I was a very good girl for a long time, that's what really drew

The words of Joan Allen are a confession both tender and fierce: “I was a very good girl for a long time, that’s what really drew me to acting. The stage was the perfect place to be outrageous, to be sad, to be angry, to be all these different things.” In this simple reflection lies a profound truth about the nature of art, the hidden storms of the heart, and the eternal need for expression. For to live always as the “good” child, restrained and obedient, is to bury passions that demand release. And the stage becomes the temple where the soul may finally be free.

The ancients knew this well. In the theaters of Athens, the citizens gathered not only to watch plays but to witness the raw passions of humanity displayed before them. In tragedy and in comedy, the Greeks saw their own griefs, rages, and longings brought to life. The stage was more than entertainment—it was a sacred place where the inner storms of the human heart were given form, and where actors became vessels for truth. So too, Joan Allen speaks of the stage as the place where she could cease to be the ever-obedient girl and instead unleash the fullness of her being.

This quote also reveals the paradox of human nature: that even the most disciplined and restrained carry within them the same emotions as all others—anger, sadness, joy, desire—but often the rules of life demand these be hidden. Without release, such forces can fester, leaving the soul divided against itself. But in art—in acting, in song, in poetry—these emotions can be honored, explored, and transmuted into beauty. The one who plays on the stage becomes not less good, but more whole, embracing every side of their humanity.

We see this truth in the story of Sarah Bernhardt, the great French actress. In her life she bore many hardships and scandals, yet on the stage she was called “the divine Sarah,” for she could embody grief and fury so powerfully that kings and paupers alike wept at her performances. Like Joan Allen, she found in acting the freedom to live all the lives that ordinary society would not permit. Her greatness was not in denying her wildness but in channeling it into art, so that audiences could recognize their own hidden depths through her.

There is a deeper wisdom here, too: that society often shapes us into roles that are incomplete. To be only “good” is to deny anger; to be only “obedient” is to silence individuality; to be only “calm” is to hide sorrow. But the stage, whether literal or symbolic, invites us to embrace contradiction. It tells us: you may be both gentle and fierce, both joyful and broken, both sad and triumphant. In this way, performance mirrors life itself, which is never only one thing, but many things interwoven.

The lesson for us is profound: find your own stage. Perhaps it is in painting, perhaps in music, perhaps in writing, or even in honest conversation. But do not bury the emotions within you in the name of being “good” or “acceptable.” Instead, give them form. Allow yourself the freedom to be angry when justice demands it, to weep when sorrow calls, to laugh when joy rises. For to live fully is to embrace the whole range of the human spirit.

Practical action is clear: seek out creative expression, even in small ways. Write in a journal what you cannot speak aloud. Join a group where performance, art, or storytelling is welcomed. If nothing else, speak truthfully to a trusted friend about what lives within your heart. Do not let obedience silence your soul. For in honoring your emotions, you will find strength, healing, and authenticity.

So remember Joan Allen’s wisdom: the stage is not only for actors, but for all who long to live fully. Make of your life a stage where every emotion has a voice. In this way, you will no longer be only “good,” but whole—and wholeness is the highest virtue of all.