The Courage to be a Star

Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a star. I don’t think I’ve ever known exactly what that meant, only that I’ve always wanted to be somebody. To be seen.

Over the years I’ve wavered in this desire. Did I want to be a designer? A writer? An actor? A singer? For a girl in her mid-30s, I’ve had many experiences and walked many paths. Yet when I compare where I am with where I thought (or hoped) I’d be, it often feels like I haven’t moved at all. I feel stuck in the same spot. What is this place?

Recently, I came to a painful realization, or perhaps more accurately, a painful acceptance: I’ve been living my life with one foot out the door. Sometimes intentionally, many times subconsciously. In other words, I’ve been the opposite of a star: I’ve been a coward.

There’s no need to sugarcoat it. I’ve been afraid; afraid of failing, of disappointing my friends and family by chasing dreams that require public scrutiny, of trying really hard and not winning. I’ve been afraid to leave the safe, invisible bubble where no one can see me fail, where I am just my simple, mortal, normal self. I’ve been afraid to be me.

That fear shows up most clearly when I open Instagram (a pointless practice which has never relieved me from this fear). I scroll through curated lives: friends, people I wish I knew, industry figures I pretend I’ll know someday, “experts” whose advice I follow even when I know it’s BS. And I feel like such a fucking loser. I haven’t had dinner with friends in ages because all I do is work my restaurant job, go to the gym, and stare at my computer creating graphics for my album and the void of social media. I study trends and hooks so I can be “seen”, but it all feels like a show. And it is. The world is a stage and this (shit) show is going on. 

If I pause long enough, I notice the real trend: we’re all running in circles, desperate to prove we’re “special.” Which begs the question: Are we afraid to not be special? Or better yet, why is being “normal” so terrifying?

For me, normal meant unremarkable. On a social level, it means safe or reasonable which is sometimes just another word for boring. On a professional or artistic level, normal is seen as subpar. Open LinkedIn and it’s flooded with tips to “make your profile stand out.” In acting class, it was always: “be unpredictable,” “stand out from the rest”. 

And yet, I can’t stand most modern TV shows precisely because they try so hard to stand out. The acting is over the top, the actors perfectly lacquered, everything polished to the point of make-believe. Older films and shows felt different. They had an effortless realism. They felt so normal we forgot it was a show, so real it felt like our world.

Maybe that’s what normal truly is: the courage to be as you are. 

I was reminded of this today at a birthday party for my friend’s foster child. Surrounded by parents my age, I felt out of place. They’re raising human beings. Meanwhile, my biggest concern is affording new tires for my car. I felt unworthy (I’m working to reframe that).

For so long, I’ve labeled having a family as conventional, normal, boring. But I realized at that party it isn’t boring at all. It’s an act of courage. And while not everyone wants kids, nor should they, I can at least admit that what I used to call “boring” was really just something I was too afraid to face.

Because courage isn’t only about chasing a big dream. It’s in the smaller choices: nurturing friendships, not needing the spotlight, apologizing, owning mistakes, even choosing a lighter load at the gym. Courage is committing to work, to relationships, to showing up as you are. No bells, no filters, no perfect comeback. Just the courage to be your “normal” self.

Perhaps being normal is simply being present. When you stop worrying about the past or the future, about what people think, what you did or didn’t do, what might happen next, you embrace the only real thing that exists: yourself, right here, right now.

And at the risk of sounding conceited, I want to accept that I am a star. I’ve always wanted to be somebody, but maybe what I really wanted was the courage to be myself. I came up with the name Malentina as my attempt to dare to be the self I’ve feared to be. From that came the word malentía, or courage. Not arrogance, but the courage earned every time we forget who we are and try again. Every time we commit. Every time we simply are as we are.

Earlier, I said I felt stuck. Now, I’ll make sure to appreciate the view, because this, right here, is what being a star really means.

Mucha malentía, 

-M