Recently, my father and I traversed to our town's local Well's Fargo Bank so that we could close my nine-year-old Coogan account permanently. The account had been inactive for ages, and it was about time I laid to rest the last living reminder of my past's strangest venture. When our bank teller noticed the measly amount left shivering in my vacuous account, he asked in a mock-invested tone if I'd done any child acting, to which I stiffly replied, "Yes, for a little bit, but nothing came out of it."

It felt strange finally terminating that account and withdrawing my $25, mostly because I hadn't thought about my days scrounging for work in Hollywood in a while. It's easy to forget that middle school me's greatest ambition was to make it on the next Kidz Bop album or to star on a Disney Channel original series, especially since my goals and dreams have changed so much since then. But yes, there was a time in my life when I paid goo-gobs of money for acting lessons and resume head shots, when I signed on with an acting agency, and when I skipped school for commercial and television auditions.

I don't necessarily blame my younger self for getting caught up in the projected "glitz and glam" of Hollywood. Practically everyone goes through a phase where they imagine how much greater their lives might be if they were famous (if anyone claims otherwise, you know they're lying). The attention and money and influence that comes along with fame definitely are tempting, even for painfully shy individuals like myself. People rarely act on those daydreams however. But I had extremely supportive parents and the industry practically in my backyard, so when I heard that siren's song stardom, I immediately fell for it.

Hollywood was definitely the deepest rabbit hole I followed and the closest glimpse I've ever had of a real-life Wonderland. There's sort of this underlying madness that permeates everything; you can tell that behind all the polish and golden tint of the industry that everyone's secretly cracking–actors, agents, casting directors, everybody. Most of my auditions were held in crusty office buildings or seedy backlots with several movie posters and celebrity signatures or pictures plastered everywhere in the waiting room to butter you up. Sometimes the casting crew barely paid attention to your audition or said anything more than "thank you"; other times, they'd be extremely invested in you and start debating about roles they could cast you in in front of you. I found the latter kind of auditions to be the most uncomfortable because it felt like I was only a piece of meat to the casting team. The casting directors had no problem saying things like "she's a bit too lanky", "her delivery's promising but she doesn't have the right look", or "she sucks" while I stood awkwardly in front of them, holding back tears.

The thing about Hollywood is that you can't just survive on pure talent alone. Right from the get-go I had several disadvantages against me. One, I had a mouth full of braces at the height of my audition days, which severely cuts down your opportunities in the industry by 90 percent. Two, my "look" wasn't "in" at the time I started auditioning (blonde-haired, blue-eyed children weren't as in demand as mixed race was). And three, I didn't know anyone personally in the industry who could help me secure top tier auditions or put in a good word for me.

After a few years of auditioning and failing to find any acting work, I eventually grew disillusioned with Hollywood and acting in general. I was tired of how rude the people running auditions were and how insecure they could make me feel. I was tired of spending hours in LA traffic after a less-than-stellar casting call. I was tired of my become-the-next-Hannah-Montana dream. It just wasn't fun for me anymore. So, I quit.

Even though nothing really came out of it, I'm not going to pretend that I didn't have any fun or gain anything from my days as a wannabe child star. There were certainly a few cool experiences, like the time I met one of the actresses in Spider-Man 3 during an audition for Johnson&Johnson (she only played Peter Parker's landlord's daughter–you know, the one who shares chocolate cake with him at one point in the movie–but since Spider Man is hands down the best superhero, it was still pretty awesome), or the time my family made $100 helping develop a game show (consequently, we were too good at the games and won all the imaginary prizes, so they never actually put us on the show, but it was really fun afternoon nonetheless). I learned several invaluable life lessons from my experience too like letting others' criticisms slide off my back, finding a new dream when one doesn't work out, and learning to view things more realistically and with a sense of humor.

And of course, I'm also $25 richer.