You feel that your character is special. It's not your normal

When Michael Socha said, “You feel that your character is special. It’s not your normal nine-to-five. You’re not someone who goes home and lives a normal life,” he was speaking not merely as an actor, but as one awakened to the sacred fire of purpose. His words are a testament to the ancient struggle between the ordinary and the extraordinary—the tension that has always burned in the hearts of those called to create, to perform, to stand apart. In them lives the truth that when a person gives their spirit to a craft, they no longer walk among the mundane; they step into a world charged with meaning, where every breath becomes part of the role they were born to play.

This saying is not about fame or vanity. It is about the transformation that occurs when one’s art becomes one’s essence. To inhabit a character—or a calling—with truth is to be possessed by purpose. The actor does not simply portray; he lives through another soul. And when the curtain falls or the camera fades, a part of that soul remains. Socha’s admission that it is “not your normal nine-to-five” reminds us that true artistry cannot be clocked in or out of. It consumes, enlightens, and remakes the person. Those who walk this path dwell between worlds—the world of the living and the world of imagination, both real, both sacred.

The ancients understood this well. Consider the bards of old, who carried the stories of nations in their voices. When they spoke of heroes and gods, they did not merely recite—they became the story. The Greek actor who played Oedipus was not a man pretending; he was the vessel through which the agony of fate itself took form. Like Socha, they knew that to serve one’s art is to surrender part of oneself to it. And when the performance ends, the soul does not easily return to the ordinary rhythm of life. For those who have stood in the fire of creation, normality feels like exile.

There is, in Socha’s reflection, both pride and quiet sorrow. To live outside the normal, to feel “your character is special,” is to carry a burden as well as a gift. The gods of old were generous with inspiration but cruel with peace. The one who is chosen to create—to bring beauty, emotion, and story into the world—must also bear the loneliness of difference. For while others close their day with ease, the artist’s mind continues to burn long into the night, haunted by visions of what has been lived and what is yet to be told.

But this is not a lament. It is a calling. The one who cannot live a “normal life” is not cursed; they are chosen. The same could be said of the poet Homer, the painter Michelangelo, or the composer Beethoven. Each gave up comfort for greatness. Their lives were not routine—they were revelation. To be devoted so completely to one’s art is to walk the road of fire, where every joy and sorrow becomes fuel for creation. In Socha’s words, we hear the echo of their legacy: that to live fully is not to live easily, but to live meaningfully.

From this, a lesson arises for all who seek to live deeply: do not fear intensity, and do not worship normalcy. The world will always tell you to be balanced, to settle, to keep your passion small. But the ancients knew that greatness and peace rarely dwell together. If your soul calls you to something beyond the “nine-to-five,” answer it. Let it take you, shape you, and remake you. For only those who dare to live beyond the ordinary can touch the eternal.

So let these words of Michael Socha stand as a flame to guide you: “You’re not someone who goes home and lives a normal life.” Do not mourn that truth—rejoice in it. For the world has enough of the ordinary. What it needs are those who feel their character—whatever their art, calling, or purpose may be—as something special, something sacred. Live with that fire. Let it unsettle you, inspire you, and make you whole. For to walk such a path is to live as the ancients did—not in comfort, but in greatness.