Last workout circuit: Flip the tire down the block. Grab the sledgehammer for twenty slams. Then, push the weighted sled back,” shouted Thad, a yoked personal trainer who prioritized muscle gain over everything.
I locked eyes with the asphalt, visualizing myself in the Hunger Games, a gruesome competition where adolescents were forced to fight to the death. I plotted my route through the fictional Cornucopia, a large metal structure housing weapons and supplies.
“Timer starts . . . now!” I squatted to grab under the tire, already in character as Katniss Everdeen, the lead role I was auditioning for. Katniss was a lean, lithe, and resourceful sixteen-year-old with black hair, olive skin, and gray eyes. A tough and independent survivalist whose childhood was cut short, she bravely volunteered to replace her little sister in the annual bloodshed.
I’d first come across the books through a friend’s recommendation. Though I avoided fiction like the plague—being immersed in fabricated narratives for a living left me yearning for facts about the real world—I was immediately gripped by its poignant social commentary. Set in a dystopian future, the book gave an illuminating look at economic structures backfiring, classism and injustice dominating, destructive forms of power, and a burgeoning revolution. As an actor, the complexity of the subject matter would allow me to play to the top of my intelligence—something I rarely had the opportunity to do. And as a human, it gave me a chance to get up close to the dark underbelly of life, which I subconsciously longed to understand but didn’t know how to explore personally.
Katniss was the ultimate role and the ultimate strong female lead: purpose-driven, sharp, athletic, and, thankfully, a heroine whose capacities were more important than physical beauty. But the role was playing with fire for me. Katniss was characteristically thin—not starving, but small enough to reflect growing up in an underfed district—and muscular from hunting and archery. If I was going to devote myself to checking every box of the character description, I had to commit to strenuous training without fully succumbing to my eating disorder.
Months before I even had an audition, I upped my workouts. “Great job today,” Thad said, high-fiving me with his bulging biceps. “Tomorrow, we start shredding, so you’ll eat egg whites, chicken, and protein shakes for a week.” My dietitian would probably not love that, but it’s for my job, I justified.
The Hunger Games casting appointments were highly sought-after. If Lionsgate Films and the director, Gary Ross, didn’t select someone from a straight-offer list, they’d scout reputable working actors, of which there was no shortage: Zoey Deutch, Saoirse Ronan, Shailene Woodley, Brie Larson, Chloë Grace Moretz, Hailee Steinfeld, Abigail Breslin, Emma Roberts, Lyndsy Fonseca, and so many more . . . all laudably primed for a career breakthrough.
With my lower-tier team and family entertainment credits, I would be a lucky charity case, if my agents could get me in. While casting directors knew that hundreds of actors had the dramatic chops, realistically, they wouldn’t risk presenting a candidate who lacked just the right positioning. (For example, beyond her captivating talent, Jennifer Lawrence was fresh off an Oscar nomination and also represented by CAA, the most powerful agency in show business.)
The long shot of it all was never lost on me. But it technically wasn’t unrealistic for a director to pluck an unexpected person from the crowd and make them a star, either. Media loved an underdog story. I’d spent my whole career erring on the side of practicality and it hadn’t amounted to a breakthrough. So this time, I jumped for the moon.
With the mission in mind, I didn’t hold back. After a month of circuit training with Thad, I convinced a world-renowned medical weight loss camp to approve me—while I was underweight and only seventeen years old—to join a program for two weeks of seven hours of daily exercise on a calorie deficit. I didn’t recognize the irrational exceptions that doctors (and society) made for Hollywood, because it was all I knew. Even at ten years old, I had to get a medical physical before flying to film Cheaper by the Dozen, and an industry-referred doctor discovered a heart murmur. Upon sharing that I had dizzy spells and blackouts, he didn’t mark anything on my file because it “might stop the production company from letting you work.” I followed the doctor’s orders and ignored the murmur like he did, deducing that Hollywood must exist above medicine, above the law, and even above common sense.
