What if we treated actors like athletes?

A guest post by Emily Burton

My wife is an accomplished actor, and she’s been working on something very special now for several years. It’s already changed countless lives in our community, and I’m excited for what she’s about to share with the world. This week, I’m handing my Substack over to her.

Imagine if athletes were treated like actors:
An Olympic runner walks into training and their coach says, “Okay, today you’ll be doing sprints until you sob and get blisters that pop and bleed, which triggers a traumatic childhood memory, but I’m not interested in hearing about it… Unless it makes you run faster? If it slows you down, I might choose a different runner next time. If you have any problem,s we don’t have time to deal with it because the Olympics are in two days, so I’ll let you figure that out by yourself. See you afterwards for a drink. You’ll need it!”

Welcome to rehearsal.

Actors are often told, “use everything you’ve got” - your emotions, your trauma, your physicality, your full instrument. But then we’re expected to recover from it all with… what? Some post-show applause and a glass of wine in the foyer?

Meanwhile, athletes - who, like us, rely on their bodies, minds, and laser focus - have a full team behind them. Nutritionists, psychologists, physios, trainers, and massage therapists. They’re treated like high-performing machines that need maintenance and support to achieve their full potential. Because they do.

So here's the question that always lights a fire under me:
Why don’t we treat actors like athletes?

Acting is not a soft profession. It’s demanding, physical, high-pressure, and often high-stakes. You move your body in ways it wasn’t built for - slouching as a character for eight weeks, crying on cue while dressed in an exposing costume, holding tension in your jaw because “that’s just how the character breathes.”

It’s not just acting. It’s inhabiting. It’s lifting the emotional equivalent of heavy weights. Repeatedly. For weeks, months on end.

And then there’s tech week. Which is like doing a HIIT workout while sleep-deprived and emotionally compromised, under harsh lights and notes like, “Could you die slightly more slowly?”

Now, to be fair, things have started to shift - especially in larger theatre companies and screen productions. It’s no longer unheard of for an actor to get physio support during a season, or even have built-in access to treatment when injuries pop up. (Progress! Applause! A single tear rolls down my overworked shoulder blade.)

But too often, this only kicks in after the damage is done - when something snaps, spasms, or you suddenly can’t rotate your neck during Act 2. The real gold lies in proactive care. More companies are now acknowledging that a big part of resilience is preventative - checking posture, releasing tension, undoing the months of physical quirks we inherit from our characters. It’s not just helpful; it’s humane.

Here’s another double standard that’s been bothering me for years:
Athletes are allowed to be emotional.

We see them cry on the field, scream in joy, break down after a loss. No one says they’re too sensitive or too dramatic. We say, “Wow, they care so much. They have worked so hard.” We admire their passion and see it as evidence of their unwavering commitment to the sport. What an inspiration.

But when actors express that same kind of emotional intensity—offstage or in the rehearsal room—it’s often seen as excess. We’re being “Too fragile.” “Too sensitive.” Cue poorly concealed eye-rolls from creatives and production crew.
It’s wild, considering our entire job is to feel.

This industry expects deep emotional exposure to sell the tickets, but rarely provides a safe landing afterwards. It asks for rawness while the lights are up, but rewards detachment behind-the-scenes.
And somewhere along the line, actors start internalising the message: If I can’t bounce back immediately, I must not be cut out for this.

Spoiler: you’re not broken. You’re not too sensitive. You’re just being asked to do deeply vulnerable work in systems that refuse to acknowledge what that really requires from a person.

Sensitivity isn’t a liability. It’s the reason you’re good at this job. But you shouldn’t have to burn out to prove you’re strong and worthy of being re-hired.

We need to start building recovery and emotional regulation into our practice - not just because it makes us better performers, but because it makes us sane people who can stay in the industry longer than five years without developing some kind of mental or physical illness.

This Is Why I Made a Course

I built Resilience for Actors because I was tired of watching brilliant, sensitive, whip-smart performers run themselves into the ground - physically, emotionally, creatively - And then beat themselves up for it.

We need more than just talent. We need tools.

Systems are changing… but it’s slow. And we need support now.

This course isn’t about “fixing” you. It’s about supporting you. It’s full of practical, body-based strategies that actors can actually use and embed into their process: nervous system resets, boundary-setting scripts, emotional recovery tools, and ways to stay connected to your craft without losing yourself in it.

It’s the stuff I wish someone had handed me in acting school and said:

“Here. You don’t need to be less sensitive - you just need better scaffolding.”

If that resonates, come check it out. Bring your full self - the fragile parts, the bold parts, the weird parts. You don’t need to toughen up. You just need support that meets you where you are.

The course is coming. Your nervous system deserves it. Follow @emilyjane1202 on Insta to stay updated and sneak a peek at the launch when it drops.

Emily’s written on the Substack before. You can check it out here.