Actors and Extras

December 9, 2024

The first few years of adulthood are unique, because they’re the first years that we’re really afforded true freedom. Sure, in college, you are given some autonomy—but your decisions are still mostly guided by your university, your major, and your friend group. We go through the motions, really, from ages 0-22. It’s not until our mid 20s that we are given the opportunity to author our own story—to define the current of our lives, rather than follow suit of those around us. And it’s in this period that two distinct types of people emerge:

Actors and Extras.

Actors take charge of their lives. They set the stage, drive the plot, and live with purpose. Extras, on the other hand, linger in the background of others’ stories. Their decisions are reactive rather than proactive. They avoid major life changes until circumstances force their hand—and they often respond with resentment or animosity.

Extras stagnate, and while they might not admit it, feel unfulfilled. They place the responsibility for their unhappiness on external factors—the economy, politicians, corporations, or even fate—and as such, continue to avoid action.

The distinction between these two parties is more evident than ever—mostly because being an Extra is more common than ever.

You’ve seen Extras all around, in your friend groups, in the news, and in popular media. Here are some archetypes:

The Complacent Partner: The person who dates someone for years without progressing toward deeper commitment, avoiding the discomfort of making life-changing decisions.
The Corporate Drone: The employee who works a 9-5 job with little passion or ambition (despite wanting more), content to stay in a comfortable, uninspiring role without seeking growth or change.
The “Nice Guy” Who Never Asks: This person is agreeable, avoids conflict, and never takes the initiative to pursue what they want out of life.
The Fearful Hermit: The man who never talks to the opposite sex and has built elaborate justifications for their social isolation, often fueled by online echo chambers.
The Postponed Parent: The person who keeps delaying major life milestones like marriage or starting a family, waiting for the "perfect time" that never comes.

In all these cases, the excuses for inaction sound plausible on the surface: “I’m not ready to propose yet—I need to get my life in order first,” or “This job is just temporary while I figure out my next step.” And sometimes they are legitimate. But often times behind the rationalization lies a refusal to confront the discomfort of real change. These reasons often serve as a comforting veil—they provide a sense of justification for inaction, but at their core, they are rooted in fear, self-doubt, or the refusal to confront the discomfort of change. The longer someone stays in this state of indecision, the more it becomes a habit of avoidance, until eventually, they no longer even notice how much time they’ve spent waiting for the ‘right moment’ to start living their life.

Actors, by contrast, approach life with intentionality and purpose. You’ve also encountered these types of people in your life:

The Calculated Risk-Taker: The person who leaves a stable career to pursue entrepreneurship, not on impulse, but after careful planning and acceptance of potential failure. They understand that meaningful progress requires stepping into uncertainty with preparation and resolve.
The Strategic Nomad: Rather than settling for geographic inertia, this person deliberately chooses where to live based on their values and goals. Like the above, they move out of intention rather than restlessness.
The Intentional Builder: The individual who approaches relationships—romantic or platonic—with clear purpose and communication. They actively cultivate deep connections and aren't afraid to have difficult conversations that foster growth and understanding.
The Growth Architect: Someone who treats their personal development as a serious project, setting concrete goals and systematically working to achieve them. They invest in skills, seek mentorship, and actively create opportunities rather than waiting for them. (Yes, these people can come off as cringey if they flex their self-growth, but in its unadulterated form, this is a positive trait.)
The Life Editor: The person who regularly evaluates their commitments, relationships, and habits, pruning what doesn't serve their vision. They're not afraid to end situations that no longer align with their values, even when it means disappointing others.
The Principled Navigator: Instead of drifting with popular opinion, this person develops their own worldview through careful study and reflection. They make decisions based on their principles, even when they go against the grain of their social circle or society at large.

What distinguishes these Actor archetypes isn't just their willingness to take action—it's their commitment to intentional living. They understand that meaningful lives aren't discovered but designed. While they may experience the same fears and doubts as Extras, they've developed the emotional toolkit to process these feelings without being paralyzed by them.

Actors are great, but they’re few and far between. We look up to Actors, but many can’t imagine being one. And while there have always been more Extras than Actors, the modern era has a few conditions that make it super easy to be an Extra.

