The Actor Leaves the Stage
By Kimberly C.
kimberlycooperstudio@gmail.com
In the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book, in Chapter 5, “How It Works,” there is a passage often referred to as the “actor” passage (pages 60–62). It describes the alcoholic as an actor trying to run the whole show — arranging the lights, the ballet, the scenery, and the rest of the players in their own way. If only everyone would do as they wished, the show would be wonderful. But when the play does not go according to plan, the actor becomes angry, resentful, self-pitying, or depressed. The book explains that this way of living — driven by self-will and self-propulsion — leads to constant conflict with life and other people. The solution, it suggests, is to stop trying to direct the play and instead allow God to be the Director, while we become the actor who follows direction rather than controls the stage.
When I first read this passage, I understood it intellectually. But over time in sobriety, I began to understand it personally. I realized that I had been an actor from a very early age, long before alcohol ever entered my life. I operated on self-will because it was how I learned to survive. I did not have the emotional nurturing I needed as a child, and I grew up with a deep internal hunger for love, safety, and reassurance. Without realizing it, I spent most of my life trying to fill that hole with anything that would temporarily make me feel okay.
In my early years, this showed up as food. Later it turned into sex, work, achievement, and eventually drugs and alcohol. The substances and behaviors changed over the years, but the underlying need never changed. I was always trying to soothe something inside me that felt empty, scared, and not quite safe in the world.
I eventually realized that I had two roles in life. One was the actor — the face the outside world saw. This actor appeared confident, capable, kind, generous, and in control. When I was young, this showed up as being an excellent student, well behaved, responsible, and high achieving. As I got older, that same role became career success, productivity, and the appearance of having everything together. From the outside, it looked like I was doing very well.
But inside, my inner child was steering the wheel.
When I was not performing for the audience, I was constantly self-seeking and self-protecting. As a child, I often lived in chaos and unpredictability, so I became hyper-vigilant about getting my needs met on my own. I was always scanning the environment, always calculating, always making sure I would be okay. If there was a pizza party, I was watching the slices to make sure I got my fair share. If I was in line for a carnival ride, I was more aware of what everyone else was doing than I was able to simply breathe and enjoy the moment. At family gatherings or events, I felt like I needed to monitor everything so nothing bad or dramatic would happen.
I rarely did anything without first thinking about what it meant for me. Would I be okay? Would I get what I needed? Would I feel safe? Almost every decision was rooted in a deep internal desire to feel good and avoid pain. Looking back, I can see that I was operating from a scarcity mindset — a kind of emotional poverty mentality — even when my life looked successful from the outside. I always felt like there was not enough love, not enough safety, not enough reassurance, and so I tried to control everything around me to make sure I would be okay.
This sickness permeated everything. During COVID, I would secretly go to liquor stores because I needed my self-medication more than I cared about possibly exposing my family to the virus. That is a hard thing to admit, but it shows how powerful self-will and addiction can be. In those moments, I was not thinking spiritually, morally, or rationally. I was thinking about relief — about not feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.
When I entered Alcoholics Anonymous and was asked to find a higher power, I struggled at first. But eventually, the easiest way for me to understand a Higher Power was to imagine God as a benevolent and unconditionally loving parent — the parent I never really had growing up. If I could not properly parent myself, and had never learned how, it was a tremendous relief to imagine that something above me could do that for me now.
As a mother myself, I realized there was nothing I wanted more in life than for my child to be happy, healthy, safe, and loved. I would never want my child to poison herself, put herself in dangerous situations, stay in toxic relationships, or sacrifice her health and safety for temporary pleasure or material gain. When I applied that same logic to a Higher Power, everything began to make more sense.
As I fumbled through the awkwardness of early sobriety, I started imagining running my decisions, actions, and words past a loving creator who only wanted the best for me. I would ask myself simple questions: Would a loving parent want this for me? Would a loving parent be proud of this decision? Would a loving parent want me to treat myself this way?
This way of thinking slowly began to change my behavior. It allowed my wounded inner child to begin reintegrating with my adult self. I began to develop something I had never really had before — trust in myself. Or more accurately, trust in the version of myself that was trying to live according to something greater than my own impulses and fears.
My Higher Power’s will was very different from my will. My will wanted comfort, control, approval, pleasure, and security at all costs. My Higher Power’s will seemed to want honesty, safety, growth, humility, patience, and love. Those are very different goals. But by continuing to ask questions, to pause before acting, and to imagine guidance from something loving and wise, my habits and patterns slowly began to change.
Over time, something surprising happened.
The actor in me began to leave the stage.
I no longer felt like I had to control every scene, manage every person, or predict every outcome. I did not have to arrange the lights, the ballet, and the scenery anymore. I could simply show up, do my best, and trust that I did not have to run the entire show. Life became less exhausting. I had spent decades trying to direct a play that I was never actually in control of anyway.
Today, I understand the “actor” passage in a completely different way. It is not just about ego or selfishness in the obvious sense. It is about fear. It is about trying to control life because we are afraid life will hurt us if we do not control it first. It is about trying to manage outcomes so we can feel safe, loved, and okay.
For me, sobriety has not just been about putting down alcohol. It has been about stepping off the director’s platform and becoming willing to be guided instead of controlled by fear and self-will. It has been about learning that I do not have to run the whole show, and in fact, I never could.
The greatest relief of my sobriety has not been that I do not drink anymore. The greatest relief has been that I do not have to be the director of the universe.
I can just be an actor who shows up, says my lines honestly, treats the other actors kindly, and trusts that the Director knows what He is doing.