Authenticity Costs More

I’ve spent my whole adult life playing roles. Nearly 20 years. 

On stage. On screen. 

Good men, bad men, funny men. Men that break into song in the middle of a conversation. Men that commit unspeakable acts. Men from all walks of life. Men I've liked, that I’ve felt close to, respected even. 

And complicated, flawed men. I like those men even more. I find them easier to step into. 

In part, because I think I’m one of those men in real life too. 

But the more dangerous roles, the more difficult roles, are the ones you don’t audition for.
“The reliable one.”
“The funny one.”
“The wild one”

These roles are comforting at first.
People clap. They shout for more. They wait at the stage door, holding you there long after the show should have ended.

The audience expects the same performance every time.
And if you dare to improvise, they’ll boo you. 

That’s why change feels so threatening.
It isn’t just about trying something new.
It means abandoning the version of yourself that everyone else has memorised. Celebrated. And who doesn't love being celebrated. 

They don’t like it when you break character.
Because it forces them to ask: what role am I stuck in?

Act I: The Comfort

For me, the role was belonging.

I was “one of the boys.”
The actor off the TV with the “glamorous” lifestyle, welcomed into the group chat of “real men” with “real lives.”

Proper Fellas. 

And it felt good.

Because the truth is, I’ve never felt I fit in with celebrity circles or theatrical types. Too shy. Not interesting enough. Scared of being found out. “What, YOU’RE that actor? I was expecting so much more…”

Here, I belonged.

The currency was extravagance.
More booze. More drugs. More hedonism.
The filthier, the funnier. 

I didn’t step into it with intention. We rarely do.
I slid into it naively.

That’s how most of these roles are chosen.

And then 10 years had passed.

That’s the trick of comfort.
It erodes time. It sands down the edges of your life until nothing sharp remains. Just soft, flat edges, that stop you from carving out a life to be proud of. 

Act II: The Cost

The mask always cracks eventually. 

Driving home one Sunday, still over the limit, I had to pull over and throw up at the side of the road.
I looked up into the rear-view mirror and didn’t recognise what was staring back.
A fat, pale, sweaty man with wine-stained teeth. The spark gone from his eyes. 

“Same again next week yeh, lads?”

I didn't just feel old, tired and broken, I felt hollow.
There was no dignity left, no ambition, no trace of the person I thought I was.
Just a creature I’d become without noticing. Consuming everything. Always consuming. Drink, drugs, food, time, money. 

I’d quietly started having panic attacks again. 

“Hello, old friend…”

My marriage fell apart.
My ambition had all but dissolved.
I had no drive. The comfort of a long-running TV job made “managing” possible.

I always knew my lines. I was never late. I could always hit my marks.
I was always prepared for work.
But I wasn’t thriving. I was surviving. 

Worse still, I started treating my wife the way the ‘fellas’ treated theirs.
Never abusive. Never cruel.
Just not present. 

That’s the danger of a role like this.
It asks for absence.

And I rationalised it all by thinking:
“Well, they’re all successful, so it can’t be that bad.” But success without self-respect isn’t success at all. 

You aren’t where you want to be, because you’re okay with where you are.

Act III: The Break

One of them gave me an out. He treated me the way I’d watched him treat others before me.
They were removed from my life on a Saturday afternoon, and we never spoke again.

Which tells you how little I meant to them.

The curtain came down. No bow. No standing ovation. No flowers cascading upon the stage. I shuffled back to my dressing room to take off my hastily-applied makeup. No congratulations cards adorning the mirror. No well-wishers. 

And in the silence that followed, I realised what I’d traded for the part I’d been playing.

My Self-respect.
My Dignity.
My Peace.
My Health.
My Ambition.

Finale

The role serves you, until it doesn’t. And when it doesn’t, the bravest thing you can do is let it die.

You are not the role.
You’re the actor.

If you’re stuck in a role that no longer serves you, start small.

Try “identity experiments.”

If you’re “the dependable one,” say no once this week.

If you’re “the quiet one,” voice an opinion even if your voice shakes.

If you’re “the party one,” have one drink and leave early.

If you’re “the workaholic,” close your laptop at 5pm and walk away.

These small breaks in character prove the world doesn’t collapse when you step off script.

They loosen the grip of the old role and give you space to build a new one.

It’s just a mask.

What’s left underneath is the only thing that matters: authenticity.

Not the version of you that fits the group chat.
Not the version that keeps everyone else comfortable.
Not the version that hides behind “that’s just who I am.”

Authenticity is harder than performance.
It costs more.
But it pays better, too.

Because authenticity is the only role you can play for life without breaking character. 

Or as Al Pacino put it: “It’s easy to fool the eye but it’s hard to fool the heart.”

Take Care

- James