I Almost Didn't Audition: How Saying Yes to Lord Farquaad Changed Everything
- 2 days ago
- 7 min read
When I was younger, someone told me I couldn't act. And I believed them.
For twenty two years, that voice lived in my head. Not because of what they said, that was just their opinion, and they're entitled to it. But because I chose to let it fester. I gave that voice power over my life. Every time I thought about auditioning, every time I saw a poster for a community theater show, I'd hear it again, you can't do this. So I didn't try. I tortured myself with my own doubt, and I let someone else's opinion become my prison.
That's the thing nobody tells you about negative voices. They only have as much power as we give them. But here's what I'm learning. We can take that power back.
The Year of Almost
When Shrek the Musical came to Queen Creek Performing Arts Center, I was interested. My kids were excited. But I didn't know if I would audition. The doubt was too loud. I spent a full year thinking about it. Obsessing over it, honestly. I wanted to be on stage. I wanted to perform alongside my kids. I wanted to do something just for me. But every time I got close to signing up, that old voice would kick in. Who are you kidding, Andy? You're not an actor. You're forty years old. Half the cast will be high schoolers who actually know what they're doing. You'll embarrass yourself.
But in April, something shifted. I'd made the decision to step back from Millennial Choirs and Orchestras. I loved my experience, but it was starting to be too much, too much commitment, too far from home, and my family needed me closer. And once I made that choice, I thought, what do I actually have to lose? The auditions were two weeks away. Friends and family were encouraging me. My wife Jayme believed in me. So I signed up. Once I did, there was no turning back.
Callback Day and That Impostor Syndrome
Getting called back for Lord Farquaad was surreal. I showed up terrified, convinced that any minute someone would figure out I didn't belong there. The reading portion of the audition absolutely freaked me out. Here I was, supposed to act, and I'm pretty sure the voice in my head was screaming the whole time.
And then I booked the role. Lord Farquaad. The lead. The guy who owns every scene he's in.
I was thrilled. I was also completely convinced I was going to bomb.
The Director Who Told Me to Stop Holding Back
Walking into rehearsals, I kept waiting for someone to tell me exactly what to do. Move here. Say it this way. Use this voice. I wanted a roadmap because I still didn't trust myself to figure it out. The director, though, she didn't work that way. She gave me freedom. She trusted me to find the character myself.
And honestly, that terrified me more.
But somewhere around dress rehearsals, she pulled me aside. Andy, she said, I feel like you want to be more funny. I feel like you're ready to do some funny things, but you're holding back. Stop it. Just do the funny thing.
I told her why I was hesitating. About the doubt. About not trusting myself. And she looked at me and said something I needed to hear. Get over that crap and just be funny.
So I did.
Opening Night and Beyond
I gave myself permission to act the way I wanted to. During performances, I threw in new lines. I improvised. I played around with the character in ways that felt authentic to me. And you know what? It worked. People laughed. They loved it. They are still quoting the "ew ew ew" bits back to me even now that the show is over. (See wedding scene below)
But here's the thing that really got me. I proved something to myself that night. Not that I could act, though I guess I did that too. I proved that just because someone told me I couldn't do something doesn't mean it's true. I proved that at forty years old, surrounded by talented high school performers, I could hold my ground. I could belong on that stage.
The compliments after the show were incredible. People told me I should do this professionally. That I should audition for more shows. That I was talented. None of that made me think I'm Broadway bound or that I'm the best actor out there. But it made me feel like I was good enough. And when you've spent twenty two years telling yourself you're not enough, good enough feels like everything.
This Wasn't Just About Me, It Was About the Joy
But honestly, the part I'll remember most isn't the applause or the compliments. It's the friendships I made. The cast bonding. The inside jokes. The pure, ridiculous fun of being on stage with people I genuinely loved spending time with. It's the memories my kids will carry forever of watching their dad do something that scared him and do it anyway.
What's blown my mind since the show closed is realizing this ripple effect I didn't expect.
I've heard from adults my age, people with full time jobs, kids, mortgages, real life, who've been putting off dreams for years. One person told me they've wanted to record analbum of themselves singing for their family but kept putting it off. Another mom of one of the kids in the cast told me after one of the shows that she's been wanting to get back into acting but was too scared. Then she saw my posts on Instagram. And now she's seriously considering auditioning for the next show.
