I Wish I Never Met My Role Model: Meeting a CW Celebrity on Broadway

My Instagram story after seeing the poster, New York, 2024

Introduction

They say don’t meet your role models. I learned that the hard way on a September evening in New York.

I was walking up Broadway when I spotted an emerald green poster for The Great Gatsby — glitzy font, art deco shimmer, a man in a tux holding a cocktail. He looked familiar. I kept walking. Then I stopped.

Wait. Was that… Jeremy Jordan?

Who is Jeremy Jordan and Why is he a Role Model?

In middle and high school, I was obsessed with the CW shows, including The Flash, Arrow, and Supergirl. The Flash was always my favorite. Seeing Grant Gustin’s face still warms my heart with a nostalgic flush, a fondness you carry for the things that brought you joy when you were little. Reminders of those things feel like a sunbeam through your chest.

Jeremy Jordan wasn’t The Flash, but he played Winn Schott on Supergirl, the nerdy, charming sidekick with a gift for computers and comedy. He had charisma and warmth. More than just a CW actor, he unknowingly shaped part of my creative journey.

In high school, I performed She Used to Be Mine in music class. It was the first time I felt something shift, like I wasn’t just singing, but telling. That performance is still one of my favorites. While learning the song, I’d been struggling until I came across Jeremy Jordan’s version online — a raw, passionate cover from MCC Theater on YouTube. He sang with not just his voice, but his full body: through his facial expressions, gestures, the catch in his voice… It became the blueprint for how I interpreted the song; I trained myself to lean into the character — as if I were on Broadway myself — and practised making the song my own. After that, I went down a rabbit hole, watching every performance I could find.

Now here Jeremy Jordan was, in-person, in an official Broadway show. 

Before The Show: Awe & Elevation

I bought tickets the next day.

It was my first Broadway show; I squirmed in my seat, electrified. A blonde woman draped in a cocktail dress sat next to me. Revealing her soft Russian accent, she told me how she loved another Broadway show, Water for Elephants, so much she’d seen it twice recently. “The original guy left though, and now the understudy is taking over the lead role. It’s still a great show, although I definitely liked the first guy. It was filled with emotion, so heartfelt. It really makes you feel something.” I made a mental note to look that show up later.

Then, finally, he appeared. I shot up in my seat, ready and bubbling.

Watching The Show: Glitz & Glam

How was the show? Glamorous, glitzy, and charming, and honestly not something I’d rush to again. Too polished, too shiny. Without Jeremy, I likely wouldn’t choose to go again. Ironically, a free taping of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert I stumbled into days earlier was more entertaining. Maybe it was the surprise factor; no expectations to manage.

However, Jeremy Jordan on stage was magic. He was magnetic. Commanding. Magnificent. When he sang, he held the room in the palm of his hand. His smooth, rich vocals slid into moments of raw emotion, cracking open something inside you. One climactic song near the end made it feel like time had slowed down and nothing else existed but that sound, that voice, that moment. 

Posting a picture of Jeremy Jordan performing on my Instagram story, New York, 2024

After the final curtain, I lingered in that familiar post-show haze of wonder. 

I was preparing to head home when I heard it: “the cast will come out afterwards.” My heart somersaulted. I’d get to meet Jeremy Jordan.

Meeting the Man Himself

I raced to the doors and waited. Time dragged.

The first few cast members trickled out, all friendly, smiling, and warm. One guy even made eye contact with me and flashed a smile as he signed someone’s program. I smiled back, heart pounding.

Then Jeremy appeared.

My first thought: he looked... small. In a plain black t-shirt, jeans, and a backpack. Practical. Unassuming. His face was neutral, bordering on cold. He’d lit up the stage, yet here, he was just a guy walking by. That’s stage presence, I guess. 

I had a plan: ask for a photo, then thank him — not just for Supergirl, but for inspiring my singing, for that MCC Theater performance. I rehearsed it in my head.

He approached. I held out my journal — one I’d bought at The Met with an Eiffel Tower on the cover. He signed the first page without a word. I looked up, adrenaline peaking.

“Can I take a photo with you?” I asked, my voice small and soft, feeling like a puppy.

“I don’t do photos,” he said flatly, not looking up. The pen glided with a smooth, swift flick of the wrist.

I opened my mouth to speak, wanting to at least thank him, but he had already moved on.

I stared for a moment longer, then dropped my head, blanking out on his signature. I felt... deflated. Not crushed, just vaguely hollow. The kind of disappointment that catches you off-guard, like a balloon slowly losing air.

He wasn’t the man in my head, but how could he be? He never signed up to be that person in my mind.

Reflection On Parasocial Disappointment

I doubt every celebrity experience is like that; many must be warm, generous, exactly what you hope. But more importantly, should we expect them to be?

Being gracious to strangers night after night is its own performance. I imagine it gets exhausting. The other cast members, still rising stars, were glowing. Jeremy probably had that glow once too.

I remembered something Cole Sprouse once said in an interview: if you meet someone you admire, why not go talk to them and ask something real instead of asking for a superficial photo? We’re people, too.

Jeremy didn’t owe me a photo. Or a thank you. He didn’t know who I was; only I knew who he was. Or thought I did. That’s the trap of projection: it feels like intimacy, but it’s one-way.

In another reality where I’d perhaps met him at a bar, as equals — no fan-celebrity power dynamic — maybe he’d have looked me in the eye, smiled, said “You’re welcome.” Maybe we’d have had a real moment. Or maybe not. Maybe he is an asshole. Who knows.

Either way, I’m still grateful, perhaps not for him, but for what he gave me, however unknowingly. He helped shape my creativity. He moved me. And that’s enough.

Missing the Flash

Back at my accommodation, I remembered the Russian woman’s comment about Water for Elephants and looked it up. A headline popped up:“Grant Gustin to Exit Broadway’s Water for Elephants in September.”My jaw dropped. Grant Gustin. The Flash. My Flash.

He’d been here? In New York? On stage? Right now? 

I shoved my phone closer to my face, rereading the headline. Grant Gustin. Broadway. September. My September. 

My chest tightened. If I’d come a week earlier, I could’ve seen him live. Now he’d already finished his final show. He was back in Vancouver caring for his newborn. He’s human. 

I felt the mix of awe, heartbreak, and absurdity crash into me all at once.

But I paused… And I realised, maybe it was better this way.

I didn’t meet Grant Gustin or see him perform. That meant he could stay alive in my imagination. And maybe that’s what stars and idols are for: the idea of a person, not the messy reality. Maybe they’re meant to be far away, in this magical Hollywood (or Broadway), this magical fantasy land, because we enjoy falling for the projection and the myth.

And sometimes, it’s kinder to let that myth live.