I grew up with auditions in my blood and studio lights in my eyes—my earliest memories are of being told where to stand and when to smile. By the time I was a little boy I was already appearing in commercials and TV shows, a familiar face to viewers who loved bright, earnest kids on screen.
Television work became a patchwork of sets and characters: guest spots on shows like Punky Brewster, T.J. Hooker, and The Twilight Zone, and even a turn in Steven Spielberg’s Amazing Stories. On a good day, the cameras felt like friends; on a bad one, they felt like a mirror that only reflected what the world wanted to see.
As I grew older, the roles shifted and the offers slowed. What had once been a wide-open door became a narrow hallway of choices—college, odd jobs, trying to find out who I was when I wasn’t being called “cute” or “the kid from the show.” The transition away from acting wasn’t dramatic so much as a series of small endings that taught me to build a life beyond applause.
Now, when someone recognizes me on the street and says, “I remember you from TV,” I smile. There’s a strange comfort in knowing that those early years mattered to people, but there’s also a quieter pride in the person they didn’t see on screen—the one who learned to keep learning, to find work that mattered, and to keep childhood memories without letting them define every tomorrow