Why it’s worse now

We live in an age of abundance

We live in an age of abundance—a time when comfort and convenience are within arm’s reach. On the surface, this might seem like a boon. We have more than ever before: endless entertainment, instant food delivery, online shopping, social media, and platforms like TikTok, all designed to satisfy our every whim and provide a constant stream of stimulation. But this abundance has led us into a subtle trap—one that keeps us stuck in “maintenance mode.” We're not really unhappy, but we're not fully alive either—because we find contentment in the sheer availability of distractions. (Really, imagine how much more contemplative you would be if you had an additional 7 hours per day—the average American’s screen time—without distraction, and what kind of action that contemplation would inspire.)

It’s easier to ignore discomfort or to push aside the need for real change when we’re constantly surrounded by things that make us feel good in the moment. A scroll through Instagram or TikTok, a few clicks for food delivery, or zoning out to a TV show can provide temporary satisfaction, but they leave the deeper, more existential gaps unaddressed.

Our ancestors didn't have this luxury. For much of human history, survival itself required decisive action. Moving to a new land, starting a family, or taking on new work weren't carefully weighed career moves—they were necessities driven by the basic need to survive and thrive. Our grandparents, and many of our parents, lived in this same reality: making bold choices about work, family, and property wasn't optional—it was the only path forward. What we now view as risky life decisions—buying a home, changing careers, or starting a business—were simply necessary steps in building a secure future.

But today, things are different. Our world has grown so comfortable that real challenges have largely been replaced by artificial ones. Instead of facing and conquering the natural trials of life, we turn to things that give us the same temporary dopamine hits—video games, social media, TikTok, or Tinder. These aren’t just distractions; they are dopamine delivery systems that override our natural need for achievement and progress. What was once a need to build something—a career, a family, a home—has now been substituted by instant gratification.

A crisis of masculinity

Alongside these changes is a newfound crisis of masculinity. In traditional households, men were often the primary drivers of major decisions—decisions about careers, property, marriage, and family life. In many ways, society depended on men to make these decisions and push things forward. (This is not to imply anything about whether this “patriarchy” is, or has been, a positive or negative force.)

But today, masculinity seems to be in crisis. Men are increasingly questioning their roles and feeling disconnected from the old models of responsibility and leadership that once defined their place in the world. Alongside, or perhaps related to, this identity crisis has been a meteoric rise in young men that defer their own adulthood to instead seek dopamine hits (video games, sports gambling, pornography).

As masculinity is deconstructed, redefined, or abdicated, major life decisions that traditionally depended on men—like buying a home, getting married, or leading a family—are being deferred. Without a clear sense of purpose or agency, many men opt to delay or avoid the commitment that these milestones require. They avoid the discomfort of decision-making and the weight of responsibility, trapped in a world where options are endless but commitment feels like a burden.

More paths than ever

Having more options is generally a good thing, but in the domain of risk taking and propelling one’s own life forward, abundance of choice leads to paralysis. The human brain, designed for decision-making but not for managing overwhelming quantities of options, becomes overloaded. This overload doesn’t simply create indecision—it causes us to avoid making decisions altogether, as we struggle to assess the “best” choice from a sea of infinite possibilities. We become afraid of making the wrong choice, and as a result, we defer decisions, paralyzed by the weight of too many paths.

This phenomenon didn’t exist in the past. In earlier times, there were far fewer choices—and the choices that did exist were tied to survival and immediate needs. There was little room for hesitation: you either took the job that was available, married the person who was in front of you, or stayed in the village where you were born. The clarity of fewer paths made decisions easier, even if those decisions were not the “best”—or were harder to live with in the long run. Relatedly, our ancestors were able to find contentment in those imperfect decisions because they weren't constantly bombarded with images of alternative lives and paths not taken, each promising greater happiness or success than their current reality.

In other words, a young person in 1920 might have had a clear roadmap: finish school, work in the family business or local factory, marry someone from church, and raise children in the same community. The path wasn't necessarily better or more fulfilling, but its simplicity made taking action straightforward. And with fewer glimpses into alternative lives, they were more likely to find peace with their choices. What’s the clear roadmap for young people today? For many reasons—some economic, some cultural—that single, well-worn path has splintered into a thousand possibilities, each promising its own version of fulfillment.

