For just over a decade I lived on the edge of danger, leaping from cliffs, jumping out of the back of trains and even being set on fire. I was a television and film stunt performer. Think Tom Cruise without the credits, in sky-high heels and hotpants. Every job was a calculated risk, and every performance felt like a dance with death. My job demanded the spirit of a daredevil and the agility of an acrobat with the presence of an actor, tasked with bringing the heart-pounding thrills of Hollywood to life. But as my star rose and opportunities knocked on my door, I made a decision to step back, leaving behind bewildered friends and colleagues who couldn’t understand why I was abruptly extinguishing my own flame.
While I revelled in the thrill of physical activity and globetrotting adventures, there was always a nagging sense of impostor syndrome gnawing at me. Despite my prowess in executing stunts, I felt like a fraud when it came to the craft of acting. I could execute flips, wield knives and brave fire-burns, but put a script in front of me and I faltered. No matter how much I trained or rehearsed, the moment the camera rolled my lines vanished, leaving me stranded in a sea of self-doubt. Whenever I found myself in a situation where I had to deliver lines, my anxiety would intensify. I would feel my breathing becoming rapid and shallow, making it difficult to focus. As I attempted to say the words, the buzzing of the room would overwhelm me and despite being in the spotlight, all I could see was darkness. It was a disorienting experience, and it further exacerbated my feelings of self-doubt and insecurity about my acting abilities.
I poured my earnings into private lessons, honing my skills in gymnastics, boxing, stick fighting, swimming and rock climbing, striving to become the sort of “all-rounder” the industry demanded. Each call from a stunt coordinator came with inquiries about my abilities: could I handle fire-burns without a fire suit? Drive like a Nascar professional? Endure hours suspended upside down? With each question, the weight of responsibility pressed down on me, driving me to train harder, to push myself beyond my limits, to ensure that I could deliver an outstanding (and safe) performance. But beneath all my exterior physical confidence lay the fear of failure. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shake some persistent questions: could I act? Could I execute this stunt, this time, unscathed? It was a question that loomed larger with each opportunity.
A conversation with a private acting coach in Montreal set me on the path to confronting the truth that had been staring me in the face all along: did I even want this? As I mulled over the prospect of starring alongside Hollywood heavyweights like Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston in my audition for Murder Mystery, I realised that my heart wasn’t in it. I had been living someone else’s dream, chasing a version of success that, in reality, rang hollow to me.
For so long, I was driven by the need for people to see me, to recognise that I had talent. I craved validation and acknowledgment from others, and I believed that achieving success in acting would fulfil that desire. However, as I reflected on my journey and experiences, I realised that this external validation wasn’t bringing me the happiness I had hoped for.
The real turning point came when a friend reached out to me in crisis. He was contemplating ending his life. As I helped my friend back from the edge, I glimpsed the stark reality of my own mortality. One misstep, one wrong turn, and I could find myself teetering on the same precipice of despair. It was a wake-up call, a reminder of the fragility of life and the imperative of following one’s true calling.
Although I have quit stunt performing, I miss it from time to time as I see my friends on TV or in movies. I continue to practise martial arts and enjoy competing as a top-performing athlete. I have found a new sense of balance. Instead of solely relying on adrenaline kicks from physical feats, I now channel my energy into writing roles that reflect the diversity and complexity of women like myself on screen or in video games. For instance, when writing for a video game, I advocate for characters to wear combat boots rather than high heels, emphasising practicality and authenticity. This shift allows me to express myself creatively while still contributing to the entertainment world. While I have embraced my passion for writing, I still carry with me the lessons learned from my time on the edge: the importance of authenticity, the unwavering resilience cultivated through adversity, and the necessity of pursuing one’s passions with unyielding determination.
Janine Parkinson is a writer and former stunt performer
