I need to tell you about a phrase.

Two words. Five syllables. Delivered almost exclusively with a warm smile by someone who needs something from you that you haven’t agreed to give.

Just be a Team Player.

I’ve heard it on a film set, in front of a full crew, after I’d already said no, after we’d already agreed in writing. I’ve heard it more recently in a much quieter, much more professional, much more velvet-gloved form. And I’ve spent a lot of time since sitting with which one was worse.

At least the first time, I knew exactly what was happening to me.

The set

The movie is called Blood Honey — and I’ll be honest, I’m reluctant to even say the name because I genuinely do not want that man to get a single view off the back of this story. But for context, and because vagueness has a way of making misogynists coin women “hysterical”, here it is.

I had a conversation regarding the relatively raunchy (and far too steamy for my comfort level) sex scene in the script before I ever agreed to the project. I stated my boundaries clearly. We discussed a workaround that respected my boundaries and met the director’s vision for the film. We put it in writing. And then I arrived on the day and our agreement had simply... evaporated. I was standing in front of a full crew being “asked”, assertively and publicly, to change my mind.

The specific feeling of that moment — and I think you know this feeling, I think it lives somewhere in your body already — is not quite anger, not quite embarrassment and not quite fear. It’s all three at once, with a chaser of ‘am I the problem right now?’ That last ingredient is the most insidious one. The ask is constructed so carefully that it makes you question your own read of the situation. Everyone is so calm. Everyone is so reasonable. The clock is ticking. The crew is waiting. Which means if you’re the one who objects, you must be the unreasonable one.

I wasn’t. I’d said no before this all started. And so, I said it again.

I said it once. I said it clearly. And this time, I said it not so nicely. I am still proud of myself for holding my ground in that moment and making it clear I was not the young woman to be fucked with. But I’m also still angry that I was ever put in that position.

The polished version

The recent one was different. No crew. No confrontation. Just a professional, cordial, quick e-mail exchange and a closed door with a smile painted on it.

And I’ve been sitting with the question of which one was harder to process. The ambush or the velvet glove?

Because the ambush gave me something to push against. The velvet glove gave me nothing. You can’t be angry at a door that opens politely and says sorry before it closes in your face. You just have to stand there and decide whether the room on the other side was worth what they were asking you to give up to get into it.

It wasn’t. But that’s easier to say now than it was in the moment. The velvet glove version is designed, whether intentionally or not, to make you doubt yourself. To make you wonder if your boundary was the unreasonable thing. If maybe you should reconsider. If maybe the opportunity is more important than the thing you’d have to give up to take it.

That doubt is the point.

Girls

Here’s where it gets complicated. And I want to be careful here, because complicated doesn’t mean I’m picking a side.

When I was on 90210, the language of TV intimacy was the morning-after scene. Sheets tucked conservatively under bare shoulders. A kiss that dissolved to black. The implication of everything without the exhibition of anything. And then Girls arrived, and Lena Dunham did something genuinely radical — she put bodies on-screen in deeply intimate sexual scenarios that weren’t the industry’s typical depiction of desirable women’s bodies — namely, her own. And she dared the audience to sit with their own discomfort about that in hopes of urging them to deconstruct it. It was a feminist act. A brave one. It moved needles that needed moving, for women in front of and behind the camera.

I want to be clear about that, because what comes next isn’t an indictment of her or her intentions.

What the patriarchy does — and it does this with a reliability that would be almost impressive if it weren’t so exhausting — is take a feminist act and absorb it. Reframe it. Monetize it. Turn the exception into the expectation. What started as one woman’s radical choice to own her own image became, over the next decade, an industry assumption that every woman’s image was available for the taking if the role required it. The brave became the baseline. The choice became the condition.

I have no interest in relitigating Lena Dunham’s career or her choices or her contradictions. She is a complicated person who has done complicated things, which makes her a human being. What I’m naming is the machine that saw what she built and decided to use it against the rest of us. That’s not her fault. That’s the room she was also in.

Penn Badgley

A few years ago, Penn Badgley announced he was done filming sex scenes out of respect for his wife. The internet celebrated him. Genuinely, warmly, enthusiastically — what a husband, what a man, what an evolved and boundary-setting King.