I told myself that my goal was to build muscle, not slim down. I thought I was being sensible by seeking professional assistance. Doctors and trainers should’ve never permitted an underweight minor to do seven hours of fourteen-mile hikes, heavy lifting, and high-intensity cardio. But all I had to say was that I was training for an acting role. They assessed me as mentally stable and opened the door. Then, on off days, I took myself (and all my mental stability) bouldering in a nearby forest to build tactical prowess like Katniss.
Other than slipping in a few comments that I was taking the workouts too far, my mother knew she couldn’t stop me. She wasn’t one to enforce limits or check in to understand what I was experiencing internally anyway. Besides, why would she interfere with her mini-me achieving more fame? I held on to my last iota of sanity, reminding myself that if I booked the role, the studio would provide a trainer and nutritionist to make this healthfully sustainable. Just a little longer.
By the end of the two weeks, my arms and abs could cut glass. My body fat percentage dropped into the range of elite gymnasts. I had never been stronger, and I felt indomitable. And then, the tipping point came.
Obsession activated and I got hooked on the extreme regimen like a bodybuilder in competition prep. My immune system weakened and my adrenals were depleted from overtraining. I tweaked my tricep and fractured a finger. But I pushed through the fatigue and lightheadedness, even after catching a flu bug that lingered for three weeks.
Meanwhile, media outlets and fans debated dream cast lists.
“Did you see what Debby Ryan said about you on MTV?” my mom asked, handing me her phone around the door as I got out of the shower.
Debby, a fellow Disney colleague and Christian, was rooting for my success while knowing about the tightrope I was walking with my health. She was battling her own disordered eating and body dysmorphia (who in our peer group wasn’t?), and intimately understood the maladies of growing up in an image-obsessed industry.
I wobbled onto the bath mat, waiting for the head rush and the floating spots in my vision to subside. No sudden movements. You get one egg white in two hours. I tapped Play as the screen came into focus.
“Alyson has this dedication and hardcore-ness . . . I don’t think she’s been given a chance to be a lead yet . . . If you spend forty-five seconds around her, you know she can carry a film . . . I think she would be an insane Katniss. She’s, like, climbing rocks and walls and trees.”
My heart fluttered with appreciation. “That is extremely generous of her to vouch for me. I’m capable of so much more than people have seen.”
I looked in the mirror with a thousand-yard stare. Bruises decorated my thighs in purple and yellow as the towel patted them dry. I pulled up my cargo pants, tying the drawstrings at their maximum tightness. The pants slid off my hip bones onto the floor. Blood from my ripped cuticles speckled my flannel. I sucked off the rest and cringed at the metal aftertaste.
“It will be worth it,” I muttered. My teams and acting coaches always said casting directors had no imagination, and they needed to believe you were the character from the second they saw you in the waiting room. If I’m the fittest, scrappiest, most undeniable candidate, they’ll add me to the running.
My mom’s phone beeped with a new email and I read the subject line. “Oh my gosh! I got the audition for Friday!” I yelped, my throat feeling abnormally sore and scratchy.
Hours later, my tonsils were swollen and I was in the doctor’s office with a positive test for strep throat. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
I texted Susan from the doctor’s office. “Is there any way they can adjust the appointment to Monday so that I’m not contagious?”
“We just fought tooth and nail to get this,” she replied. “Haven’t you been sick for a month? They’re going to have all their picks by the time you get in there.”
“I’m so sorry. I will do anything for this role. Please ask if they can squeeze me in on their last call!”
Casting granted me the 4:45 p.m. appointment at the tail-end of their Monday session. I spent each day willing the antibiotics to work speedily as I prepped three scenes, cross-referencing the books to make thoughtful creative choices.
On Monday, I popped the last antibiotic pill and drove to the building on Wilshire Boulevard that I’d been to a hundred times.
Ritually, I designated the audition commute for enrolling into the character’s worldview and sensibilities. By the time I parked and walked into the suite, I was a citizen of District 12 in Panem; I’d already been hunting earlier that morning with my best friend, Gale, and brought back kills for my little sister and deadbeat mom.
As I signed myself in, I stayed vigilant of the other actors, perceiving them as tributes in the Cornucopia. May the odds be ever in your favor. One by one, they went in, averaging the exact same seven-minute audition window. Then they exited promptly until I was alone in the waiting room. My hands clammed up and I wiped them on the cushion.
