In the glittering whirlwind of Hollywood premieres and award seasons, where stars often credit agents, mentors, or sheer luck for their ascent, Pedro Pascal’s latest confession stands out like a beacon of raw, unfiltered gratitude. During a deeply personal interview with Vanity Fair published just weeks ago, the 50-year-old actor, best known for his stoic portrayal of Din Djarin in The Mandalorian, paused mid-conversation to honor the one person who believed in him when the world didn’t: his mother, VerĂłnica Pascal Ureta. “She was my North Star,” Pascal said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Everything I’ve achieved, I owe to her unwavering faith in me. She passed before any of this fame, but I feel her presence in every step I take.”
This poignant revelation, shared amid promotions for his upcoming romantic comedy Materialists—set for release this fall—has resonated deeply with fans and peers alike. Pascal, who has become a cultural phenomenon thanks to his roles in blockbuster franchises like Star Wars and HBO’s The Last of Us, isn’t one to dwell in the spotlight’s superficial glow. Instead, he uses his platform to peel back the layers of his extraordinary journey, revealing a story woven with tragedy, resilience, and an unbreakable maternal bond. As he approaches what many call the peak of his career, Pascal’s tribute to VerĂłnica isn’t just a footnote; it’s the emotional core that fuels his drive, reminding us that behind every success story lies a foundation built on love and loss.
The Vanity Fair sit-down, conducted in a sun-drenched Los Angeles cafĂ© overlooking the Pacific, was meant to focus on Pascal’s transition from action-hero archetypes to more vulnerable, rom-com leading man. But as the conversation turned personal, the actor opened up about grief in a way that’s become his signature—honest, humorous, and profoundly human. “My mom died when I was 24, right as I was scraping by in New York, auditioning for crumbs,” he recounted. “She never saw me on screen as more than a hopeful kid with big dreams. But her encouragement? That’s what kept me going when I wanted to quit.” VerĂłnica’s death in 1999 by suicide, a tragedy that shattered the family, became the pivot point in Pascal’s life, transforming his path from aimless ambition to purposeful perseverance.
To understand the depth of this tribute, one must rewind to Pascal’s roots—a tale as dramatic as any script he’s brought to life. Born JosĂ© Pedro Balmaceda Pascal on April 2, 1975, in Santiago, Chile, he entered a world on the brink of turmoil. His parents, VerĂłnica Pascal Ureta, a dedicated child psychologist, and JosĂ© Balmaceda Riera, a renowned fertility doctor, were no strangers to adversity. VerĂłnica, with her sharp intellect and compassionate spirit, specialized in helping children navigate emotional landscapes, often drawing from her own experiences in a politically charged Chile under Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship.
The Balmaceda-Pascal household was a haven of intellectual curiosity and familial warmth. Pedro, the eldest of four siblings—sister Lux (now an artist and producer), brother Javier Nicolás, and youngest sister MarĂa José—was doted on by VerĂłnica, who instilled in him a love for storytelling and empathy. “She’d read us Chilean folktales at night, making voices for every character,” Pascal shared in a 2023 The Last of Us behind-the-scenes featurette. “That’s where I first fell in love with performance.” JosĂ©, meanwhile, provided stability, his medical career allowing the family a comfortable life until the regime’s shadows loomed large.
In 1976, when Pedro was just nine months old, the family fled Chile amid fears of persecution. JosĂ©’s prominence in the medical field and VerĂłnica’s outspoken views on child welfare made them targets. Smuggled out in the dead of night, they sought asylum in the United States, first landing in Texas before settling in San Antonio. The transition was jarring: from Chile’s vibrant culture to the arid expanse of the American Southwest. “We arrived with nothing but suitcases and stories,” Pascal reflected in his memoir-like essay for Time magazine last year. VerĂłnica, ever the pillar, adapted swiftly, enrolling in psychology courses to requalify in the U.S. while raising four young children. She worked odd jobs—tutoring, counseling immigrants—always emphasizing education and resilience to her kids.
Pascal’s childhood in San Antonio was a mosaic of cultures: Chilean empanadas at home, Tex-Mex barbecues with neighbors, and endless soccer games in the backyard. VerĂłnica was the heartbeat of it all, encouraging Pedro’s theatrical inclinations from an early age. He recalls staging impromptu plays in the living room, with his mother as the rapt audience. “She’d clap like I was on Broadway,” he told Esquire in 2023. “No pressure, just pure belief.” It was VerĂłnica who supported his decision to pursue acting, even as JosĂ© urged a more practical path like law or medicine. When Pedro announced his intent to study drama at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts in 1993, she was his fiercest advocate. “Mi hijo, the world needs your light,” she reportedly told him, words that echo in his mind to this day.
Graduating in 1997, Pascal dove headfirst into the cutthroat world of New York theater and TV bit parts. The late ’90s were lean years: waiting tables at upscale Manhattan eateries, crashing on friends’ couches, and enduring countless rejections. “I was a ghost in my own life,” he admitted in the Vanity Fair piece. VerĂłnica, back in Chile with the family after returning in 1995 for JosĂ©’s career, stayed connected through weekly calls. She’d send care packages of homemade alfajores and letters brimming with encouragement. “You’re not failing; you’re building,” she’d write. But beneath her words, Pascal sensed a growing melancholy. VerĂłnica struggled with depression, a silent battle exacerbated by the family’s dislocation and the weight of unspoken traumas from Chile.