I have been having that exact conversation with directors since I was a teenager. It has never once made a headline. It has occasionally made an awkward silence, a negotiation, and in one particular case, the very public aforementioned ambush on a film set in front of a room full of men waiting to see if I’d fold.

I want to be clear: I’m not angry at Penn Badgley. I don’t know him. He seems like a genuinely good person who made a choice that was right for him and spoke about it honestly. The problem is not Penn. The problem is the room that taught us that his version of that conversation is celebrated and mine is a complication to be managed.

And because I frequently get tarred with the brush of a ‘bitter has-been’, let’s throw the voices of far-more “relevant” and objectively far more talented and successful actresses into the mix. Sarah Shahi talked recently about sometimes consuming alcohol before filming sex scenes to calm her nerves. Viola Davis and Amy Poehler have both said openly that they hate filming them — that it’s the worst day on any production. These are not women who couldn’t hack it. These are among the most decorated, most respected, most successful women working in this industry today. And they still showed up and did the thing but by statements they made when asked about it after the fact... it sounds like they didn’t want to.

And, yes, we all do things we don’t “want” to do. It was their personal choice and was the right choice for them at the time. But the choice always comes at a cost; whether it be time, money, physical/mental exhaustion or in this case, personal comfort and boundaries.

Based on their commentary on the subject matter, I think it’s safe to say, they would’ve rather not had to make that choice. Or rather, would’ve rather not had that be a part of the choice they made. To work. To entertain. To perform. Choosing to accept opportunities that would grow their careers, fulfill them creatively and earn a living cost them certain personal boundaries that still make them uncomfortably giggle whilst quivering at the thought or drink a little booze in the workplace to get through. We’ve just agreed not to talk about that part.

The women who had a problem with this were never the problem. They were just expected to have that problem quietly, and privately, and on their own time.

Where it Lives

I am not shaming the man who said something or the women who didn’t say something. I’m highlighting the industry that pressures the women who do to “be a team player” or dismisses them altogether.

Here’s the thing about ‘just be a team player’ — it doesn’t live on film sets. It lives everywhere.

It lives in the open-plan office where being professional means laughing at the joke. It lives at the family dinner where keeping the peace means swallowing something true about yourself. It lives in the relationship where being low-maintenance has quietly become a full-time performance. It lives in every room where someone needs you to override your gut and has found a framing that makes that override feel like a virtue.

The phrase is almost always a sentence that ends with someone else’s comfort and your compromise. And it is almost always delivered by someone who knows exactly what they’re asking you to give up.

The Permission

Nobody is going to give you permission to say no.

I wish someone had told me that while I was standing on that set, looking around at all those eyes waiting to see what I’d do. Not your director. Not your boss. Not the room full of people staring at you, tired and behind schedule and waiting for you to be reasonable.

The permission was always yours. It is always yours.

I’m still doing the accounting on the times I didn’t use it. The times I found a way to comply. The times I was professional and flexible and a team player and handed something over that I can’t quite name but that I know I gave. I suspect a lot of us are doing that accounting quietly. I suspect most of us have never said that out loud.

So I’m saying it here, for whatever it’s worth:

You were always allowed to say no. You still are.

You don’t need the room’s permission. You never did.

Where are you being asked to be a team player right now? Not dramatically. Not in a way that makes a good story. Just quietly, warmly, professionally — where is someone asking you to go against yourself, and how much is it costing you every single day?

Tell me in the comments. I read every one. And if nothing else, let this be the reminder that you are not alone in that room — a lot of us are standing in it right alongside you, figuring out when to hold the line and how much it costs when we don’t.

We’re all doing this together. xx

This is the companion essay to Lost The Plot Episode 9 on YouTube. The full story — the film set, the crew, the moment — is in the episode. This is the thing I couldn’t quite bring myself to say on camera.

Both are free. Both are for you.

You see, there’s this little part up there that has a tendency to take over every couple of months — occasionally when I’m overwhelmed but more frequently, when I’m feeling underwhelmed.

