What do you do when you’ve lost everything by the time you’re 19? When you’ve been kicked out of college for drinking, fired from every job you’ve had, and your own parents have given up on you? When the only friends you have left are a gang of petty criminals who steal car parts and break into rich people’s pools at night.

 Do you keep falling or do you find a reason to climb back up? Robert Redford had to answer that question in 1956. He was broke. He was alone. He was an alcoholic with no degree and a record of petty theft. Everyone who knew him thought he was finished. And honestly, he thought so, too. But then he did something so unexpected, so completely out of character for a drunk kid from Los Angeles that it would change his life forever.

 He hitchhiked across the Atlantic to Europe with no money, no plan, and no idea what he was looking for. What he found there would turn him from a failure into a legend. But to understand how Robert Redford went from lying drunk in a boulder gutter to standing on a Broadway stage seven years later, you need to know three things. First, how a golden boy athlete became an alcoholic criminal by the time he graduated high school.

 Second, what happened in Europe that saved his life when nothing else could. And third, how he convinced his own father, who’d completely given up on him, that he deserved one more chance. This is the story they don’t tell you about Robert Redford. The one that almost never happened. Before Robert Redford was expelled from college, before he was arrested for stealing, before the drinking destroyed everything, he was just a sick kid trying to survive.

He was 11 years old in 1947 when polio hit him. For weeks, he lay in bed, unable to move, watching his muscles waste away while his parents prayed he wouldn’t end up in an iron lung. The fear never fully left him. Even after he recovered, even after his body came back, there was something broken inside. A feeling that he didn’t quite belong, that he was always watching life from the outside.

His parents took him to Yoseite National Park after he got better, hoping the wilderness would heal what the disease had damaged. And it did in a way. Standing in those mountains, surrounded by trees that had lived for thousands of years, Redford felt something he’d never felt before. Peace.

 A sense that maybe the world was bigger than his fear. He never forgot that feeling. Years later, when everything fell apart, he’d spend days alone in the mountains trying to find that peace again. But first, he had to lose everything. By the time Robert Redford entered Vanise High School in Los Angeles, he’d learned how to hide.

 He was a good athlete. His fastball was clocked at 87 mph when he was only 16. College recruiters were calling, but he was a terrible student, bored, restless, angry. So he found a group of kids who felt the same way. They called themselves the Barrens and they stole things. It started with hubcaps from expensive cars in Beverly Hills.

 It wasn’t about money. They usually threw them away after. It was about the thrill, taking from people who had everything while they had nothing. Redford could pop four hubcaps off a Cadillac in under two minutes. But stealing wasn’t enough. The Baron started breaking into mansions to swim in pools that cost more than their parents made in a year.

 It was stupid, reckless, and Redford loved it. For those moments in someone else’s pool, he wasn’t the sick kid who almost died from polio. He was invincible. One night in 1955, the police almost caught them. Redford crouched behind a parked car, clutching stolen chrome, heart pounding. The officer’s flashlight beam swept the street, came within inches of his face, and then the cop drove away.

 He didn’t get caught that night, but he was living on borrowed time. His baseball talent saved him. In 1954, the University of Colorado offered him a half scholarship. It wasn’t a full ride, but it was enough. His father looked at him with something close to pride for the first time in years. Finally, his dad said, the kids got a future.

Redford moved to Boulder. Clean slate, fresh start. But he brought the anger with him. There was a bar near campus called the sink. It’s still there today with Redford’s portrait on the wall like some kind of shrine to the guy who almost didn’t make it. But back in 1954, it was just the kind of place where everyone knew your name and nobody judged you for drinking too much.

Redford got a job there, washing dishes, minimum wage, free beer after closing. And that’s where the real drinking started. Not the high school parties where you sneak a six-pack and feel rebellious. Not the stolen beers from the Baron’s weekend runs. This was different. This was drinking. To forget, to numb, to disappear.

 At first, it was just after his shifts. A couple of beers with the guys who worked the kitchen, harmless. But then it was before his shifts, then during. He’d show up wreaking of alcohol, hands shaking as he scrubbed plates, and his boss would shake his head, but say nothing because good dishwashers were hard to find. His baseball performance started slipping.

He’d show up to practice hung over, miss easy catches, swing at pitches that were nowhere near the strike zone. The coach pulled him aside after a particularly bad game. You’re wasting your talent,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot of guys with less skill than you make it to the majors, but they wanted it.

 Do you even want this?” Redford nodded. Said all the right things, promised to do better. And then walked straight to the sink and ordered a double whiskey. The truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted. Baseball was his father’s dream, not his. But he didn’t have another dream to replace it with. So he drank instead of figuring it out.