The call came on March 14, 1999—VerĂłnica had taken her own life at 54. Pedro, 24 and worlds away, was devastated. “It felt like the ground vanished,” he said. The circumstances were heartbreaking: she’d been managing her mental health, but the isolation of life in Chile, coupled with lingering PTSD from the dictatorship era, proved overwhelming. Pascal flew home immediately, but the funeral was a blur of grief and guilt. “I kept thinking, ‘If I’d been there more…'” he confessed. In the aftermath, he adopted “Pedro Pascal” as his professional name—a deliberate nod to his mother, ensuring her legacy lived on through his work. “Pascal was her name; it felt right to carry it forward,” he explained.
The loss profoundly altered Pascal. He channeled the pain into his craft, but acting took a backseat as he grappled with survivor’s guilt. For a time, he considered abandoning the dream altogether, taking a job in construction to support his siblings. “I was lost,” he revealed in a 2025 LA Times profile. But VerĂłnica’s influence lingered like a gentle nudge. Friends and family rallied around him—sister Lux, in particular, urged him to honor their mother’s belief by persevering. “She’d want you to shine,” Lux told him during a tearful late-night talk. Slowly, Pascal returned to auditions, his performances infused with a newfound depth born from sorrow.
The early 2000s were a grind: guest spots on shows like The Good Wife and Law & Order, off-Broadway roles that paid in applause but little else. Breakthrough came in 2014 with HBO’s Game of Thrones, where he played the brooding Oberyn Martell in a memorable arc that ended tragically—mirroring his own losses in a meta twist of fate. “Oberyn was fiery, unapologetic; playing him was cathartic,” Pascal said. The role opened doors, leading to Netflix’s Narcos in 2015, where his portrayal of Javier Peña earned critical acclaim and a Golden Globe nomination.
But it was The Mandalorian in 2019 that catapulted him to stratospheric fame. As the enigmatic bounty hunter Din Djarin, Pascal embodied quiet strength under the beskar helmet, his voice conveying volumes of paternal protectiveness toward the pint-sized Grogu (Baby Yoda). The show’s massive success—over 1.3 billion minutes viewed in its debut week on Disney+—turned Pascal into a household name overnight. “This is this is the way,” became a cultural mantra, and Pascal’s “Mando” persona spawned memes, merchandise, and a legion of fans dubbing him “Daddy Pascal.”
Behind the scenes, Pascal’s preparation for the role was meticulous. Due to the helmet’s opacity, much of his performance was vocal, relying on body language and subtle gestures—skills honed in those lean theater days. Jon Favreau, the series creator, praised Pascal’s commitment in a 2023 Variety interview: “Pedro brings this soulful intensity; you feel his history in every line.” The Mandalorian’s themes of found family and redemption resonated personally; Pascal saw echoes of his own journey in Din’s lone-wolf evolution into a protector.
Post-Mandalorian, Pascal’s star ascended further. His 2023 turn as Joel Miller in The Last of Us—a post-apocalyptic survivor shielding a surrogate daughter—drew Emmy buzz and solidified his status as Hollywood’s most versatile leading man. The show’s record-breaking viewership and emotional depth mirrored Pascal’s life: loss forging unbreakable bonds. “Joel is me, in a way—carrying ghosts but pushing forward for those he loves,” he told Rolling Stone. Upcoming projects like Fantastic Four in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and Materialists, opposite Dakota Johnson, promise to keep him booked through the decade.
Yet, amid the accolades, Pascal’s tribute to VerĂłnica remains his anchor. In the Vanity Fair interview, he elaborated: “Success feels bittersweet without her here to see it. But I credit her for every bit of it—her support when I was nobody. She taught me empathy, which is the heart of acting.” He shared a cherished memory: VerĂłnica attending one of his high school plays in San Antonio, beaming from the front row. “That pride in her eyes? I chase it still.”
Family plays a pivotal role in Pascal’s narrative. His siblings, especially Lux, have been instrumental. Lux, who co-produces indie films, often collaborates with him, ensuring VerĂłnica’s values endure. “Pedro carries Mom’s spirit; it’s why he’s so grounded,” she said in a joint People feature last year. JosĂ©, now in his 80s and retired in Chile, watches his son’s work with quiet pride, though he rarely speaks publicly. “Papá’s the strong, silent type—like Mando without the armor,” Pascal jokes.
Colleagues echo this sentiment. Bella Ramsey, Pascal’s The Last of Us co-star, described him as “a big brother figure, always checking in—it’s that maternal care he got from his mom.” Director Jon Favreau added, “Pedro’s vulnerability on set comes from real places; it makes his work authentic.” Fans, too, have flooded social media with support. #ThankYouVeronica trended after the interview, with posts like, “Pedro’s story hits hard—moms like her are the real MVPs,” from user @StarWarsFanatic2025.
Pascal’s openness about mental health—stemming from VerĂłnica’s struggles—has sparked important conversations. He’s an advocate for suicide prevention, partnering with organizations like the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. “Grief doesn’t end; it evolves,” he said. “Mom’s death made me who I am—flawed, fierce, and forever grateful.”
As Materialists gears up for its premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival later this month, Pascal reflects on his trajectory with humility. “Fame is fleeting, but legacy? That’s what Mom taught me.” In a town that chews up dreams, Pedro Pascal stands tall, a testament to the enduring power of a mother’s love—one that transcended life, death, and the stars themselves.
