I don't mind a little Sturm und Drang. When I was doing 'Riding

In the words of Drew Barrymore we encounter both candor and revelation: “I don't mind a little Sturm und Drang. When I was doing 'Riding in Cars With Boys,' I wouldn't smile at anybody, because my character, Bev, was angry at the world. I'm the opposite. Inside my head I'd be like, God, I'll explain to you at the end of shooting that I'm not this person.” To hear this is to touch upon the ancient struggle of identity and performance, of the self and the mask it must wear. For Barrymore speaks not only as an actress, but as a soul wrestling with the burden of embodying another’s pain, while still yearning to reveal her own light within.

The phrase “Sturm und Drang”, born of Germany’s age of passion and tumult, meant “storm and stress.” It was the cry of poets and dramatists who believed that true art springs not from calm reason alone, but from the tempest of human feeling. By invoking it, Barrymore aligns herself with that lineage of creators who plunge into darkness, who endure the fury of borrowed emotions for the sake of truth upon the stage or screen. She reminds us that art, in its deepest form, is not mere play-acting, but a kind of sacrifice—the surrender of one’s own smile so that the audience might behold another’s sorrow.

Consider the role she describes—Bev, the woman “angry at the world.” To dwell in such anger, even for a season of filming, is to cloak oneself in heaviness. Yet Barrymore confesses her duality: outwardly she bore the mask of rage, but inwardly she whispered apologies, promising that the real self would reappear when the lights dimmed. This tension between the outer role and the inner heart is one that resonates far beyond the realm of acting. Do we not all, at times, wear such masks? Do we not at times present to the world a face of coldness or detachment, while secretly aching to reveal the warmth within?

History offers us kindred examples. Recall Abraham Lincoln, who bore the grave face of a leader guiding a nation through war. To many, he seemed stern, weary, even unapproachable. Yet his private letters and moments of levity with children revealed a spirit tender and humorous, one that longed to smile but could not always do so before the eyes of the nation. Like Barrymore, Lincoln too might have said, “I will explain to you at the end of this season of trial that I am not this person.” Such is the burden of roles that history or art demands: they shape our outward selves, even when they do not reflect the soul within.

The wisdom of Barrymore’s words, then, is this: we are more than the masks we wear. The storms of Sturm und Drang may rage around us, but they are not our final identity. To play a part—whether in art, in leadership, or in life’s many roles—does not erase the true self waiting beneath. Her confession is both a comfort and a call: that even when circumstances demand a harsh face or a heavy tone, we can keep alive the gentle voice within, whispering to those around us, “This is not all I am.”

For the reader, the lesson is clear. Do not confuse your passing roles with your eternal nature. At work, you may be called to sternness; in hardship, you may bear the mask of resilience. But within, let your truest self remain unbroken, eager to smile, eager to explain, eager to return to joy when the storm has passed. Remember that even as Barrymore immersed herself in Bev’s anger, she held fast to her own spirit, preserving it for the day of release. You, too, must preserve the flame of your inner joy, even when the winds howl against it.

Thus, beloved seeker, carry this teaching into your days: embrace the roles you must play, but never lose sight of the soul beneath them. Endure the Sturm und Drang, but remember—it is but a passage, not a destiny. When the season ends, remove the mask, and let your true smile return. For it is not in the storm but in the return to light that the fullness of life is found. And when others look upon you, may they see not only the roles you were forced to bear, but the enduring radiance of the person you truly are.