Sometimes I wonder if the world around us works like the movies and dramas we watch. The stories we see on screen always revolve around a main character, someone whose journey we follow closely. There are the struggles, the triumphs, the growth arcs. Everything builds around that one person. And everyone else? They’re there to fill in the space, add support, color the narrative—but they’re not the focus. Watching these stories unfold, it makes me ask: is real life like that too? Do we all fall into roles like “lead character” or “supporting cast,” not just in fiction but in reality?
In movies, the lead is the one who changes the most. They start out flawed or uncertain or incomplete. And by the end, they’ve grown into someone stronger, wiser, or simply more whole. That arc—the transformation—that’s what makes them the protagonist. The supporting characters might have quirks or challenges, sure, but their role is to help shape the lead’s story, not to experience one of their own. The more I think about it, the more I see this mirrored in life. Some people walk into a room and command attention. Their stories seem larger than life. They’re the ones people remember. And others, though present and perhaps even essential, remain in the background.
We all know people like that. There’s the friend everyone gathers around. The coworker who seems to rise effortlessly. The sibling who gets the praise, the spotlight, the big narrative moments. These individuals move through the world like they’re being followed by a camera crew, as if every choice they make is part of a grand plot. And then there are those who show up, do their part, offer advice, lend a hand—and fade into the background of someone else’s story.
It’s not always about charisma or talent or beauty. Sometimes it’s just that the world has quietly agreed on who gets to be center stage. In a family, the “golden child” might be the one whose achievements become dinner-table topics, while the others get polite nods. In friendships, there’s often that one person whose life feels like a series of episodes, with drama and suspense and resolution, while the rest of the group takes on roles as best friends, sidekicks, mentors, or comic relief.
But maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing. After all, supporting characters aren’t less important—they’re just different. In many films, it’s the mentor or the friend who provides the key to the protagonist’s growth. Without them, the story would fall apart. The lead needs someone to challenge them, to believe in them, to ground them. In the same way, real life supporting characters might be the reason someone else becomes their best self. Maybe being a supporting character means being strong in ways that don’t always get noticed. It takes grace to lift others up without needing to be lifted yourself.
Still, there’s something in us that wants to be the lead. To be seen, deeply and vividly. To have our story told, to feel like we matter beyond what we provide to others. Maybe that’s where the ache begins—not because we want to push others aside, but because we want to believe our life has that same weight, that same purpose. We want to know that we’re not just passing through someone else’s spotlight, but holding one of our own.
But life isn’t scripted. There’s no director saying “Action!” or deciding who gets the most screen time. So maybe the idea of “lead” and “supporting” is more fluid than it seems. At times, we’re the main character. In other seasons, we’re not. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the real beauty lies in knowing how to step forward when the moment calls for it, and how to step back when someone else’s time arrives.
Some days, your life feels like a story worth telling. You overcome a fear, take a risk, fall in love, break down and rebuild. You feel like everything is shifting and you’re at the center of it. Other days, you’re the person picking someone else up from a breakdown, or clapping for someone else’s big win. Both roles are valid. Both are necessary. But we don’t always treat them that way.
Society rewards visibility. We celebrate the people who make waves, whose names we know, whose stories make it to Instagram captions and memoirs. Quiet strength doesn’t trend. Emotional labor doesn’t get headlines. Yet those are the traits that often define the most loyal, the most dependable, the most loving people in our lives. They’re not background noise—they’re the invisible foundation.
What if we’ve misunderstood what being a “lead” means? Maybe it’s not about having the flashiest story or the most followers. Maybe being the lead in your life just means choosing your direction with intention. It means knowing your own arc, no matter how subtle it looks from the outside. It means believing that your story matters even if no one’s watching, even if you’re not the loudest voice in the room.
Because here’s the secret: every lead needs to believe they’re the lead, even if no one else confirms it. Not out of arrogance, but out of self-respect. Life doesn’t hand out scripts or roles. You create your own arc with the choices you make and the values you live by. You can live like a main character simply by owning your experience, learning from it, and letting it grow you.
And even then, even when you’ve found your footing, you might still be a supporting character in someone else’s story. That’s not a demotion. That’s humanity. We are interconnected by design. We weave in and out of each other’s narratives, sometimes shaping the plot, other times simply witnessing it. But always part of it.
So yes, maybe life does echo the structure of stories. Maybe we do take turns being leads and supporters. But maybe it’s not about the title at all. Maybe the goal isn’t to be the star, but to live your story well—whether the spotlight’s on you or not. Because in the end, the story you’re writing with your life? That one’s always yours. And that, in itself, makes you a lead.