It’s the part that perpetually keeps me in my own way. The part that insatiably desires more. The part riddled with imposter syndrome. The part that wants to do so many things until it becomes paralyzed and struggles to do a damn thing. The part that doesn’t feel worthy of the life I already have. It’s the part that’s stopped me from showing up here for weeks. Not because I haven’t wanted to — I desperately have — but because when that part takes over, I freeze.

I overthink. I overconsume. I overcomplicate.

And then, I overdo. Until it becomes the undoing of me.

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This is a story about the time I conned my way into the front row and a major fashion show… basically. I showed up uninvited to an event that I’d had my heart set on attending for a whole year and the valuable lesson it reinforced: believe the things you want to be and do in your life are already yours, then show the people who don’t get it yet until they believe it, too.

Last year, we happened to be visiting London around the same time as London Fashion Week. Since our time in England means rare access to free babysitting (thank you, in-laws!), we scrambled last minute to find some fun fashion-filled events to add to our calendar. That’s when I discovered the brand of my dreams; the completely impractical, far-too-high-a-price-point-to-ever-afford, absolutely undeniably f*cking breathtaking, Annie’s Ibiza.

When I feverishly searched online to see if this UK-based brand even had a show on the LFW schedule, I discovered they did. Yay. That same evening. Wah wah. That took the whole last minute scramble idea to the realm of impossibility. There was simply no way, I’d find my way onto that guest list within 6 hours so I watched the footage and photos roll in on social media filled with FOMO and made it my mission to be there in person the next year.

This time, I’d be prepared.

10 months passed, flights were booked and I gave my managers ample lead time to secure me a spot… to no avail.

I DM’d, I e-mailed, I sought alternative contacts… to no avail.

All signs were pointing to being shit out of luck but when you know in your bones you are meant to be somewhere or do the thing or have something… that’s when trust comes in.

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This is a story about my first heartbreak since dipping a toe back into the acting pool after a 6 year hiatus. I *almost* booked my first job from an audition in over 7 years and for the first time in about 15 years, that *not-so-great* news nearly crushed me. But in that pain, came a passion reignited that I also haven’t felt in 15 years and for that, I am grateful I didn’t get the job. Though, I still obviously wish I had. LOL Here’s what happened…

P.S. I’m going to provide some major details that you won’t find anywhere else on the internet so you’re gonna wanna read this to the very last word.

So, I posted a few months ago that I was finally starting to audition for acting roles again. Spoiler alert: I have been. Not frequently AT ALL but I am proactively doing the damn thing once more. EEK!

Transparently, I’m being very specific about what kind of roles would suit my family’s dynamic as to avoid wasting my time, or that of my agent or any casting directors, by auditioning for things I ultimately wouldn’t be comfortable doing if I booked the job. Yes, that narrows my chances of actually booking anything IMMENSELY but it’s the only way it’s going to work while my kids are little so narrow chances it will remain for the time being!

Before I dive in to the whole who’s, what’s and where’s of this story, let me provide some context on the how for any non-actors reading who may not know how the industry works.

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I wrote 800 titles for this post and couldn’t get past that point for days and then I thought, fuck it. This is gonna be un-pretty and un-profound and un-interesting to those who want some gnarly clickbait to sink their teeth into but I just need to get it out. Out of my system and into the hands of anyone else who might feel the same as I do right now.

First of all, we all know this has been an insane year so I don’t want to harp on that too much. None of us need a reminder of the specifics. Between wild and confusing political movement, bizarre corporate/political alignments, devastating natural disasters and oh ya, Nazi Superbowl ads… I repeat, what in the actual FUCK is going on?!

While I’m so truly, deeply disgusted, distraught and overwhelmed by all of the above and so much more to the point of it being frighteningly maddening, I’m also admittedly starting to feel burnt out by 2025 and we’re only six weeks in.

So, what’s the plan here, Stan?

How are we going to tackle the next fourty-six weeks? How are we going to maintain our sanity whilst simultaneously living through whatever 💩 storm is thrown at us next?

I have some ideas I want to offer up…

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Sadly, I’m not surprised that we’re still here in 2025. And despite the title of this post, I’m not particularly angry about it, either. I’m tired.

