In this essay, actor Karan Brar reflects on reckoning the gap between his public and private personas.
Content Warning: This story contains a discussion of suicide and substance use. If you or someone you know is going through a crisis, you can contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988 or +1 (800) 273-TALK (8255); you can reach the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration Hotline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357).
It was 2 a.m. and I was once again rolling off my thoroughly deflated air mattress. I had owned a home for about three months and, in that time, acquired three pieces of “furniture”: this air mattress, a box cosplaying as a nightstand, and a floor pillow that my cat Max liked to sunbathe on. I didn’t even buy the air mattress — my friends were kind enough to lend it to me while I waited for my pandemic-delayed actual furniture. Every night it deflated, so I spent a lot of time in my underwear, on the hardwood floor, swiping through men and women on a dating app, waiting for the mattress to reach some semblance of firmness.
The process of bringing my home together wasn’t as glamorous or exciting as the celebrities on Architectural Digest’s Open Door series made it seem. Instead, it was incredibly overwhelming. The white walls stood as a reminder of the seeming permanence of every decision I was about to make in this new stage of life. I wanted to navigate this process on my own, without my parents overseeing it. I wanted it to feel personal and safe to me, but also welcoming to those around me. Most importantly, I wanted to keep a level head during all of it so my friends weren’t worried about me buckling under the stress of change.
If I was being really honest, it wasn't so much the blank walls or the big decisions that were the most overwhelming part; it was the prospect of telling those around me a new story about my life.
There has always been a lot of dissonance with the version of me on that pancake-flat air mattress and the version people thought they knew. I’ve been enormously fortunate to spend a majority of my life acting, but that also has come with a sense of being tethered to a specific version of myself that no longer exists (if it ever even did); the version that was plastered on social media, talked about on podcasts, and, most of all, existed in the characters I played. People know me as a dorky, annoying, naive, Indian kid, who may or may not have an accent, and most certainly has a giant lizard as a costar.
It felt pointless to try to control what people thought of me, but as I drifted further and further from an acted version of myself, I still felt held back by it. So, on the floor of that empty house in 2021, I decided to not only to finally cover the walls with art and bold colors, I decided to cut the cord tying me to that version of myself. I set myself adrift and waited to see where I landed.
I’d tried this before, to mixed results. In 2019, I moved in with my best friends Cameron Boyce and Sophie Reynolds. Having just turned 20, it felt like the perfect time to move out of my parents’ home. I decided to give my mom a tour of the new place in hopes that it might get her equally excited about this next chapter of my life. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter how long I had been preparing her for this moment, I could still feel her sadness as she silently inspected my future room.
She was trying her best to put on a brave face, but even with her modern outfits and perfect English, I could see her fighting the instincts ingrained in her as a young woman growing up in India. The way she and my dad were raised, kids don’t move out until they’re married and ready to start a life of their own. My request to move 10 miles away from my parents’ house was breaking an unspoken social contract.
I’d tried to ease us all into the idea of my independence, but it didn’t go as planned. Starting to sign my own checks had initially been confusing to my parents. Awkwardly removing them from the CC list on work emails was even worse. But this, most of all, felt like a sharp change to the plan for my future. Oddly enough, I felt as disappointed as they did by my desire to separate. My younger self was desperate to be the perfect kid who did what was expected of him, while “bringing honor to the family name,” and positioning himself to be successful enough that his parents' journey as immigrants felt worth it. But after years of being in the industry, our relationship had become incredibly strained — we found ourselves arguing more times than not, and harboring unspoken resentments. I knew the only way for things to get better between us was for me to embark on this journey that made us both uncomfortable.
So there I stood, watching eagerly for my mom’s small nods of approval. It might not have been the same as the excited smiles I saw on Cameron and Sophie’s parents' faces, but it was the best she could do at the moment. As I walked my mom back to her car, part of me wanted to turn to her and scream about how desperately I wanted her to embrace this next chapter of my life. But, of course, I bit my tongue long enough to watch her car turn the corner. It seemed a bit hypocritical to yell at my mom about not meeting my expectations. After all, I was the one trying to get rid of my parents in the first place.
After moving in, I pushed my parents' concerns to the side. For years, I had nailed the whole "compartmentalizing" thing and I figured I didn't need to stop then. There was public Karan and private Karan. Both were real, but trying to hold them in one body was proving to be too much. Still, I kept pushing myself until cracks started to form. It all came to a head while I was drunkenly hunched over a toilet bowl, watching my tacos from lunch and several White Claws come back out. I decided that was the best time to come out to Cameron and Sophie.
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted it. I could barely see straight, but I ended up trying to do some damage control anyway. The best thing I could think of came stumbling out of my mouth:
“If you guys want me to move out I can. Just give me two weeks to figure it ou--”
They interrupted me by hugging me from behind. Again, I told them I should move out. They told me I was being stupid. I told them I’d cover for them if people asked why we didn’t live together anymore. They said to shut the fuck up. I told them that they probably hated me. They said my bisexuality changed nothing for them. Eventually, I lost enough steam to finally go to bed. I was too afraid to sleep on my own so Sophie grabbed a bowl, put it by my side of the bed, and made herself comfortable on the other side.
