Why I’m falling in love with more than just acting - and why you should, too.

There’s this occasional narrative in our industry that says: if you want to be taken seriously, prove yourself as an artist, you focus on one thing - acting - and you do it tirelessly. Irrevocably, all-consumingly, to the detriment of everything else. Prove you really want it, really deserve it. The One Thing.

Yes, mastery takes commitment. But after a month of wild transformation, I’m directly challenging that thought pattern with the simple proof that creativity begets creativity. The movement class that reawakens your body can reignite your energy on screen. The journal page that feels like therapy can deepen your emotional range or flush it from your system. A photography walk can sharpen how your eyes trace the contours of your scene partner’s face.

Think of it like creative cross-training - because when one part of you thrives, it elevates, activates, sparks the rest. To live a full life within a character, you need to have a full life yourself. A holistic understanding of art, culture, history, and a healthy appetite for any creative pursuit in any form.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for your acting career is to do something else.

Something that lights a different part of you up. Something that reminds you you’re a whole artist, not just a tool waiting for someone to pick you up. It’s not about doing more for the sake of doing more. It’s about shifting how - and where - you nourish your artistry so it grows deeper roots and blooms in unexpected places. Feed it well so you can harvest from fertile soil.

If you’re not sure what that looks like? Start with Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. (And read on.)

Move Your Body, Shift Your Energy.

Movement is medicine. And not just in the “stay on-camera ready” way.

Boxing, pilates, yoga, dance, long walks, hikes, intuitive stretching - they’re forms of training, but also ways to get out of your head and back into your body. Even if it’s five minutes of dancing alone in your bedroom to a song that makes you feel untouchable (don’t worry, no one has to see you but you).

Every role you’ll ever play lives in the body first. So ask yourself: how are you inhabiting yours?

Even just ten minutes of movement a day can shift how you approach a scene, a self tape, a table read… or getting stuck in traffic, burning your lunch, or missing an appointment. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about access - to breath, to voice, to presence.

Write Something, Even If No One Reads It.

I’ve kept a journal every single day (more or less) since I was twelve. I can’t imagine my day, emotional processing, or heart space without it. (And having every year of my life carefully catalogued first-hand is pretty incredible, too.)

Whether it’s journaling, scene building, free writing, or scattered poetic phrases in your Notes app, writing helps you clarify your thoughts and deepen your instincts. I recommend the old-fashioned way, whenever possible: pen, paper, your own messy handwriting and scratch marks and doodles in the margins.

Words are the bones of our work. Writing stretches your sensitivity to tone, rhythm, and emotional subtext. It will drive home to you that not a single word or punctuation mark is on those audition sides by chance.

And sometimes? It helps you spot what’s really going on underneath the surface - on the page and in your own life. You don’t need to be a screenwriter. You just need to listen to yourself.

Your homework: buy a new journal. Doesn’t have to be fancy, or maybe it does. I’ve been using Leuchtturm1917 religiously for years.

Feed Your Senses With Other Art.

Acting is observation. So go observe.

Go to a museum. Stand in front of a painting that unsettles you. Watch a play that make you ache. Rewatch a film with the subtitles on and notice the pacing of the edits, the breath before the line.

Creative cross-training isn’t always active. Sometimes it’s absorbing. I like to categorize certain weeks or months as intake versus output months. Sometimes the best thing you can do for your craft is to allow yourself to be deeply moved by someone else’s.

Make a monthly date with a gallery, bookstore, or indie cinema (hello, New Beverly and American Cinematheque).
Take yourself to a concert or a dance show.
Follow visual artists or poets on Instagram and let your algorithm inspire you rather than deplete you.
Need ideas? Revist my piece on The Artist Date.

The more you expose yourself to different textures, colors, styles, and stories, the more expansive your own instrument becomes.

Let a New Medium Be Your Playground.

Try something - anything - new. Something you’re not already good at. Something that makes you feel slightly ridiculous.

Paint. Collage. Cook. Sing. Take a pottery class. Make a mood board for your dream character. Sign up for a drop-in dance class with no goal but to move stagnant energy through and out.

The point isn’t mastery; the point is to play.

When you let yourself be a beginner in one area, it takes the pressure off being perfect in another. It brings you back to curiosity, spontaneity, and joy. And those are the lifeblood of great performances.

Give Yourself Permission To Be A Whole Artist

You are allowed to be multifaceted. You are allowed to be excellent at more than one thing.

You are allowed to love acting and love writing, and music, and movement, and strategy, and solitude. And that doesn’t diminish your greatness or capacity in any one of those mediums.

Creative cross-training isn’t a distraction. It’s fuel, a necessity. It’s how you refill the tank when you’re not on set. It’s how you prepare the soil so that when the role arrives, you’re not just ready - you’re alive.

If you’ve been feeling blocked, burnt-out, or like acting is the only muscle you’re allowed to flex, this is your invitation to expand.

Try something for joy. For beauty. For depth.

Because sometimes, the role of a lifetime doesn’t come from doubling down. Sometimes, it finds you in the middle of a painting class. Or in the third row of a small black box theatre. Or on a museum bench, staring at something that says everything you’ve been trying to express.

You don’t have to wait for permission.

Train like an actor. Live like an artist.

That’s where the good stuff is.