I am so tired of battling my urge to “fix” something that my gut tells me isn’t fucking broken. It’s just my wrinkly face. And my stretched belly. And my flappy upper arms. And my greying hair. They are ever-evolving and sagging and expanding and deflating but I repeat, THEY ARE NOT BROKEN.

But the brands, the screens and the celebrities and even now, the every day folks I see all around me, have me periodically slipping into believing otherwise. And the before and afters? The promises? The results? Well, they are undeniably appealing to the eye. So, I bite. Smoother, firmer, thinner, thicker, younger… all adjectives that not-so-subtly imply “better” than whatever I look like today.

While I’m far from “perfect”, I’m not really all that far off from being and looking exactly how I want to either. But when the trolls roll in saying how old I look for my age and the ads roll in saying how their branded faux-zempic will finally give me the flat tummy I should aspire to have… it’s hard to not question myself. Should I care more about having the face and body of a 20 year old?

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2025 has kicked my ass mentally, thus far. And I know it’s not just me.

I started off with the best intentions; ready to leave my annual (holiday) seasonal depression behind, hopeful for what a new year might bring, determined to choose happy.

Then, January happened.

From one catastrophic world event hitting too close to home to the next, it’s been A LOT. And it’s been getting to me in a big way. I’ve felt stuck. I’ve felt angry. I’ve felt sad. I’ve felt helpless. I’ve felt straight up down in the dumps. And because all of those heavy feelings weren’t about anything to do with me and my life, I felt really selfish trying to do anything to get myself out of it know for those directly affected, “shaking it off” really wasn’t an option.

Then, I got an unexpected call from one of my best friends in LA who I never speak to because to know me well is to know I’m terrible at keeping in touch but I love you with my whole heart wherever I am. He was calling to check in because his spide-y senses were telling him I was not okay. He was right.

When I asked how he was doing, he said something that shifted everything for me in an instant.

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Given this weekend’s events and the current state of social media as a whole, at this moment in time, this is the one space I feel confident will allow us as a digital community to maintain a a truly meaningful connection.

And give the current state of the world, I know I am craving connection and community more right now than ever. How about you?

For a lot of people, making friends comes quite naturally in our youth. It’s not necessarily easy at any age but it’s almost inevitable when we’re young. Then, as we get older, it becomes harder and harder until it starts to feel impossible. It’s not just you, it’s you and me and most people over 25. It’s actually an incredibly common challenge that often goes unspoken. So, I’m speaking about it.

This essay breaks down my personal challenges with finding and keeping friends as an adult, how I’ve navigated those challenges and what I’ve learned about making friends and finally starting to “find my people” in this chapter of life.

The Friendship Game

Until my late 20s, friendship was a vibrant and very much ever-present entity in my. Then, proper adulthood struck and suddenly it felt impossible.

Despite having many friends over the years, I have never been a social butterfly per se. I’ve always had complicated feelings about “friendship”…

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One thing about me is: I’m a glass half-empty kinda gal.

I, like many of us, learned very early on in life that while Mick Jagger’s life choices have been questionable over the decades, he got one thing very right. “You can’t always get what you want.” Despite all your mightiest efforts and burning desires, there are simply countless elements at work outside of your control that can — and often will — lead to disappointment, heartache, pain, and all the not-so-fun things this beautiful life can offer up.

So, at some point, I decided to set the bar low.

And with every tear, sleepless night and explosive reaction that resulted from being the grown up “child with big feelings” that I inherently am, I’d take that bar down just one more notch.

Wah, wah, I know. But I promise this is leading somewhere far less bleak, just bear with me.

All of the above does not mean I’ve walked around depressed and unable to celebrate the many wins and joys I’ve had the good fortune of experiencing in my 30-some odd years on this planet. It just means, I intentionally set myself up to expect them less and less in an attempt to spare myself from impending doom, aka depression, if/when they didn’t happen.

And it means, I’m honest.

I read an anonymous quote the other day that said, “I don’t trust liars, therefore I do not trust overly happy people. They’re just hiding their insecurities on the inside.”