They were both shocked when I came out, not because of my sexual identity, but because I genuinely thought they would want nothing to do with me after I told them. Today I can understand how absurd that was — Soph and Cam had been my best friends for years and loved me every step of the way. Why in the world would they stop then? I think I just convinced myself that this part of me would feel less like an invitation to know me better and more like a burden they had to endure.
The next morning, we reconvened in the living room and even in my sober state, I tried to give them one more opportunity to accept my offer to move out. Living together had been a childhood dream of ours, but a voice inside of me kept shouting that I had just ruined the beginning of a beautiful chapter. To no one's surprise, Cameron interrupted me once again, while Sophie tried to hide her frustrations because I refused to listen to what they had to say.
This was the first time in years that I wasn’t hiding anything from them; instead, they were seeing the most authentic version of me. I finally gave up and accepted that they loved me as I am, as I’ve been, and as I’m going to be. This was a crisp picture of what unconditional love looked like: my two best friends sitting across from me on a discount couch, waiting to hear me describe my type so they could take on their new roles as matchmakers. They weren’t going anywhere.
Cameron died in 2019, shortly after we moved in together. His death threw my already-fragile sense of self into a tailspin. I hadn’t dealt with my internalized homophobia, thinking that coming out to my friends was enough to eradicate that (it wasn’t). My mental health worsened, and my grief was unresolved.
By the summer of 2020, Sophie and my friends had become increasingly worried about the state of my mental health. I’d been on a downward spiral since Cameron suddenly died, and with the pandemic putting the world on pause, I was forced to sit with myself. I refused to acknowledge how much pain I was in and isolated myself in a deeply unhealthy relationship with alcohol. Almost every night was spent getting drunk by myself in order to cope.
Things reached a tipping point when a severe breakdown forced me to confront the current state of my life. Up until this point, I had maintained the illusion of someone who had their shit together, both publicly and privately. Some of my friends knew that I needed help, but I didn’t for a long time. Professionally, I played into the “wunderkind” and “old soul” compliments my representatives would give me. It felt like confirmation that I was navigating my transition from child actor to real actor with grace. But I finally realized that wasn’t the case, that I needed to really figure myself out, and that I need to look inside myself and match up the person I show the world with the one I know myself to be — including my sexuality and my grief.
So, after having thoughts of suicide, I decided I to admit myself into an inpatient treatment center for my depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts.
What many people may not realize is that suicidal ideations don’t necessarily appear overnight — instead they can take root and grow from one stray thought. Before you know it, you find yourself slipping into suicidal thoughts, making plans “just in case.” It slowly chips away at your soul, leaving you in a state of helplessness.
There were only a few fragments left of my will to live, but I had enough to carry me to the doorstep of my treatment center — and I felt incredibly lucky knowing that. I’d spent years trying to fastidiously maintain a public facade, and yet there I was, fulfilling the Disney star rehab prophecy I had been adamant on avoiding. I was flooded with a sense of failure, but there was no turning back now. The decisions had been made, and there was a twin bed waiting for me on the other side of that door. The only thing left for me to do at that moment was to decide how many pairs of underwear I needed to pack.
That was three years ago, and today, I’m doing much better. While in treatment, I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Major Depressive Disorder. It’s been ages since I’ve experienced a PTSD symptom, so much so that I don’t think I even meet the criteria for the diagnosis anymore. My depression has been in remission for some time, and with the help of my medication, I’m finding my emotions to be much more manageable. I’m no longer drowning in the grief of losing Cameron. Rather, I’m in acceptance of grief being an ever changing experience I just have to see through. Everyone around me can also see these changes, and I can feel their shoulders dropping in relief as we go further into our twenties.
The thing is, because of my suicidal thoughts, I never really saw myself growing older. I no longer experience chronic suicidal ideations, and sometimes, that feels complicated. There’s a discomfort knowing that suicide is no longer an option when things get too painful. Somehow, I feel more vulnerable than ever.
Weirdly, that vulnerability feels more “me.” I still keep things close to the vest online, but the gap between who I am and who I appear to be is shrinking. It’s not closed yet, and it may never be. But I was able to commit to a wall color. I was able to buy a mattress, and return my hole-filled life raft to its rightful owner. I even let my friends install a bidet. The house is filling up with furniture, people, and items that feel like they’re mine.
Still, sometimes I get frustrated when I discover another “thing” I need to “fix” in my next therapy session. Or overwhelmed trying to establish this new era for my career in an industry that doesn’t allow me to have much control. At times, I even feel paranoid thinking that I’m not doing any of this right, worried I might end up with a different version of dysfunctional from the one I had prior. And, on occasion, looking at my “completed" home, I still catch myself wondering what it would be like to reorganize my living room.
