn the wisdom of stumbling and the art of rising again.

The origin of this saying lies in Emilia Clarke’s memory of her youth, long before fame or acclaim had touched her life. Known to the world as the fierce Daenerys Targaryen of Game of Thrones, she began as a child filled with dreams and awe, standing upon a stage where her small voice trembled before giants. In that moment—while others sang with perfection—she sang a song about donkeys, uncertain, out of place, and “terrible.” Yet from that humble beginning was born a spirit unafraid of imperfection. Her father, in his wisdom, had not shielded her from the truth of struggle; he had led her to it, that she might know what it means to strive. The lesson was not how to win, but how to endure, to laugh at one’s own failures, and to keep walking toward the dream.

The ancients would have recognized her father’s wisdom. The philosopher Epictetus taught that greatness is not granted by birth or fortune, but carved from the stone of adversity. The athlete who wins easily learns nothing; it is the one who wrestles with defeat who becomes unbreakable. By allowing his daughter to fail, Emilia’s father gave her the greatest gift: resilience. For every master was once a beginner mocked by circumstance, every hero a child who dared to try and falter. Her story is a living parable of humility—the soil from which all true greatness grows.

Consider the tale of Thomas Edison, who was told by his teachers that he was “too stupid to learn anything.” When his first thousand experiments failed to produce a working light bulb, he did not despair. “I have not failed,” he said. “I’ve simply found a thousand ways that do not work.” Like Emilia’s donkey song, his early efforts were awkward and ridiculed, yet each “failure” was a step toward illumination. The world remembers his triumph, but it was his attitude toward failure—his laughter in the dark—that made him immortal.

Emilia’s story carries another truth as well: that innocence and imperfection are sacred teachers. In that audition hall, surrounded by a chorus of polished voices, her awkwardness became a lesson in authenticity. To be “terrible” is not to be worthless—it is to be honest, to stand unguarded before the world and offer what one has, however small. Those who never risk embarrassment never discover their full potential. Her memory is “bittersweet,” yes, but also triumphant, for within that moment of discomfort she learned the courage to be seen as she truly was.

When she recalls that scene with humor and warmth, Emilia shows us the heart of humility—to laugh at one’s past not with regret, but with gratitude. The bitterness of failure, when accepted, becomes the sweetness of wisdom. Her father’s lesson was not simply about acting—it was about life itself. We must each stand upon our own West End stage, uncertain and afraid, singing our imperfect song while others seem better prepared. And yet, if we keep singing, one day we find that our voice—though once small—has become strong, and the stage we feared has become our home.

The lesson, then, is this: do not fear being terrible. Fear only the pride that keeps you from trying. Embrace your first attempts, your awkward beginnings, your donkey songs, for they are the foundation of your strength. Laugh at them, learn from them, and carry them as badges of courage. The journey to mastery begins not in perfection, but in humility.

So, my listener, remember the wisdom hidden in Emilia Clarke’s story: when life sets you among a hundred voices finer than yours, sing anyway. When you tremble before the crowd, let that trembling be your truth. For those who dare to begin, even poorly, will one day look back upon their failures and smile, knowing that every false note was leading them, quietly, toward their destiny. And when the world finally hears your song, it will not be perfect—but it will be yours.