While my initial reaction was to chuckle because I can totally relate to that belief system — I’m not sure I want to subscribe to that narrative anymore. Though, until very recently, I whole-heartedly did. Just like I used to believe that seeing the glass half-empty was setting myself up to be pleasantly surprised instead of gut-wrenchingly disappointed.

If TikTok’s taught me anything, it’s that unique experiences don’t exist so I’m fairly certain opting for this half-empty mentality was a pretty textbook coping mechanism for a kid with big dreams, a sub-par parent and undiagnosed ADHD. And who isn’t one, if not all of the above, these days?

The thing is, after a long time of believing I was viewing myself, my life, the world and others in it as half-empty to spare myself disappointment, I realized I’d begun to approach all of it already disappointed. Leaving less and less room for things to “pleasantly surprise” me.

This chosen perspective had subconsciously become my general demeanor — both of which are two of the very few things in our lives we have complete control over. Guess I can’t keep blaming daddy issues for that one.

I mean, I could. And I have, many times. But I’m a big girl now and blah, blah, blah. The truth is, the only one suffering the consequences of letting my half-empty perspective cloud the glass entirely is me. And the family I’ve chosen and created.

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I’m not sure what the catalyst was for me taking this hard look in the mirror as 2024 came to a close but it all amalgamated in a realization that I’d begun to let me fear of failure stop me from putting myself out there and trying new professional endeavors. I’d let my fear of loneliness and disappointment stop me from nurturing existing relationships and making new friends. I’d let all of my fears, insecurities and anxieties prevent me from actually enjoying what was already in my glass and the possibility of what more could be added.

Not only was I a pessimist but I had become quicker to snap, paralyzed with self-doubt and overwhelm and so consumed by stress and frustration and all the icky, negative bits of the human experience that I truly was not experiencing happiness in my life anymore.

The weirdest part of it all? I was so happy with and grateful for my life and everything in it.

I make a living doing all kinds of creative shit I absolutely love and have dreamt of doing since I was a kid with no boss breathing down my neck, co-worker politics at play or 9-5 schedule to be limited by.

I am married to my best friend in the whole world who also happens to be hot as fuck, makes me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever met and loves me unconditionally to an extent I didn’t think existed.

I have two gorgeous kids who are so kind and loving and conscientious and hilarious and want nothing more than my attention and love.

I have more than what we need when it comes to the necessities like food, shelter and clothes on our back and most importantly of all, we’re all healthy.

And I’m not saying this to be obnoxious or toot my own horn or make anyone reading feel less than. I’m writing it all down so I can see it. Because I think if we all looked at the highlights of our current status on paper, we’d be pretty chuffed with what we saw. There’s that whole perspective thing again.

So back to my piece of paper… WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK AM I UNHAPPY ABOUT, AGAIN?!

Nothing. Literally nothing. So, can someone please tell that to my brain?

Oh right, that’s my job. Ugh.

That’s what I realized as I wrapped up an amazing year riddled with stress and anxiety and overwhelm. I’d spent all these years choosing to lower the bar of expectation and maintaining a glass half-empty perspective to spare myself from impending doom and it hadn’t worked. It had actually started to work against me. I’d sort of become the doom and gloom and that energy was a massive limitation for what I’m able to manifest for my future and what I can experience today.

We all know tomorrow isn’t promised. Which is ironically, where a lot of my anxiety stems from. If tomorrow’s not promised, what can I shoulder today to check one more dream or goal off my personal laundry list and leave my family in the best possible position if I’m not around tomorrow? So I keep doing, keep hustling, keep worrying, keep stressing. Schedules and to-do-lists and feeling “on edge”, oh my… God!

Oh my god. I’ve been looking at the glass all wrong.

What would my family be most upset about, if I didn’t have a tomorrow? Sure, there’d be a ton of logistics and concerns to sort through over time but what would be the only thing on their minds if that day came tomorrow? Simple. Losing me.

And what — if there is an after-life where I maintained conscious thought about my current life — would I be most upset about, if I didn’t have tomorrow? Simpler. Leaving them.

So, I started to take inventory at the end of each day and asking myself, brutally honestly, “if I didn’t wake up tomorrow, would I be proud of how my family experienced my last day with me?” and “would I be satisfied with how I experienced my last day with me?” I hate to admit a lot of those days, the answer to those questions wasn’t ideal.

