Life happens in three acts — Just like in any good story.

The first act is the setup. Stuff happens AND we know it’s laying the groundwork. There are details in the first act — small things, environmental changes, and seemingly insignificant events — that often turn out to be foundational for the next act.

Act two is the confrontation. This is usually where things start to get spicy. Something goes awry. There is a crisis. It might be a health crisis or a relationship crisis. It might be a crisis of faith or trust or, loss.

It might be all of the above. A veritable shit-storm.

Act two is — when you are READING a story — usually when you start staying up late at night and turning pages. There is a sense of “rising action”… and sometimes things can start to get really complicated.

Basically, Act Two is busy AF.

There is a lot going on. And when I think about Act Two — of which I am, on the precipice of my 45th birthday, smack dab in the middle — this feels about right.

So far Act Two has been very on-brand. It is oftentimes very confusing. This is worrying when you consider that I am BOTH the main character AND the author of my own story.

Let me give you an example — 4 years ago I wrote a letter to my daughter on her 8th birthday. I was in an Act Two mini-crisis, having realized my complicity in creating the crisis I was in. That I had — by focusing on the outward, the activity, and the distraction — I had become an excellent human-doing at the expense of a decent human being.

In that letter, I promised her I would change.

Four years on, despite my fatigue and sense of overwhelm, I am still doing a lot more than being.

Alas.

Par for the course in Act Two.

Broken promises. Relationship transformation, breakdown, and loss. New characters appear in Act Two and while they may be new or fleeting in the overall story, each character has a role and an impact.

What makes Act Two so exciting for readers or outside observers is exactly what makes the main character — the hero — the most likely to break. I can confirm that this main character has had several breaks and there will invariably be more ahead.

That is what is supposed to happen in Act Two.

You encounter trials and challenges. You make mistakes and fail and get hurt. You overcome and, sometimes, are overcome.

Act Two is where the main character defeats their enemies.

Many — if not all — of my enemies are internal.

My thoughts. My behavior. My way of thinking and examining and interacting with the world and others in it.

I say this because this is the real work of Act Two of Living. And because it is less visible, often private, and usually misunderstood during Act Two, it is what makes all the difference in the story. j

Yes, the fight scenes provide high drama and edge-of-your-seat excitement. Yes, everyone loves to hear about survival. Nothing is quite as compelling as the stories of those who have lived through and triumphed over an external enemy. Yes, there is beauty in the moments of celebration and joy that punctuate moments between crises and offer relief from the mini-quests undertaken in Act Two.

AND

None of that makes a bit of difference in the overall story if the quiet, internal work does not happen at the same time. In the stories you love, the ones that you read again, and again, and again — the beauty is in that work. The work that the main character undertakes to learn from the moments of high drama. The changes the main character makes after surviving or failing. The choices that they make now are different from what they were taught or shown or told in Act One.

This is the content we are here for.

Without it the story is two-dimensional. Superficial. Transitory. Commonplace. Forgettable.

Boring.

Same in real life.

The challenge is that when you are the main character in your own story — your own hero — you do not benefit from the perspective of the reader.

And this shit is hard.

I want to live a life that is fascinating. Engrossing. Engaging. Impactful. Memorable. Full of fuck-ups and errors and the hard inner work that happens off-stage.

I want — and deserve — a life where I am not just the main character of my story, but the genuine hero of my own life.

And that means I need to get to Act Three. I need to be worthy of making it to Act Three. Act Three is when it all starts to make sense. Where we get a chance to USE all that we have learned and unlearned — the hero’s return.

Act Three is the resolution. This is the part when, as readers, we see and appreciate — regardless of the choices and decisions made — the transformation of the hero. Whether we see that as good or bad or enough, we can applaud the accomplishment of change. Evolution. The value and benefit that the main character. The impact of them leaving the story — including those in and the world around them — different.

I have to remind myself that Act Three is gonna be worth it. If I get Act Two right.

AND getting it right is hard. It hurts. It’s work. It’s exhausting and relentless and often infuriating.

Infuriating because Act Two does not have to be hard. There is another way. An easier way. A path of NO resistance. Where we avoid our enemies — internal and otherwise. Where we meet challenges with compromise, rationalizations, and concession. Where we encounter and endure crises and emerge from them unchanged. Where we crave comfort over courage. Where we use our energy to build and replicate the familiar.

Act Two is often the ongoing struggle between these two choices. That’s the meta-story and context.

The main character ALWAYS has that choice and, speaking as the main character in my own story, I have often chosen that path and I will in the future too. But not every time.

I want to be worthy of an Act Three for the ages. It’s the transformation.

That’s what I am here for. That is what I am going to be about.

And it all hinges on getting Act Two right…