Other factors that may be playing a part

I haven’t given enough thought to the following but they are worth thinking more about:

Are our parents right, and social media is the problem? Are we just content watching our favorite influencers make major life decisions, living vicariously through their highlights while avoiding the difficulty of making those decisions?
Is it just the economy? It does feel harder than ever to “make it” and own a home. For many, the seemingly best option is a gig economy role which offers little stability.
Community institutions (churches, clubs) that previously facilitated life transitions have declined in their prevalence and importance—does this make young adults’ next steps less clear?
We’re more alone than ever—does this increasing social isolation make big decisions feel riskier, because we have no one to discuss them with?
Has the glamorization of making it big paralyzed young people? Hustle culture tells young men they need to make millions, rather than pursue a more standard path—which may in turn make them defer action in perpetuity?

Is there evidence for any of this?

I noticed these trends among my peers, so I wanted to explore whether my observations were reflective of broader cultural patterns. While there’s no single dataset capturing all these trends, evidence across five areas provides a compelling case.

Rising rates of anxiety and depression

The causes for our collective drop in risk-taking are harder to diagnose, but the outcomes are clear. As I mentioned earlier, my theory is that young people’s lack of ownership of their own story leads them to be unfulfilled. And we know that anxiety and depression have skyrocketed over the last few decades. Studies show that young adults are experiencing higher rates of anxiety than any previous generation, with roughly half reporting symptoms even years after the pandemic.

The delaying of major life milestones

We also see some evidence that risk taking is happening less, or later. Marriage, home ownership, and parenthood—once considered inevitable steps into adulthood—are now increasingly delayed or abandoned altogether. The average age for first marriages in the U.S. has risen to 30.5 years old for men and 28.6 years old for women.

The percentage of young adults living at home with their parents is at a historic high of 57%. Even college graduates are more likely to live at home, with 12% of 25-35 year-old degree holders living with parents in 2022, up from 6% in 1980. Economic factors certainly play a role, but the trend also reflects a cultural shift: fewer people feel ready or compelled to make these big decisions.

The impact of choice overload

It's also the case that we have more choices than our ancestors did. I think this is clear without evidence. But it is worth confirming that the "paradox of choice" has been studied extensively in psychological research. Experiments consistently show that people presented with too many options are less likely to make a decision—and less satisfied when they do. For instance, one well-known study found that shoppers offered 24 jam varieties were 10x less likely to make a purchase than those offered just six. This phenomenon might mirror the way many people approach life’s bigger decisions: overwhelmed by possibilities, they opt to wait instead of act.

The role of technology in passivity

Replacing hard decisions with quick dopamine hits via streaming and phone usage is also well-documented. Americans now, on average, spend over 7 hours per day on their phones, much of it engaging with content designed to capture attention without demanding effort. Related to the “age of abundance” I mentioned earlier, this new abundance of easy-to-access and entertaining content makes it easier than ever to defer real challenges in favor of small dopamine hits every day.

The masculinity drift

Finally, traditional male roles have undergone a profound shift, leaving many men feeling untethered. Perhaps the greatest evidence for this is in men’s recent rightward political shift or the meteoric rise of figures like Andrew Tate. Both trends suggest men feel displaced, leading them to gravitate toward figures and ideologies that offer a clear masculine identity. The result has been a rise in aimlessness, as men delay responsibilities or avoid them entirely in the absence of clear societal expectations.

I also think video games have compounded these effects—which research also supports. Games (as well as other quick dopamine delivery systems) provides easy access to instant gratification, allowing men to escape from the challenges of self-improvement, relationships, and career growth. Instead of striving to meet traditional or evolving expectations, many men retreat into digital realms, where success and satisfaction come with far less effort or risk. This escapism further disconnects them from the sense of purpose and fulfillment that arises from real-world achievements, deepening the cycle of aimlessness and dissatisfaction.

Why actors are so unstoppable

Action catalyzes action, and major life decisions beget other major life decisions. In the same way inaction serves as an impediment to progress in so many facets of life, action serves as a catalyst for transformation across multiple domains. When someone makes one significant life decision, it often forces them to reevaluate other aspects of their life that previously seemed settled or unchangeable.

Take the decision to get married. What starts as a commitment to another person naturally evolves into deeper questions about career trajectory, financial stability, and long-term life goals. A software developer might realize their stable but unfulfilling job won't provide the growth they envision for their family's future. This clarity leads them to take risks they might have otherwise avoided—perhaps starting a business or switching to a more challenging career path. Contrast this with the Extra who delays getting engaged until his partner begs him to. Will he feel motivated to make other life decisions as a result?

This cascade of decision-making creates a powerful momentum. Each choice builds upon the last, developing a kind of "action muscle." The more decisions you make, the more comfortable you become with uncertainty and change. You begin to see life's challenges not as overwhelming obstacles, but as opportunities for growth and progress.

