There are days when acting feels like falling in love for the first time.
And there are days when it feels like staying in a relationship that hurts — not because the love is gone, but because the world around it has become loud, fast, demanding, and unforgiving.
We rarely talk about that part.
We talk about careers, strategies, visibility, bookings, momentum. But beneath all of it lies something far more fragile and far more powerful: the quiet love we once had for this profession. The moment we first realized that stories could move us, that standing on a stage or in front of a camera could make us feel more alive than anything else. That being an actor wasn’t a plan — it was a calling.
And then life happened.
Auditions multiplied.
Self tapes replaced rooms full of people.
Opportunities came faster, but felt thinner.
We learned to be efficient, flexible, professional — and slowly forgot how to be present.
We gained more access, but less patience.
More knowledge, but less trust in ourselves.
More feedback, but less certainty.
We built bigger résumés, yet sometimes felt smaller inside.
We learned how to survive in the business —
and somewhere along the way, forgot how to live inside the art.
Our days became measured in submissions instead of moments, in responses instead of resonance. We rushed from casting to casting, from hope to disappointment, from motivation to exhaustion, telling ourselves this was the price of commitment. That love must hurt a little. That sacrifice was proof we cared.
But love that only consumes eventually empties us.
This isn’t about doing less or retreating from the industry — it’s about working with intention again, so your craft remains reliable, present, and valuable when opportunity finally aligns.
There is a paradox at the heart of our profession: we are asked to be deeply human on demand, while living in systems that reward speed over depth, output over presence. We learn to add years to our careers, but sometimes forget to add life to those years. We conquer platforms, algorithms, techniques — yet neglect the inner space where courage, imagination, and truth are born.
We can break down scripts flawlessly, but struggle to break down the walls we build around ourselves.
We communicate constantly, but connect less.
We know how to perform intimacy, but forget how to allow it.
And still — we stay.
Because every now and then, there is a moment that takes our breath away. A scene that scares us. A role that asks more of us than we thought we could give. A collaboration that reminds us why we started. A look exchanged on set that says: this matters. These moments don’t come often. They never do. But they are enough to keep us here.
Maybe that’s what our careers are really measured by.
Not by the number of auditions we survive.
Not by the size of our credits.
But by the moments that stopped us in our tracks and made us feel alive again.
The danger is not failing.
The danger is forgetting what we love.
We learn how to survive in the business — and somewhere along the way, forgot how to live inside the art.
So this is not a call to work harder, to be louder, to chase faster. It’s an invitation to remember. To treat our relationship with acting like any great love: with honesty, boundaries, patience, and care. To protect the parts of ourselves that make us interesting. To allow silence. To choose depth when speed threatens to hollow us out.
Because acting, like love, is not meant to be consumed.
It’s meant to be lived.
And if you’re reading this feeling tired, distant, unsure — know this: you are not broken. You are not behind. You are not alone. You are simply in a chapter that asks you to fall back in love — not with success, not with recognition, but with the reason you stepped onto this path in the first place.
Our profession is not measured by the number of breaths we take between castings.
It is measured by the moments that take our breath away.
And those moments still exist.
They always have.
Dan Martin Roesch
https://www.imdb.com/name/nm6401783/
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Hi, Michael Stair. Great to meet you. Thanks for sharing the story. You did the right thing in my opinion. It's a lesson for actors, writers, directors, etc. We don't have to take jobs if they involve...
Expand commentHi, Michael Stair. Great to meet you. Thanks for sharing the story. You did the right thing in my opinion. It's a lesson for actors, writers, directors, etc. We don't have to take jobs if they involve doing things outside of our character or things we aren't comfortable with.
1 person likes this
Wow, what a crisis of conscious you went through, but if the artistic expression of the story didn't resonate with you you should feel confident in the choice you made. Now that just means it opens you up for another terrific role more in your wheelhouse!
1 person likes this
Or it means I didn't go to acting school. I now realize that portraying a character is just a job. You
step into a role and become that character. Then at the end of the day you step out of the role.
Pe...
Expand commentOr it means I didn't go to acting school. I now realize that portraying a character is just a job. You
step into a role and become that character. Then at the end of the day you step out of the role.
People do it all the time in their every day living. We pretend, we become "imposters and fakirs"
Do we really know who we are?