The Roles We Never Audition For

by Francisco Marquez

There are roles you fight to get — the ones you prep for, lose sleep over, chase down through agents and self-tapes and callbacks.
And then there are the ones you never asked for.
No sides. No rehearsal. Just life… handing you a script you didn’t choose.

Lately, I’ve been living both.

By day, I’m prepping for a film I was cast in. Auditioning for more, including one for an M. Night Shyamalan project just yesterday.
By night — and sometimes midday too — I’m at doctor’s offices with my dad. His health is declining again. What started as a collarbone break has unraveled into something deeper. Bone cancer.
The appointments are stacking up.
So are the bills.
So is the weight I’m carrying.

There’s no manual for how to balance it.
The grief. The grind. The pressure to perform — on camera and in life.

There are days where I feel like I’m stretched too thin.
Like there’s no version of me that can show up fully — not for him, not for the work, not even for myself.
But I still show up.

Not because I’m unbreakable.
But because some roles you play out of love, not ambition.
Because sometimes, even when the lines are blurry and the tank is empty, showing up is the only thing that keeps you tethered to the version of yourself you don’t want to lose.

I’m an introvert by nature. When life gets overwhelming, I don’t lash out — I go inward. I disappear into thought, memory, questions that have no clean answers. It’s my way of making sense of things. But lately, even that quiet space has been crowded. There’s no off-switch for worry. No mute button for fear. It just rides with you — in the car on the way to the hospital, on the other side of a self-tape, underneath your skin while you try to sleep.

And yet… I still dream.
I still imagine the next version of me — the one who makes it through this chapter not just surviving, but changed. Sharper. Deeper. Not hardened, but forged by whatever’s left standing after the wreckage.
There’s an investment I made that might shift everything. Maybe it pans out, maybe it doesn’t — I honestly don’t know.
But even just holding onto that possibility — something close enough to feel, but still out of reach — gives me something to aim at.
Something to keep reaching for.
A crack of light. A thread of hope.
If it comes through… it could change everything.

I never auditioned to be a caretaker. Or a financial lifeline. Or the person everyone calls when shit goes sideways.
But I got cast anyway.
And somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, I’ve realized —
Every time I pick up the phone, or drive my dad to treatment, or memorize lines on 3 hours of sleep…
I’m becoming something stronger than just an “inspiring artist”.

I’m becoming a version of myself that doesn’t flinch when life demands more than feels possible.

To anyone out there reading this — the ones who feel like they’re being split down the middle by obligation and passion, by survival and purpose —
I see you. I’m with you. And I know this:
Even if the role you’re playing right now wasn’t one you asked for...
It’s shaping you in ways the screen will never capture — but your art will always remember.

We don’t get to choose all the roles we play.
But we do get to decide how we show up for them.

Even stretched thin.
Even in the dark.
Even when no one’s watching.