His grades were already bad, but now they were catastrophic. He stopped going to classes, stopped turning in assignments. Academic probation came first, then academic suspension. Professors tried to reach him. The dean’s office sent letters. His roommate moved out because Redford would come home

 at 3:00 a.m. drunk and loud, smelling like beer and regret. He was burning every bridge, alienating everyone who tried to help. And he couldn’t stop. He got fired from the sink in early 1956, not for stealing, not for showing up late, but for showing up drunk one too many times. His boss, a guy named Eddie, who’d covered for him a dozen times before, finally said, “I can’t do this anymore, kid.

 You need help.” Redford laughed in his face. “I’m fine,” he said. He wasn’t fine. His scholarship was revoked next. He was failing every class. Academic probation turned into academic suspension. And then in early 1956, the letter came. Official expulsion from the University of Colorado. No degree, no baseball career, no future.

 His father called, not angry, just disappointed. Which was worse. What are you going to do now? His dad asked. Redford didn’t have an answer. A week later, his father said the words that would haunt him for years. You’re on your own now. Robert Redford was 19 years old, lying face down in the dirt outside the sink bar, wreaking of vomit and failure.

Everyone who knew him thought this was the end of the story. The talented kid who threw it all away. But what Redford did next wasn’t rehab. It wasn’t apologies. It wasn’t crawling back to his parents begging for forgiveness. It was something nobody expected. If you want to know what happened next, and trust me, you won’t believe it.

 Make sure you’re subscribed and hit that notification bell. Redford took his last $200, hitchhiked to New York, and worked odd jobs for three months to buy a one-way ticket to Europe. His mother cried when he told her. His father didn’t say goodbye. Maybe they were right to worry. Maybe he was running, but he didn’t know what he was running toward.

 He arrived in Paris in summer 1956 with $50, rented a moldy room on the left bank, and barely left for three days. He thought Europe would be romantic. Instead, sitting in that room, listening to strangers argue in languages he didn’t understand. All he felt was loneliness. He’d brought a sketchbook, thinking he’d become an artist.

 He tried, but every drawing looked like garbage. So instead of drawing, he watched. He’d sit in the same cafe every morning, nursing one cup of burnt coffee for three hours, studying people. an old man’s shaking hands, a couple arguing in whispers, a waiter with empty eyes. He didn’t know it yet, but he was learning how to act, learning that every person carries a story beneath their surface.

 After a few weeks, he took a train to Florence, Italy. He’d heard about the art museums there, the Ufitzi Gallery, the Renaissance masterpieces. He figured if he couldn’t make art, maybe he could at least understand it. He stood in front of a painting by Caravajio for almost an hour. It wasn’t the brush strokes that captivated him.

It was the story, the drama, the way a single frozen moment could contain an entire life. And that’s when it hit him. He didn’t want to make art. He wanted to be art. He wanted to be the story people couldn’t look away from. He wanted to act. He returned to America in 1957 with a plan for the first time in his life.

He enrolled at Pratt Institute in New York to study design, but he also started attending the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. He worked three jobs to pay for it. Janitor, usher, waiter. He was sober for the first time in years, not because he’d found God or gone to rehab, but because he was terrified of becoming that kid in Boulder again.

 His father came to visit in spring 1958. Redford hadn’t seen him in almost two years. He was living in a 60-month apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with water stained ceilings and neighbors who screamed in Polish. When his father walked in, he looked older, grayer, smaller. He stood in the doorway, taking in the cramped space, the scripts on the floor, the hot plate kitchen.

 Didn’t say anything for a long time. This is what you wanted, his father finally said. This is what you threw away a scholarship for? I’m making it work. His father picked up a script. You could have had a degree, a real job. Instead, you’re living in a slum, waiting tables, pretending to be someone else for strangers who don’t even know your name.

 Redford had heard this his entire life. He was tired of it. I threw away your dream, he said. Baseball was what you wanted. I’m doing this because it’s the only thing that’s ever felt real. Real? His father gestured at the apartment. You call this real? More real than being drunk in Boulder? Redford shot back. I’m sober. I’m working.

 I’m trying to build something that’s mine. If you can’t see that, I don’t know what else to tell you. His father walked to the window. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. I don’t understand this life, he said. But I can see you’re not drinking. And that’s something. He left without hugging him, without wishing him luck.

Just walked out and closed the door. Redford stood there staring at that closed door, feeling something shift. Not approval, but acknowledgement. For now, that was enough. In 1959, he got his first Broadway role, a small part in a play called Tall Story. Nothing special, but it was a start.

 His father showed up on opening night. Redford didn’t know he was there until after the final curtain when he saw him standing in the back of the lobby. They locked eyes. His father didn’t smile, didn’t congratulate him, just gave a single almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was acknowledgment.

 The next four years were brutal. Redford auditioned for dozens of roles and got rejected over and over. He was too pretty, too young, not experienced enough. He lived in poverty, watching other actors get the breaks he wanted. There were nights when the temptation to drink came back, hard and mean. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d come too far.

