by Teon Kelley
Santa Clarita, Calif.
We were talking about movies, me and my mom—what makes them good and why. While she drove, I unpacked one I’d just watched—La La Land, newly back in theaters. In one scene, Emma Stone, playing a struggling actress, asks her partner: “What if I’m not good enough?” I said her line as we pulled into our driveway, where, out of nowhere, I broke down in tears. My mom cut the engine and waited.
When I looked up, her look said: Talk to me.
As I did, I realized why that scene had hit so hard—because it voiced the question that I, as a struggling actor, was most afraid to ask. But I’d asked it now, and now I wanted the truth.
“Just tell me if I’m wasting my time.”
My mom took a breath—a mental rolling up of her sleeves—and gave me the pep talk of the century.
If my mom was surprised at my lack of confidence, then at least I wasn’t alone. Years of acting, I’d thought, had thickened my skin to the rejection that comes with the trade. But that year had seen one loss after another—a breakup, then a move back home. The relationship ended during a dry spell of work, which seemed like it might never end. It continued, despite my pulling out all the stops—including chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
That past Thanksgiving, in 2024, we were joined for dinner by our family friend. My mother said grace, then asked her friend if she’d like to do one of her own. “You know what,” she said, “why not, I will,” and chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo three times.
I’d been trying everything, including meditation, to “manifest” my big break. So I was eager to know about chanting, and she answered as best as she could. I joined her at her next discussion meeting, where I chanted for the first time with others, a distinctly energizing experience. Then I sat with them in a circle while they shared with me how Buddhist practice had transformed their lives. For the second time in less than a month, I unexpectedly broke down in tears. At that moment, I understood just how badly I wanted such a transformation myself. But if I’m honest, while I did begin chanting, I chanted mostly not for transformation but results. My dream car was one thing that came early on, but acting work just refused to appear.
I felt like I was treading water at night, looking for the boat I’d overturned. While chanting, I felt sure that the boat was nearby, but that was as much as I knew.
I got my bearings that summer, at a community gathering the SGI put together at the beach. Talking with a member who’d once been an actor herself, I told her that I was chanting for my break. “Do you feel you deserve it?” she asked me point-blank, and I was honest: “Frankly, no.”
“That,” she said, “is what you cannot afford. That’s the thing to chant for.”
This flipped a switch somewhere upstairs, and the lightbulbs came flickering on. I’d been looking for salvation somewhere “out there” when it was within me all along. I’d been chanting for a role—nothing wrong with this—but I’d neglected the heart of the matter.
I began to chant in a different way—not for roles but to believe I deserved them. At first, I felt at war with my mind, with its arsenal of pessimistic remarks: Thousands of actors want this just as bad. You think you’re more deserving, somehow?
But by chanting, I could make an appeal with my heart that slowly got through to my mind. I have put in the work. I do deserve this. I’ve put in the effort and time. Slowly, I got my mind to concede just a little—even just: Well, maybe…
And I didn’t need my mind to be fully on board—each time I chanted, I consciously allied myself with my heart.
As before, I landed lots of auditions, but these, now, were different. Whereas before I’d felt desperate for any hint of praise—for any sign that I was “good enough,” I showed up now already knowing I was, ready to work with those wanting to work with me.
The first gig came two weeks after the beach day, my first in more than six months. Then came another at the end of the month, followed by a big opportunity in September. That month, I came across an indie movie role that I could see myself playing. But when I went to apply, I was shocked by how much material they wanted rehearsed. Insane, I thought, for a first audition! But then I thought how many, feeling this way, would simply choose not to apply.
I’d begun reading the World Tribune and Living Buddhism with friends in faith, each time taking something to heart. That month’s Living Buddhism carried an article called “The Courage to Create Hope,” with this quote from Ikeda Sensei:
Faith is a spiritual struggle against doubt, against a wavering mind. It is the struggle to break through delusion and lack of confidence—which make us think we cannot become happy or that we are hopeless. …
When you are suffering, chant daimoku. When you are stuck, chant daimoku. If you do, life force and courage will emerge, and you will be able to change your situation. Our Buddhist practice is the engine for victory in all things. (September 2025 Living Buddhism, p. 14)
For me, this distilled precisely my battle. Relying on daimoku, I dove into the work, rehearsing my lines over and over. The auditions themselves were extremely thorough—we read through the scenes again and again.
The night after my first audition, I clocked out of my delivery job and hit the town with my friends. When they asked me how my acting was going, I surprised myself, saying, “Great—just landed a lead role.”
“What?!” they said.
What?! I thought, and then corrected what had just popped out of my mouth. “Well, not quite—it’s not set in stone. But I do feel really good about it.” My heart, it seemed, had gotten the best of my mind, voicing what it felt to be true.
The director called later that week while I was at work.
“The role is yours,” he said. “We shoot in Las Vegas. One month. We’ll pay your expenses.”
When we got off the phone, I called my mom and found that neither of us was surprised. We’d been right to believe—though I’d taken my time—in me and the strength of the heart.
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