When we are filming, it often feels like we're flying blind. As

In the vivid words of Lela Loren, we are given a glimpse into the hidden struggle of the artist: “When we are filming, it often feels like we’re flying blind. As an actor, you have no idea if your choices are right or if they work. Some scenes feel like a complete Hail Mary. Imagine you’re blindfolded and cook a massive Thanksgiving feast with only new recipes—without getting to taste any of them along the way.” Though spoken of acting, this truth touches every soul who has ever walked the uncertain road of creation, faith, and risk.

Her comparison to a Thanksgiving feast is profound, for a feast is not only a meal but a gathering of expectations, traditions, and joy. To prepare such a feast blindfolded, unable to taste or test, is to live in a state of both fear and trust. So too is the work of the actor or any creator. They give of themselves—gestures, words, choices—without knowing whether the audience will receive them with delight or disappointment. It is a labor of faith, a leap into the unknown, much like the sowing of seed without certainty of harvest.

This feeling of blindness, of uncertainty, has always been the companion of great endeavors. Consider the voyage of Christopher Columbus, who sailed westward into uncharted waters, uncertain whether land even lay before him. His voyage was, to him, a kind of Hail Mary—a desperate risk, a blind act of trust. Many condemned him for madness, yet his leap into the unseen changed the course of history. Like the actor who cannot preview the taste of her scene, the explorer cannot taste the land until it is found. And yet, history is built on such leaps.

In Loren’s words we also see the courage of vulnerability. To act without knowing if it works, to give your best without assurance of success, requires a heart that is both humble and daring. Many avoid this path, seeking only the roads where outcomes are secure. But those who would create beauty, those who would lead, must embrace uncertainty. For no new work, no new idea, no great performance is born without risk. The blindfold is not a punishment—it is the price of creating something that has never been before.

Her metaphor of the Thanksgiving feast also reminds us of the communal nature of creation. The actor does not cook for herself alone; she prepares a banquet for others. And just as a host may worry whether the food will please her guests, so does the artist wonder whether her work will nourish the hearts of those who receive it. Yet the act of preparing, of giving, is itself noble, even if the reception is uncertain. The feast may not be perfect, but the offering itself is love.

The lesson for us is this: do not fear the blindfold. Do not demand certainty before acting, creating, or speaking. For the greatest joys of life—the raising of children, the founding of nations, the pursuit of art—are all ventures made without knowing the end. To wait for perfect foresight is to wait forever; to act despite uncertainty is to live. Courage, then, is not the absence of blindness but the willingness to walk forward even in the dark.

Practically, this means daring to begin before you feel ready. It means creating, even if you are unsure how your work will be received. It means speaking truth, even when silence feels safer. And it means trusting that though you cannot taste the recipe along the way, the feast you prepare will carry within it the love and effort you gave. That is what people will remember—not perfection, but sincerity.

Thus, in the words of Lela Loren, let us see not only the plight of the actor but the path of every human soul. Life itself is a blindfolded feast, a performance without rehearsal, a risk where outcomes cannot be guaranteed. Yet it is in embracing this uncertainty with courage and devotion that we create beauty, joy, and meaning. And when the blindfold is lifted, we may find that the feast we prepared, though imperfect, was more nourishing than we ever imagined.