The Role of Suffering in the Work

The Role of Suffering in the Work

by Mario A. Campanaro

Let’s talk about a profound truth that every human being must face: the reality that strife and struggle are inevitable parts of life. I know—it’s not the most cheerful news—but to deny this truth is to ignore the one thread that connects every story ever told, and every story yet to come. Suffering, in all its nuanced and complex forms, is the foundation of both drama and comedy. It is the birthplace of storytelling. This universal experience is what compels stories to be told and witnessed. It’s what draws us together, because at our core, we all know what it means to struggle. Our pain, our drama, and our inner conflicts crave connection, understanding, and communion. That’s what makes storytelling feel so necessary—because it reminds us we are not alone on this wild, unpredictable ride called “Life.”

The beauty of our work—whether it’s film, theater, or television—is that it becomes a kind of medicine for the masses. Through the lens of performance, we offer people the reminder that they are not alone in their suffering. In fact, it is through our collective pain and confusion that we are united. Think about how, in the face of tragedy, hearts open wider, people come together, and compassion rises. Pain and suffering have a way of waking us up, calling on our deepest humanity to show up for one another. In a world so often focused on “me, me, me,” that’s a beautiful and powerful thing.

But here’s the truth for us as actors and artists: we must be willing to allow our instrument—our body, our emotions, our soul—to enter discomfort. We can’t shy away from it. That discomfort is the key to unlocking the most complex and compelling human truths. It’s rich with everything our work requires. It’s uncomfortable, yes—but it’s also full of substance. As artists, we have to be brave enough to step into that space, to live through it in front of others. We become vessels, transmitting the intricate, often messy, always real, essence of the human experience.

To truly bring the audience along for the journey, we must commit to revealing the deepest truths of the moment. That’s what we owe them—for giving us their most valuable resource: their time. And to do that kind of honest, resonant work, we have to accept that many of the emotions, experiences, and circumstances we portray might be things we’ve never personally lived through. That’s where imagination, empathy, and inner exploration come in. We must build an inner world capable of truthfully living through those moments for the sake of the story—and for the people watching.

Unfortunately, we live in a time where imagination is being exercised less and less. But for the actor, it’s a muscle that must be trained and maintained. Like going to the gym, we must keep building that inner library. And while the stakes may feel intense and the circumstances heavy, we must also remember to find joy within that work. We’re safe to explore within the container of the story. We’re safe to play.

Now let’s have a real heart-to-heart about understanding the Self. Life, relationships, and circumstances often trigger us in ways that distort our view of ourselves. These triggers can convince us that there is something fundamentally wrong with who we are. But that’s a lie. And unfortunately, when believed, those lies start to spill over into our everyday experience. The truth is this: we are innately lovable. Period. That’s it. And saying that might sound simple, but truly believing it? That can take a lifetime. I know that journey personally—it's one I’m still on. As a teacher, I don’t claim to have all the answers. I don’t claim to be a guru, nor do I want to be one. I’m just a fellow human, trying to figure it all out, sharing what I’ve learned along the way. I just happen to be blessed with a chance to pour that truth into acting, which demands a deep, constant examination of what it means to be human.

No matter your past… No matter what you’ve been through… No matter what you were told, taught, or brainwashed to believe… You are lovable. Just as you are. You matter. Your voice, your story, your truth—they matter. “Imperfections” and all. The Self—who you truly are—is the very substance that ignites creativity. It’s the Self that brings soul into the work. That Self, living inside the body you carry, is what makes you different from everyone else. It’s what makes you irreplaceably special. And those differences—your quirks, your unique lens on life—are the reason we have stories in the first place. They’re why we connect to those stories so deeply.

The more we understand the Self, the more we can understand what lies beneath the layers of every character we portray—and every person we meet. We have to release this idea of “perfection.” It’s not the artist’s ally. It’s an illusion. The real magic lies in the raw, messy, complex parts of ourselves. You are perfect as you are—even with your “flaws,” your “weirdness,” your “imperfections.” You are I’M-PERFECTION. Yes, there’s always room to grow, evolve, and expand. But at your core, you’re already enough. The idea of perfection doesn’t fill the gap—it creates one. It distances us from the very essence of what art is about.

Art is born from our brokenness. That’s what gives it life. That’s what makes it real. Art speaks when words fail. It shows up when life gets hard. It shines a light in the dark. It helps us make sense of our pain, mend our spirits, and remember we’re not alone. That “OMG, I’ve been there too” moment? That’s the heart of it all.

As actors, we must face, embrace, and love every part of ourselves. The flaws, the quirks, the weird stuff, the imperfections, the brokenness—it’s all part of life. And it’s all part of our job.

Copyright © 2025 Mario A. Campanaro, All rights reserved."