Did You Blow It?

That familiar feeling, that mixture of relief and doubt, began to sink in on my way home from a Christmas commercial audition. You know, where you replay a moment in your head. Where you wish you had taken a half-second longer before a line or wonder if your energy was slightly off. You think, “It was fine… Yeah, that was... Fine.”

Young Danny Irizarry in one of his first commercials.

The script itself had looked almost annoyingly simple. It was a short exchange with one vague reference to “them” coming over for Christmas. There wasn't a detailed breakdown or any real kind of emotional roadmap. Just a few beats and a situation. It would have been easy to skim it and show up neutral, but I’ve learned that “neutral” usually really means "empty." So I filled in the blanks. I decided “they” meant Santa Claus. Not metaphorically. Literally. That decision immediately changed everything for me. Suddenly there was excitement in the air. Anticipation. That jittery childhood energy where you’re trying to act normal but you’re buzzing underneath. It made the lines feel different without me forcing anything.

I parked, double checked the street signs (I had just gotten my license and could NOT afford to get a ticket in my parent's second hand, stick shift, Toyota Matrix), and pulled open the big glass doors to the familiar casting office.

After a few minutes sitting beneath the now nostalgic, giant, wall-mounted, puke-green canvas, which was splattered with a huge bucket of black paint that converted the wall décor into modern art, I heard the casting assistant call, ‘Danny Irizarry?’ along with two other names. I stood up and hopped into the audition room. That’s when I realized the whole setup had changed.

Originally, the script felt like a two-person exchange. But they were reading three actors together. Lines were redistributed. The rhythm I’d rehearsed was gone. The eyelines weren’t where I’d imagined them. That first split second when you realize your preparation doesn’t match the room is disorienting. You can either cling to what you planned or let it go and adapt. I adjusted as quickly as I could, but I’d be lying if I said it felt smooth. It didn’t feel clean or controlled. I was listening harder than I expected to. I was reacting more than responding. It didn’t feel like one of those auditions where you walk out thinking, "That was airtight."

It felt human.

And for years I would have interpreted that feeling as a problem.

There’s this strange illusion in acting that if something feels effortless and impressive to you, it must have landed that way in the room. But I’ve been doing this long enough now to know that my internal barometer is wildly unreliable. I’ve walked out of auditions feeling like I crushed it, only to never hear a word again. I’ve also walked out of rooms feeling unsure, slightly exposed, like I’d taken a risk that might not have worked, and those are the auditions that turned into jobs.

Early on, I thought booking something would come with a clear emotional signal. I thought I’d just know. I imagined leaving the room with this surge of certainty. Instead, what I’ve experienced is far more random. Sometimes the auditions that feel the most “controlled” are the ones where I was actually playing it safe. And sometimes the auditions that leave me unsettled are the ones where I was fully engaged, reacting in real time, not trying to manage how I looked.

There’s a difference between feeling bad because you didn’t prepare and feeling unsettled because you actually went for it. If you show up underprepared, that’s on you. That’s also fixable. But if you walk out thinking, "I committed and I’m not sure how that landed," that’s a very different thing. That might just mean you were alive in there instead of polished. The hard part is that you don’t get immediate feedback. There’s no scoreboard. No performance review.

I walked back past that puke-green canvas, pushed the glass doors open, and got back to my (ticketless) car with just myself and my thoughts. And your thoughts are not always kind. They’ll tell you you should have slowed down. Or smiled less. Or made a different choice. They’ll tell you the other actor probably did it better. They’ll tell you the casting director didn’t laugh at the joke the way you expected. None of those thoughts are reliable. They’re just your brain trying to regain control in a situation where you don’t have much. But let me tell ya something:

Control is overrated.

I once shot a commercial that we assumed was wrapped and finished. We celebrated, moved on, and mentally filed it away as done. A month later, I got a call saying they were reshooting the entire thing. When I showed up, I was the only original cast member who returned. The tone had changed. The direction had shifted. It was basically a new version of the project. That experience quietly dismantled the illusion that anything in this industry is final. An audition isn’t final. A booking isn’t final. Even a wrap isn’t necessarily final. So why do we treat our emotional reaction to an audition like it’s a verdict?

The more I work, the more I realize that the only thing I can actually control is the depth of my preparation and my willingness to commit. Did I read the script carefully? Did I make a specific choice instead of defaulting to something safe? Did I build a life behind the lines, even if no one else ever saw it?

There was a stretch in my early twenties where I tied my confidence almost entirely to booking. If I booked something, I felt talented. If I didn’t, I felt worthless. That’s a dangerous way to live in this business. Because booking is influenced by so many invisible factors. Maybe they need someone slightly taller. Maybe the director has a cousin that they don't like who looks just like you and they don’t want that association. Maybe the brand wants a different energy that day. You can’t outwork those variables. You can only show up fully prepared and hope you’re the right fit for that moment.

As the icy roads of Ogden Avenue rumbled past me, I had to catch myself from dissecting everything too aggressively. Yes, it felt less tidy than I wanted. Yes, the adjustment in the room threw me for a second. But I also knew I had done the work. I’d filled in the blanks. I’d made a bold choice about “them.” I’d stayed present when the rhythm changed. I hadn’t shut down. That matters more than whether it felt smooth.

I think what keeps a lot of actors discouraged is the assumption that discomfort equals failure. It doesn’t. Like, flat out, it doesn't. Discomfort just means you were stretched. You weren’t coasting. You weren’t phoning it in. You were actually responding. And that's actually what you want!

Things To Note:

If you had an audition recently that left you unsure, I want to say something I have to remind myself of regularly: you are not a reliable narrator of your own performance. Especially not five minutes after it’s over. Give it space. Let it breathe. Trust the work you put in before you walked through the door.

I still want to feel amazing after auditions. I just know better now than to trust that feeling. The goal is to know you prepared deeply and committed honestly. The rest is out of your hands. Sometimes the auditions you think you blew are simply the ones where you stopped trying to micromanage.

Don't try to control the outcome. Actually allow yourself to be affected. That’s not something to regret. That’s something to keep practicing.