Then, I broke it down further. I began taking inventory more regularly in moments throughout the day. With work or the kids or my husband and even, strangers at the grocery store. Did I need to be stressed about that situation or could I have made a different choice in that moment? Did I need to be anxious or reactive or annoyed or mentally elsewhere? Or was that an impulsive choice that could’ve been re-directed to a more present experience, intentional reaction and pleasant feeling for all involved?

When you break down the day into moments and you start to consciously make choices that make more moments more pleasant for yourself and those around you, it’s amazing how that habit starts to shift your overall perspective and demeanor.

Don’t get me wrong. I will never be the kind of person that shits sunshine and rainbows. It’s not in my blood. And I’m not expecting to miraculously feel joy > anxiety 24/7 immediately. And I’d be bold face lying if I said I wasn’t still a moody cunt to those closest to me *cough* my husband *cough* from time to time.

BUT I now believe that I can choose to feel happy.

Feelings co-exist and it’s normal to have negative ones or reactive moments. I know that sometimes there will be no other way to feel or react in a moment and that’s okay. But a lot of the time, my default factory setting has been pessimistic when it could just as easily be positive… if I maintain the wherewithal to choose it.

For some, allowing themselves to feel happy and truly enjoy life comes more naturally than others. I am other. For now, it requires a conscious choice and effort — and some days, hard work. Lifestyles are just habits that become second-nature and forming habits is a diligent practice. So, until it’s second-nature and truly enjoying this beautiful life becomes my default style, I will choose happy.

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At least, that’s the intention. Sounds easy on paper. Wish me luck putting it into practice. I have a funny feeling I’ll need it some days!

P.S. I’m brand spanking new to this space and wanted to share this piece so you could get a strong, nerve-wrackingly honest impression of who I am, how I write and sound in my audio readings before hopping into the proverbial Substack bed with me and upgrading your subscription to paid. If you’re inclined to stick around for the ride by choosing to upgrade, thank you for supporting my work! Excited to pouring my heart and soul into serving this growing community in 2025!!

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As cliché as it might sound, for as long as I can remember I was “that kid” to my family, teachers and peers. The one constantly role playing and putting on performances and wanting as many people watching me as possible. Whether it be at a recital or in a classroom or at home or just simply walking across the street. Since I was a toddler, I craved just a smidge more than the average amount of attention.

But make no mistake, while I was undeniably that kid, I was not a theater kid. Important to point out because theater kids are a different breed whom I admire and respect whole-heartedly. I just wasn’t one of those kids.

You see, those kids truly, madly, deeply love “the craft”. They love the art of performing and the satisfaction of moving an audience to emotionally respond in real time. They love it all so much that they would commit their lives to performing wherever and whenever they can, so long as they made just enough money to get by.

I enjoyed performing, sure. But it wasn’t solely about “the craft” for me. My dream of being an actor was fueled by one thing and one thing only as a child: becoming famous. Well, if I’m being completely honest, it was actually becoming an Olsen triplet but I knew that was biologically impossible so I was content to settle for famous.

I remember meeting with my first agent at 12 years old and telling her that I just wanted to be on TV. I told her she could keep my whole paycheck because I was a kid and I didn’t need any money. I just needed to be on TV.

She laughed. I went on a handful of cattle call auditions and didn’t book anything so I swiftly gave up on that pipedream and focused on my grades. If I couldn’t become famous, I would get my special attention fix from being a star student, instead.

Then, I met my next agent, Amanda. Spoiler alert: 22 years later and she’s still in the picture.

Amanda had recently left her agency to start her own business and was spending evenings scouting for talent at young performer recitals. I was doing dance/musical classes as an extra curricular and happened to be in the back row of the stage at one of said recitals. This lady sat through 3.5 hours of discombobulated dance routines and horrendous renditions of West Side Story numbers in a sweaty old hall to chase me and my mom down in a parking lot afterwards and ask if I wanted an agent.

I was special, after all. I knew it!