Why am I waiting, she asked me. If Andy can do this, why can't I?
That question hit me hard. Because it's not about me being special or talented or fearless. It's about permission. It's about watching someone who looks like you, same age, same responsibilities, same doubts, actually do the thing and realizing, oh, maybe I can too.
And Then There's My Kids
The other beautiful part of this? Watching my kids. They've been singing Shrek songs at the top of their lungs since the show ended. They're doing the actions. They're living it. It was fun being in it with both my older girls. Now, my son Graham has been singing my songs, copying my moves, and he cannot wait to turn seven so he can audition for his first musical with the community theater. He's so excited. And I'm going to get to watch him do something he loves, and maybe one day we'll even be in a show together.
But more than that, he's watching me do something hard and scary, and he's learning that you can do hard things too. That age doesn't matter. That doubt isn't a stop sign, it's just noise. That you can be afraid and do it anyway.
The Rubber Duck and What It Means
A few weeks ago, I got a gift that made me cry a little bit.
The dad who played Lord Farquaad in another production of Shrek, his daughter was the Dragon in our show, so we met through that. He followed me on Instagram, saw my posts about doing hard things, and it inspired him. So he brought me this rubber duck dressed like Lord Farquaad in a little bathtub with "do hard things" written on the bottom. In the musical version he did, Farquaad sings "The Ballad of Farquaad" in a bathtub, so it's the perfect callback. But what that gift really represents is this. I did something hard. I showed my kids that their dad does hard things. And somehow, that gave someone else, a stranger really, permission to do hard things too. And he wanted to honor that. It was an honor to meet a fellow Lord Farquaad.
That's the whole thing right there.
A Direct Message (and a Reflection)
If you're reading this and you've been putting off a dream, I'm talking to you directly now.
Stop it. Just go do it.
Audition. Sign up for the class. Record the song. Write the thing. Apply for the job. Do the scary thing. The worst that can happen? You don't get the part. You don't get cast. You try and it doesn't work out. Okay. But the best that can happen? You get the part. You get cast. You discover you're capable of something you didn't think you were. You spend months doing something that fills your soul. You get to stand on stage and feel alive. You make friendships that matter. You create memories your kids will carry forever.
Don't let an old voice, someone else's doubt, or your own, decide your future.
But here's the reflection side of this too. I didn't do this just for me. Yes, it was healing. Yes, I needed it. But I did it so my kids could see their dad do something hard. I did it so that maybe, just maybe, someone my age, someone in my situation, would see it and think, why am I waiting?
And that's exactly what happened. (Video cred goes to Andrew Roberts who came to opening night.)
I've realized this whole experience isn't just about me anymore. It's about giving other people, especially parents, especially people who feel like they're too old or too busy, permission to still be human. Permission to still have dreams. Permission to not let parenting or responsibility or fear completely consume who you are.
My wife Jayme has been nothing but supportive through all of this. She encouraged me to audition. She came to every show. And now she's encouraging me to do more. She sees how alive it makes me, and she wants that for me. If you have that kind of partner, hold onto them. And if you're that partner for someone else, keep pushing them toward the things that make them come alive.
What's Next
I will be auditioning for more shows. I'm exploring what else is possible now that I've proven to myself that I can do this. My son is counting down the days until he's old enough to audition. And somewhere out there, I hope there's a mom or a dad reading this who's been sitting on a dream for too long.
This isn't about becoming a professional actor. This isn't about Broadway or accolades or proving anything to anyone else anymore.
It's about the friendships that will last. It's about the joy you feel when you're doing something that makes you come alive. It's about looking your fear in the face and doing it anyway. It's about showing your kids what courage actually looks like, messy, scared, imperfect, and absolutely worth it.
It's about the rubber duck in the bathtub, the "ew ew ew" that people still quote, the director who told me to stop holding back, and the forty year old guy who finally, finally gave himself permission to act.
It's about the memories you'll make that no one can take away.
Do hard things, Andy. Do hard things.
And if you're reading this, maybe it's time you did too.
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