When acting REALLY imitates life

Sometimes an actor plays a role so truthfully that you forget you’re watching a performance. It stops being “acting” and starts becoming witness. That’s what Anna Maxwell Martin manages in ITV’s adaptation of Delia Balmer’s story (Until I Kill You).

Balmer survived the brutality of serial killer John Sweeney. Survived it, but never walked away untouched. Trauma doesn’t work like that. The body remembers long after the danger has passed.

Martin doesn’t perform Delia — she inhabits her. Every stutter, every half-swallowed word, every tremor in her hand carries the weight of what Delia lived through. It’s grief, terror, strength and survival all held in one body. You don’t watch it. You feel it.

And that’s what makes this drama different. It’s not just another true-crime retelling with dates and courtroom sketches. It tries to reckon with the cost — the lifelong cost — of violence. We see police interviews, legal processes, and attempts to rebuild a life that doesn’t fit together the way it used to. It’s uncomfortable. It should be. Trauma isn’t tidy. It doesn’t wrap up at the credits.

There’s a strange temptation we all have to separate trauma into categories: the “study of it” and the “survival of it.” Academics can examine trauma from a safe distance. Survivors don’t get that luxury. They carry the replay button in their bodies — the flashbacks, the freeze response, the sudden rush of adrenaline that makes sense even when nothing around them feels dangerous.

That’s why Martin’s performance matters. She reflects what trauma actually does: the way it interrupts sentences, derails breaths, and sits heavy in the muscles long after the mind says, “You’re safe now.” Trauma doesn’t disappear; it just changes shape. Anyone who has lived through it knows that truth instinctively.

And portraying that on screen isn’t without cost. Roles like this demand that an actor step close enough to pain to understand it — but not so close that they’re swallowed by it. It’s a tightrope, and not everyone could walk it. Martin manages it with respect rather than spectacle. She lets the story breathe instead of inflating the drama.

Why does a story like Delia’s resonate with so many?

Because suffering can feel isolating, and seeing someone tell the truth about it — honestly, without theatrics — gives us language for our own wounds. These stories help build compassion in a world that often wants tidy endings. They refuse the lie that people should “move on.” From what? From memory? From their own bodies? Healing is never that simple.

Watching Delia’s story reminds us that recovery isn’t forgetting — it’s finding a way to live with the scars without letting them dictate every breath. Most survivors don’t want pity. They want to be seen. Heard. Believed.

Martin’s performance honours that.

In the end, her portrayal becomes more than a role. It’s a reminder that behind every headline, every documentary, every case file, there is a life still learning how to hold both trauma and hope in the same pair of hands.

And maybe that’s what recovery looks like — not erasing the past, but refusing to be erased by it.

If this reflection helped you think differently about trauma, empathy, or the stories we carry, feel free to share it or leave a comment below.
You can find more posts like this under Policy & Public Life, where I explore culture, compassion, and the world we all have to live in together.

If you’re new to the blog, you can also read my memoir-related posts here:
👉 Window Seat – Memoir Posts

And if you’d like updates when new reflections go live, you can subscribe through the email box at the bottom of the site.