The inverse is equally true, and perhaps more insidious. Inaction breeds a peculiar form of learned helplessness. What begins as simple procrastination or comfort-seeking, gradually morphs into a deeply rooted belief about your own capabilities. The mind, seeking to protect itself from the discomfort of missed opportunities, constructs elaborate justifications. “I can't talk to that girl because she'll reject me” becomes a shield against trying. “I can't seek that new job because my current one is fine” transforms from an excuse into a self-imposed limitation.

Capability is a muscle

And so capability is a muscle—it can either be strengthened through use or atrophied through neglect. Each time someone chooses inaction, they're not just avoiding a single moment of discomfort; they're reinforcing a pattern that becomes increasingly difficult to break.

Consider this progression:

Initially, it starts with simple convenience: “I'll ask her out tomorrow instead.” There's no deep psychological barrier yet—just basic procrastination. But tomorrow becomes next week, then next month. Each delay makes the action feel slightly more daunting.

Over time, the brain needs to justify this pattern of avoidance. It begins manufacturing increasingly elaborate reasons why inaction is actually the “smart” choice: “She's probably already dating someone,” “I should focus on my career first,” “The timing isn't right.” These aren't just excuses anymore—they become a protective narrative.

At this point, inaction in this domain isn't just a choice—it's become a core part of how someone sees themselves. The person who once merely postponed asking someone out now genuinely believes they're “not good with relationships.” The employee who avoided asking for promotions now sees themselves as “not leadership material.”

And finally, once someone adopts a belief about their limitations, they unconsciously begin collecting evidence to support it. This creates a dangerous feedback loop:

A man who believes he is bad at talking to women will never talk to one. A person who believes they “can't” engage in difficult conversations will avoid them at all costs. When forced into one, they're so convinced of their inability that they perform poorly—stumbling over words or becoming defensive. This poor performance then serves as proof of their original belief: “See? I told you I was bad at this.”

Even more insidiously, this mindset begins to leak into adjacent areas of life. The person who believes they can't handle difficult conversations might start avoiding leadership opportunities at work, reasoning that leaders need to be good communicators. A man who believes he can’t win over women will likely avoid most social situations that put him in close proximity to them—which not only limits his opportunities but also reinforces the narrative that he is not sociable. What started as a single, small, specific limitation becomes a general prophecy of inability.

This is why Actors appear almost superhuman to Extras. The Actor's competence isn't innate—it's the result of repeated exposure to discomfort and uncertainty. To use the exercise analogy again, Actors have gotten so many reps in, that their form is now perfected. Each time they take action, regardless of the outcome, they're strengthening their belief in their ability to handle challenges. Meanwhile, the Extra watches from the sidelines, attributing the Actor's success to some intrinsic quality they themselves lack, never realizing that the very act of taking action is what creates that quality.

Learning to act

Learning to act is one of the most essential skills we can develop. This muscle, when exercised, leads to greater confidence and better opportunities. But it’s not easy. Taking action often requires embracing discomfort, uncertainty, and the unknown. It means stepping into the arena, where failure is a possibility, but so is growth. For years I’ve told friends that they should find their first romantic partner sooner rather than later, not because she will be “the one,” but because they need to fail spectacularly in a relationship at least once to become equipped to find “the one.” In the same way, learning to act means learning to fail, get over it, and try again.

Inaction is seductive. It promises safety, the illusion of control. But in reality, it creates a prison of missed opportunities, frustration, and stagnation. The people who learn to act don’t wait for the "perfect time" (there won’t be one)—they simply make the next move.

This doesn’t mean rushing into decisions recklessly, but rather building the habit of making thoughtful choices and then acting on them. These can even be incredibly small decisions, like going to the gym, or striking up a conversation with a stranger. When we get quick wins like these, we not only feel better, we also dispel our self-imposed and self-fulfilling narrative of inability. The cynical part of your mind has spent years telling you “you can’t,” and quick wins are the fastest way for us to disagree—with evidence.

It’s not about always getting it right. It’s about doing. And through doing, we learn to trust ourselves and our abilities. This trust grows stronger with every step, making future actions less intimidating and more instinctual.

“You can just do things” is a powerful narrative to remind yourself. Take action—you’ll either try and succeed, or stumble, fail, and grow. When you embrace the discomfort of acting, you begin creating your own story, rather than waiting for life to happen to you.