When we look at celebrities, it’s easy to assume their lives unfold effortlessly—careers taking off, money flowing, doors opening. What often gets missed is how much weight sits behind the public image. Sometimes the success arrives alongside deep instability, unresolved grief, and years spent trying to outrun the past.

That is the reality Josh Brolin explores in his newly released memoir, From Under the Truck. The book is not a victory lap or a polished Hollywood retrospective. Instead, it is a raw, often unsettling look at the experiences that shaped him long before fame solidified his place in the industry.

In interviews surrounding the memoir, Brolin describes a childhood marked by unpredictability and danger. His mother, Jane, was a wildlife conservationist, and the environment she raised him in was far from ordinary. When Brolin and his brother Jess were young, their mother sometimes employed what he describes as a terrifying “parenting tactic.” She would shout commands like “Sic ’em” to nearby wild animals—cougars, coyotes, bobcats—prompting them to chase the boys.

Brolin writes that there was a clear rule in those moments: if you didn’t reach safety fast enough, you would spend the rest of the day tending to fresh cuts and blood. Looking back, he admits he is “loath to say” the experiences were horrifying, even though they clearly were. Despite the chaos, he says his mother remained someone he deeply wanted in his life, illustrating the complicated loyalty children often feel toward difficult parents.

His mother died in a car accident in 1995 at the age of 55, a loss that cast a long shadow over his adulthood. During the height of his addiction, Brolin believed that 55 was a reasonable age to die—that by then, a person had lived long enough. It was a belief rooted less in logic than exhaustion.

Now 56, he sees that mindset for what it was: a symptom of despair. He acknowledges that it took years to confront his substance abuse honestly and to imagine a future that extended beyond mere survival.

Brolin also reflects on the influence of his father, James Brolin, and his stepmother, Barbra Streisand. Over time, Streisand became a source of what he describes as unapologetic “tough love.” One moment in particular stands out: when he casually asked for a glass of red wine in their home, she responded bluntly, asking if he wasn’t an alcoholic.

He recalls the exchange with humor and gratitude, noting that her directness cut through denial in a way few people dared. While the confrontation was uncomfortable, he credits that kind of honesty with helping him stay accountable. Those moments, he says, are now remembered fondly—not because they were easy, but because they were necessary.

In the memoir, Brolin traces the roots of his addiction back shockingly early. He writes about trying marijuana at nine years old and using LSD by thirteen. Over time, substance use became routine rather than recreational, blurring boundaries and eroding relationships. One of the most sobering moments came in 2013, when he arrived at his 99-year-old grandmother’s deathbed smelling strongly of alcohol after waking up hungover on the street.

That moment, he says, was the breaking point.

“I knew that was going to be the last time I drank,” Brolin has shared. And it was. More than a decade later, he remains sober and unequivocal about the change. He says he enjoys life more now, not less, and that no challenge he faces would be improved by returning to alcohol.

At this stage of his life, Brolin speaks openly about appreciating age and stability. He describes getting older as permission to slow down, to stop spinning, and to finally inhabit his life instead of escaping it. The perspective is not triumphant, but grounded—less about reinvention and more about acceptance.

His memoir doesn’t ask for sympathy, nor does it romanticize hardship. Instead, it offers context: a reminder that even those who appear to “have it all” may spend decades learning how to live with themselves.

Josh Brolin’s story is not just about survival or sobriety. It’s about reckoning—understanding where you came from, what it cost, and why staying present is sometimes the hardest work of all.