Actors, Let’s Talk About Crying on Stage

by Chris Peterson

Have you ever had a moment on stage where you wanted to cry and just… didn’t?

Not the polite kind of sadness. I mean the kind where everything lines up. The scene is there. The audience gets very quiet in that way that feels promising. You can almost feel the release coming. And then nothing happens. Your eyes stay dry. Your throat tightens. You keep talking.

If you’ve acted long enough, you’ve been there. And if you’ve been there, you know exactly what happens next. You start checking in with yourself mid-scene. You start thinking, Okay, but maybe on the next line… And suddenly, instead of being in the moment, you’re conducting a very tense internal performance review.

This is usually where actors decide crying is something they need to “figure out.”

They ask about it backstage. After rehearsal. In acting classes. Like there’s a technique they somehow skipped. How do you cry on stage? How do you make it happen? How do you make sure it shows up every night, preferably right on cue, preferably without looking fake, preferably in a way the audience can see from the back row?

I get why we fixate on it. Crying has become this weird shorthand for “good acting.” If there are tears, the scene must be working. If there aren’t, well… maybe it didn’t land. Maybe you didn’t land.

Here’s the mildly annoying truth: the more you want to cry on stage, the less likely it usually is to happen.

So instead of offering a guaranteed method for tears (sorry), here are three ideas I keep coming back to. They’re not tricks. They won’t make you cry on command. Which is kind of the point.

First: stop playing the cry and start playing the fight against it.

Most real crying doesn’t start with sobbing. It starts with someone trying very hard not to fall apart. Jaw clenched. Breath held. Eyes refusing to blink. The second you decide, “This is where I cry,” you’ve turned the moment into a result instead of an experience. But if you play the effort to stay composed, your body sometimes does the rest without asking permission.

Second: put your attention on the other person, not on yourself.

Nothing shuts emotion down faster than checking for it. Listening, on the other hand, tends to invite it in. Actually listening. Letting a line land differently than it did yesterday. Letting yourself be surprised. You cannot surprise yourself if you’re busy watching yourself perform.

And third: stop deciding what the scene is supposed to look like.

This is where actors get stubborn. “This is the cry scene.” “This is where the audience needs to see me break.” And once you lock that image in your head, you start chasing it instead of living in it. Some nights the truth of the scene is tears. Some nights it’s anger. Or a stillness that’s honestly more unsettling than sobbing ever could be.

I’ve directed scenes that got stronger once we stopped insisting they end in tears. I’ve performed scenes where the emotion finally showed up the night I stopped asking it to.

Crying isn’t the goal. Connection is.

If you’re connected to the other actor, to the stakes, to what you’re losing in that moment, your body will respond in whatever way is honest that night. Sometimes that includes tears. Sometimes it doesn’t. Both are valid, despite what your inner critic might say.

So if you’re chasing tears, maybe try backing off. Stop checking. Stop forcing. Do the work and trust the moment.

Your job isn’t to cry. Your job is to tell the truth. And honestly? The audience can tell the difference.