Spaghetti & Neuroplasticity (Recap: February)

2026 Winter Olympics at Livigno Air Park on February 22, 2026 in Livigno, Italy. (Photo by Fu Tian)

Eileen Gu, an Olympic gold medalist in freestyle skiing, recently went viral for an interview where Charlotte Harpur (from The Athletic) asked if she thought before she spoke.

"This isn't supposed to be a rude question," she clarified. "Because you answer questions so quickly and so comprehensively, whether it’s about geopolitics or your sport or aerodynamics. Can you take us into your brain?"

The 22-year old Olympian's response was worth more than any medal.

"I’m a very introspective I’m an introspective young woman. I spend a lot of time in my head, and it’s not a bad place to be."

She explained that she journals constantly, analyzes her own thought patterns, and sees her brain as something she can actively reshape.

"You can control what you think. You can control how you think, and therefore, you can control who you are. And especially as a young person, I’m 22, so with neuroplasticity on my side, I can literally become exactly who I want to be. How cool is that? How empowering is that?"

That’s not inspiration.

That’s training.

Olympians don’t just build muscle. They build familiarity with pressure. They rehearse steadiness long before the spotlight arrives.

Which brings me to a slightly uncomfortable question for actors:

Why do we only train when it feels urgent?

What Olympians Know That Actors Often Forget

Here’s the difference:

Olympic athletes train everyday — even when there’s no podium in sight.

But actors…We often wait to train.

We wait for:

• a callback

• a big audition

• a performance opportunity

And when those things finally show up, we scramble, as if they’re the first moments that require practice.

Unlike most sports, acting doesn’t have a scoreboard, a stopwatch, or a visible peak at the end of your training cycle. And without that clear endpoint, it’s easy to fall into one of two traps:

Train only when motivated.(“I’ll practice acting only when I feel like it.”)

Train only when necessary.(“I’ll sharpen my skills when something is looming.”)

Problem is: neither builds mastery.

Olympians train in the quiet daily work of drills, conditioning, and repetition — not just for the body, but for the brain. They don’t wait for tournaments; they build neural familiarity so that when pressure arrives, they don’t panic — they recognize it.

That’s the part actors need to borrow.

Enter: Spaghetti

You’re in your kitchen. Water boiling. Sauce simmering. Pasta about to go in.

Instead of doom scrolling on Instagram, try this:

Say quietly: “I am furious.”

Don’t perform it. Just notice it.

Where does your breath change? Does your jaw tighten? Do your shoulders lift?

Now soften it: “I am heartbroken.”

What shifts? What resists? What feels fake? What feels surprisingly real?

This is not indulgence. This is conditioning.

Olympians study micro-movements. Actors can study micro-emotions.

While making spaghetti.

Have a glass of wine and explore joy. Let your body register lightness without forcing it. Explore stillness. Explore awkwardness. Explore desire. Explore boredom.

Acting is exploration and discovery. Every single time (even when you're doing the fifteenth take).

You are mapping your instrument.

And the more familiar you are with how your body and mind respond to imagined circumstances, the more you'll know how to help trigger certain emotions when needed.

The Brain Is the Real Muscle

Neuroplasticity doesn’t care whether you’re in a halfpipe or a kitchen.

It responds to repetition.

If the only time you access vulnerability is in an audition room, your nervous system will start to associate vulnerability with threat.

But if you access it regularly — casually, curiously — it becomes familiar.

And familiarity breeds calm.

Athletes don’t stand at the top of a run hoping they’ll be composed. They’ve rehearsed composure thousands of times before the cameras arrive.

Alex Honnold — the free solo climber known for scaling massive structures and cliffs without ropes — recently spoke about visualizing his climb of Taipei 101. He explained:

“When I visualise a climb like Taipei 101, I'm thinking about what it'll feel like – and that's kind of the whole point of doing the visualisation. It's to experience those emotions ahead of time so that I don't experience them while I'm doing the climb.”

Read that carefully.

It’s not about eliminating fear.

It’s about getting to know yourself and how to maneuver what comes up.

When Alex Honnold visualizes a climb, he isn’t trying to numb the emotion. He’s studying it. What does anticipation feel like in his chest? Where does tension sit? What thoughts start to spiral? What brings him back?

He’s familiarizing himself with his own internal landscape.

Actors can do the same.

What does anger actually feel like in your body? Where does sadness live? How does joy shift your breath? What happens when you feel exposed?

If you only explore those things in audition rooms, they’ll feel foreign. Unpredictable. Threatening. Or worse, you will try to mimic them.

But if you explore them while making pasta, walking the dog, sitting with a glass of wine — calmly, curiously — they become recognizable.

And recognition creates steadiness.

You’re not rehearsing panic.

You’re mapping terrain.

So when the spotlight hits, you stay grounded because you’ve already met yourself there.

February Focus

This month, keep it simple.

Train while making pasta.

At least three times a week, while cooking dinner (or walking, or cleaning), pick one emotional state and explore it quietly.

Don't perform it. Explore it.

Say internally:

• I’m furious.

• I’m in love.

• I’m grieving.

• I’m hiding something.

• I’m free.

First, say it neutrally.

Nothing may happen. That’s normal.

Then repeat it — but this time, think of something specific. Something light and current is enough. A small annoyance. A recent joy. A moment of disappointment. Nothing extreme. Don’t push yourself into darkness. This is exploration, not self-punishment.

Then notice:

• What happens to your breath?

• Where does your body tighten or soften?

• Do your shoulders lift?

• Does your jaw lock?

• Does your imagination activate?

You’re mapping your instrument.

Five minutes. That’s it.

Because the goal isn’t intensity.

It’s familiarity.

You’re learning how your instrument responds — gently, safely, repeatedly — so emotion becomes familiar rather than forced.

By the end of February, you don’t need to feel more dramatic.

You need to feel more known — to yourself.

Stay curious.

#stayfocused