The Theater of Self: the Hero-Director cut

 

During a moment of quiet reflection, I arrived at an unsettling truth: I create the dramas that consume my life, drawn to the intoxicating rush of emotions they provide. When one drama fades, another emerges almost instinctively. I don't push them away because these emotions make me feel alive.

But I don't just cast myself as the protagonist in these dramas—I also appoint myself director. I meticulously script outcomes, orchestrate plot twists, and harbor quiet expectations that everyone around me will follow my vision. When reality inevitably deviates from this imagined screenplay, distress follows. I make adjustments, attempt corrections, but control slips through my fingers, exposing the futility of my efforts.

At its core, this protagonist-director urge stems from the human mind's craving for drama's emotional vitality and control's perceived security against uncertainty.

Everyone Is the Hero of Their Own Story

This realization extends beyond my personal theater. While I am the hero of my story, so is everyone else in theirs. To them, I am merely a supporting character—not the center of their universe.

As director, I must accept that others won't always embrace my vision. Their scripts differ from mine. Sometimes collaboration is wiser than control; sometimes yielding the reins entirely is the only sensible choice. We all grapple with this tension: craving centrality and control while simultaneously resenting our lack of it.

The Cultural Roots of Our Need for Control

This drive to be both protagonist and director reflects broader Western philosophy shaped by Enlightenment individualism. This tradition established the foundation for modern self-fulfillment, where personal happiness reigns supreme—what psychologists now call "Main Character Syndrome," where individuals view their lives as narratives with themselves as the lead, relegating everyone else to supporting roles. Social media and capitalism have amplified this hyper-individualism. While "main character energy" can feel empowering, it often distorts our perception of reality and breeds isolation.

The "director" archetype manifests most vividly in movements centered on personal agency—the belief in one's ability to shape life and circumstances. From positive psychology to manifestation practices, advocates praise these approaches for boosting motivation and resilience. However, over-reliance on personal agency fosters unrealistic expectations, ignores systemic barriers, and can lead to burnout when the world refuses to follow our script.

Yet the reality of billions of overlapping lives makes perpetual protagonism impossible. Each person's drama intersects with others, creating a vast tapestry where we inevitably become side characters in countless stories. We need not accept God or fate to recognize our world as a complex, chaotic system—one that may lack grand design but possesses a collective consciousness or force far larger than any individual.

The Practice of Observation

Perhaps equanimity lies in stepping back—observing the play unfold under forces greater than ourselves, letting emotions pass without constantly pulling strings.

I've drawn insight from mindfulness traditions, particularly Buddhist non-attachment and Vedanta's concept of the observer. These practices encourage witnessing thoughts and emotions like passing clouds. I've learned to see myself as an observer of multiple dramas unfolding simultaneously around me. My role in these dramas shifts over time—sometimes central, often peripheral.

Rather than framing life as a never-ending epic struggle, I've begun envisioning it as a collection of short stories: discrete, meaningful episodes without the burden of a grand narrative arc. This metaphor offers fragmented, authentic existence, freeing me from grand illusions. I practice becoming comfortable as a supporting actor, yielding direction when appropriate, while still savoring emotions and observing my actions with detachment.

The path forward involves focusing on what is genuinely controllable, accepting reality as it presents itself, and discovering relaxation within that acceptance. Not resignation, but a clear-eyed recognition of where our power ends and where the larger forces take over. The dramas will continue. The emotions will still surge. But wisdom lies not in eliminating these experiences, but in changing our relationship  to them.