 In 1963, he heard about a new play by Neil Simon called Barefoot in the Park. More than 50 actors auditioned for the lead. Redford was one of them. The director, Mike Nichols, sat in the third row looking bored. He glanced at Redford’s headsh shot. “You’re too pretty,” he said. “This character needs depth.” Redford had heard this before.

 Beauty and talent mutually exclusive. He felt the old anger rising, but this time he used it. Give me one scene, he said. Any scene. If all you see is a pretty face, I’ll walk out right now. Nicholls raised an eyebrow. Act two, scene three. The big fight. You know it. Redford had only read the script once, but he nodded.

 He took a breath. And then he became someone else. A young lawyer who’d married the love of his life and was realizing that love wasn’t enough. That marriage was hard. That growing up meant losing parts of yourself. He poured everything into that scene. All the failure, all the rejection. When he finished, the room was silent.

Nichols stood up, walked onto the stage. “Do that again,” he said. “But this time, make me believe you’re actually sorry.” Redford did it again and again. Each time, finding something new. After the fifth take, Nicholls looked at him. “You’re hired. Rehearsals start Monday.” Redford nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

 After four years of poverty and rejection, he’d gotten his break. He wanted to call his father, but when he got home and picked up the phone, he couldn’t dial. Too much time had passed. Too many unsaid things hung between them. Barefoot in the park was set to open on October 23rd, 1963. Redford had finally done it.

 After seven years of clawing his way back from rock bottom, he was about to prove to everyone, to his father, to himself, that the last seven years hadn’t been a waste. Rehearsals were going well. The cast chemistry was perfect. Critics who’d seen the previews were already whispering that this could be the hit of the season.

Redford bought two tickets for opening night, one for himself, obviously, and one for his father. He’d called him a week before the premiere. The conversation was awkward at first. They hadn’t spoken in almost a year, but Redford pushed through the discomfort. “I’m doing a play,” he said. “I got the lead.

 I’d really like you to be there.” There was a long pause on the other end. Then his father said, “Send me the details. I’ll see if I can make it.” Not a yes, but not a no either. Redford held on to that tiny sliver of hope like a lifeline. 3 days before opening night, October 20th, the phone in Redford’s apartment rang at 6:00 a.m. It was his mother.

 And from the sound of her voice, he knew. His father had died of a heart attack in his sleep. No warning, no goodbye, just gone. Redford stood there holding the phone, feeling nothing. Shock, maybe. Or maybe he’d felt so much over the years that his body didn’t know how to process this.

 His mother was crying, asking if he’d come home for the funeral. I can’t, he heard himself say. I have opening night in 3 days. Even as he said it, he hated himself. What kind of son chooses a play over his father’s funeral? But he did it anyway. He flew to California for the funeral service, stood at the grave site next to his mother, accepted condolences from relatives who asked what he was up to these days, and clearly didn’t believe him when he said Broadway.

 He flew back to New York the same day, made it to the final dress rehearsal with an hour to spare. Opening night arrived. Redford stood backstage listening to the audience filter into the theater, and all he could think about was the empty seat. Row H, seat 12. He’d reserved it for his father, and now it would stay empty.

 No one would sit there. No one would see what Redford had become. The stage manager called places. Redford took his position. The curtain rose and for the next two hours he poured every ounce of grief into the performance. Every laugh line landed. Every emotional beat hit exactly right. The audience loved it.

 When the final curtain fell, they gave a standing ovation that lasted four minutes. Redford stood there hand in hand with his co-stars, bowing to strangers who were applauding a performance they’d never understand because they saw a charming romantic comedy. He’d just performed a funeral for a man who’d never believed in him. Not really.

 Not until it was too late. The success didn’t erase the past. Interviewers would ask him about his overnight success, and Redford would smile, that famous smile, and say, “It took me seven years and a lot of stealing to get here.” Most people thought he was joking. He wasn’t. Robert Redford went on to become one of the biggest movie stars in the world.

 Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, The Sting, All the President’s Men. But he never forgot 1956. Never forgot what it felt like to be expelled, broke, and alone. In 1981, he founded the Sundance Institute to give chances to filmmakers who didn’t fit the Hollywood mold. The outsiders, the expelled, the ones who’d lost everything and had to build themselves back from nothing.

 When people asked him why he did it, why he spent so much time and money helping unknowns, his answer was always the same. I give second chances, he said. Because someone gave me one. He paused. Actually, I gave myself one. Robert Redford was expelled from college for drinking. Everyone thought he was finished. But the kid who lost everything in Boulder became the man who changed Hollywood.

 Not because he was lucky, not because he was talented, but because when he hit rock bottom, he made a choice. He could keep falling. Or he could climb. He chose to climb. And he never stopped. Robert Redford became one of Hollywood’s biggest stars. But there was one night on set where everything almost fell apart when a co-star pushed him too far and Redford’s response shocked the entire crew.

 What happened next changed how he worked for the rest of his career.