But I also knew I was starting highschool in the Fall, which I’d already accepted was my road to whatever special destiny was meant for me. I reluctantly agreed to spend the summer going to whatever auditions she wanted to send me to, if my mom was available to take me, before parting ways come September so I could focus on what was important; my education.

Shortly into my summer of auditions, I booked a voiceover for a commercial. That’s when I heard my voice coming through a TV screen for the first time. And I made my first paycheck — which she did not keep all of, by the way, because evidently, per our contract, that would be illegal — and I finally got to buy something for myself with my own money and zero negotiation or permission required from my parents. That, my friends, at 13 years old felt fucking wonderful.

Naturally, I wanted more. The rest is history, as they say.

School started, I kept auditioning and I kept booking jobs. One after the other until my shooting schedule was too full to attend a regular highschool. Then came opportunities that would fill my bank account too generously to pass up for university.

So… that was kind of it. That was my path. Determined for me by a 13-year-old who liked attention, had a lot of luck and really loved shopping.

Fast forward to my first come-to-Jesus moment at 23 years old. The show I’d worked on for 5 years and had moved me to a different country on my own, away from all of my family and friends, was abruptly and unexpectedly cancelled. Life as I knew it my entire adult existence was over.

I could go on about all the conflicting ways that moment hit me in a whole chapter of a book but the key takeaway for this story is that I finally had a moment to breathe and reflect on what I wanted to do next. Did I want to continue pursuing a path chosen for me by my 13-year-old self? Or did 23-year-old me who’d spent years unhappily playing out that decision want to choose something else for herself now?

A couple weeks after receiving the news and filming my final days on that set, I called all of my agents and managers and told them they were fired. Not because they weren’t wonderful because they were but because I didn’t want to jump into another acting job.

I’d endured so many mental health struggles that the entertainment industry just wasn’t conducive for at that time and spent so long working that I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

When I started my decade-long run of back to back TV shows, I was just a tween. Now, I was a 23 year old woman about to get married with no clue who she really was beyond her public persona, professional life and personal baggage she’d racked up with no free time to actually process it. Beyond the sweet paycheck, I simply wasn’t passionate enough about what I was doing in front of the camera to put myself through it all for any longer. I didn’t want to find myself in the same boat 10 more years down the line.

I was done.

I was also young. And had spent a majority of the past decade working very long hours on various sets in very closed bubbles. I couldn’t fathom healing or having better experiences in a different environment and had total blind confidence that I’d find another way to making a living.

With little responsibility requiring me to think rationally or imminently about what that might actually look like, I was perfectly comfortable making that very emotional, very rash, very huge decision about my future.

The novelty of freedom wore off and time started to pass. I toyed with the idea of re-visiting university for business and marketing. I half-assedly pursued hosting and editorial writing because they were passions that’d lived in the back of my head for years. As I dabbled and spent savings and watched weeks turn into months, the stark reality hit that I was aging out of starting from scratch.

At least, that was true in my mind. I watched peers my age starting to truly excel in the paths they chosen post-highschool while I was living my pre-teen self’s dream and it was uncomfortable.

I’d spent years earning a great living and being quite successful while most people my age were just being my age. Now, people my age were starting to earn great livings and climb their ladders to success while I was starting over with no degree and zero work experience that would be relevant to any profession outside of acting. The math was no longer mathing, if that makes sense.

After two years making no real progress towards anything particularly fruitful because real progress would require real commitment that I wasn’t ready to commit while maintaining my current lifestyle, I felt I didn’t have much choice but to head back to that 13-year-old’s chosen path.

So, I got another agent. And I took meetings and did auditions but this time, I wasn’t booking job after job. I’d fortunately built enough of a career to still have enough opportunities come my way to keep me going financially but I had to face the cold, hard fact that I had halted the momentum of my career by taking those two years off. I’m sure you’ve heard the term, “You have to strike while the iron’s hot”. Well, in the entertainment industry, it’s more like “When you’re hot, you’re hot” but when you’re not… “you’ve gone cold.”

In that two years, I’d gone cold. And the industry had changed a lot.

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While I certainly didn’t want to start this new relationship off by yelling at you, it felt like the tough love I needed to get this page up and running so please, hear me out. And whatever you do, do not take it personally because well, it’s not. Quite the opposite, actually. This is simply a “note to self” that felt fitting to share as my first post because one of my worst habits is getting in my own way and I have a hunch I’m not alone in that super fun personality quirk.