“Last of the day. Come on in,” a casting associate said, waving me in. I rose to my feet and pretended that I wasn’t blacking out when I handed her my headshot. “Stand on the red X. We’ll just do the first two scenes. Any questions?” They cut the third scene. Did they already find their top candidates?
“No questions up front. But if it’s a miss, let me know and I’ll adjust,” I answered as one of my strategies to demonstrate confidence but also directability.
She framed up the camcorder as I created the postapocalyptic world around me. I sorted out my eyelines—I’d address Gale on camera-left and speak to Prim on the right.
We ran the first scene, and I made sure my face caught the natural shadow in the room to intensify the mood.
“Great. No notes. Let’s do scene two,” she ushered on. Did I actually nail it or is she just ready to go home?
“Are you framing in a medium shot or close-up?” I asked, bidding for more presence so I could leave a memorable mark. Plus, camera framing affected performance. If we were wide, I’d express the emotions more proportionately to real life. If she was tight, you hardly had to think about a line, and the camera would detect an expression loudly and clearly.
“Staying close up,” she confirmed. Then subtlety is key. Keep it all in the eyes.
We enacted the inciting moment when Katniss stepped in to take her sister’s place in the Hunger Games.
“I volunteer as tribute!” I declared with every fiber of my being, my face sharply serious.
“And . . . cut,” she announced. Still in character, I asked for any notes. “Nope, that was great work. Thank you for coming in.” Her body language indicated the appointment was complete.
“Okay, thank you! Have a good rest of your day!” I said exuberantly.
Instead of releasing the audition after leaving the building, I carried it with me everywhere. Days ticked on, and my agents asked around town for intel.
“No word yet. But it’s not a no,” they pacified.
Hanging in the balance, I gritted through my restrictive meal plan and Spartan 500 workout, my body entering starvation mode and screaming for calories. After a week, I teetered past the edge of deprivation into a full-body emergency alarm for food.
I willed myself to slowly approach the pantry. I spread a modest amount of peanut butter on saltine crackers. 350 calories will be all right to add. But I was famished. An hour later, I rationed out a packet of sugar-free instant oatmeal and added protein powder. This should be enough. My stomach growled for more. Just make it to dinner and you can have twice the portion of chicken.
I watched the clock like a hawk, trying to override biology with willpower. But by the time I sat down and finished my plate, I couldn’t abstain. I poured a bowl of my favorite cereal for dessert. Before I was halfway done I had a hand in the box of Wheat Thins. The shame spiral set in and the pace of my eating sped up. You’re losing control, Alyson. My appetite was insatiable, and the flavors were so pleasurable. I buttered up the rest of the loaf of bread and topped it with cinnamon sugar, still not registering any fullness. I downed the pint of ice cream from the back of the freezer and rummaged through the cupboards, wolfing down chips, popcorn, chocolate bars, and whatever was within reach until my jaw was too sore to chew. With pants unbuttoned, I completed the biggest binge of my life and faded into delirium on the couch.
Twelve hours later, I awoke to a revolting migraine and lethargy. Somehow, I was still craving sugar. But before I could think about spoiling another day, I had to face the self-inflicted damage of the night before. You’re probably up three pounds, but it’s your fault and you’re going to have to fix it. When I stepped onto the scale, I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. What the hell? I gained back every single pound I lost over two months? In a few hours?! It was my worst nightmare. My body had held on to every morsel of food and liquid ounce, unsure when it would be fed again. All my progress was erased.
I canceled my vocal lesson and dance training, falling into a black hole of self-hatred. Somewhere in the abyss, I received the email I had been waiting for: “Heard this morning from casting. They have their short list. You aren’t moving forward. You can remove it from your plate.” Just perfect. I’ve moved on to filling my plate with doughnuts, don’t worry.
I sat on my bed with vacant eyes and a distant mind. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Excerpted from SEMI-WELL-ADJUSTED DESPITE LITERALLY EVERYTHING by Alyson Stoner ©2025 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Press.
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