Now, you may have stumbled upon this post as a confident go-getter who goes full steam ahead towards their dreams and desires and always lands on their feet. And if you miraculously and likely, accidentally, wound up here in my Substack sphere, first of all, I’d like to say three cheers for you, you fucking unicorn. And secondly, while I’m sooo happy for you and not irritated at all by your immense self-belief and wondrous success in all that you do because I’m hashtag doing the self-work to mostly mean that and also, don’t actually fully believe you, I just want to put it out there before we’re in too deep… I might not be “your people”.

However, if you, like myself, are a mere mortal, welcome to my Substack! By nature, some of the more unfortunate quirks of being a human being that most inherit from birth are a deep fear of the unknown and a deeper distaste for rejection. As we get older and life all-too frequently confirms that exploring the unknown is uncomfortable at best and rejection sucks 100% of the time, those charming quirks can manifest into a perpetual habit of getting in our own way… over and over again. Good news is, that fun fact is pretty universal! So again, I share this “note to self” because unless you’re a unicorn, we could all use a friendly reminder to get the fuck out of it every once in a while.

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So, why did I decide that swearing at you was a good place to start this new venture? Well…

It was the only way I could actually start it! Because I almost didn’t. I almost decided that maybe Substack just wasn’t for me. Any guesses what could’ve possibly stopped me from writing this and then, actually asking you to read it entirely? All together now… ME!

Transparently, I’ve had this account set up for nearly two months. I’ve stared at my computer screen until I started seeing double and spent weeks anxiously humming and hawing about what my first post should be about. I’ve started and deleted countless thoughts and tangents because the tyrannical boss hovering over my shoulder and whispering not-so-sweet nothings in my ear had me convinced that whatever I was writing couldn’t possibly be profound or impressive enough to convince you to subscribe and stick around. Spoiler alert: I work from home with no colleagues. The asshole in my ear was me. She is me.

Then, someone somewhere somehow found my page in the black hole of brilliant content on this app where I thought I’d comfortably hidden the nothingness I’ve offered up since claiming my domain and subscribed. So, here we are. I had no choice but to stop hiding. Once again, external validation saves the day.

To be honest, I’m still having minor heart palpitations every time I remember that I have actually officially started this page. The spiral is endless. What will I write about? Who will want to read it? What if I’m finally my complete and utter self and the all-powerful They with a capital T, hate it? Or worse… nobody even fucking cares?! And now, I’m actively writing the first post you will see and if you’ve read this far, thanks but also, if you hate it, please don’t tell me because I’m too many words in to start over and —*woo-fucking-sah*

Wait… hang on a second. I just realized in real time that I am doing it. And if you’re reading this sentence, that means you’re reading what I wrote. And if you’ve gotten this far, it means you probably actually sort of… like it? And maybe, I’m being presumptuous but that feels like something I know now that I didn’t know before I posted this. And holy shit, that means the formerly unknown that almost stopped me from writing this at all, was a pretty freaking sweet situation that I’m really happy, grateful and excited about and dare I say it, even proud of myself for? And ya… some people may have chosen not to click the link or read my work or subscribe to my page. Fuck, I’m sure A LOT of people didn’t. But ignorance is bliss when it comes to rejection and I don’t know who or how many didn’t anyway so who fucking cares?! All I know is that you’re here because there is a link to click, a post to read and a subscribe button to press. Because I got out of my own fucking way. With a little push from that first ominous subscriber. Thanks for that one, friend.

And now I’m passing that virtual nudge along, just in case you need it.

Before I go on, let me preface what I’m about to say with the fact that I hate myself for quoting a cheesy sports mantra right now but this is relevant and timeless and I’m Canadian so this man is basically our King, which I feel gives me a pass. “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”- Wayne Gretzky. Side note, I generally don’t care for sports whatsoever but hockey is the lifeblood of my people.

And he’s right! The only way we 100% guarantee the failure, rejection and/or pain we are all, rightfully, scared of is by never trying or doing the thing or sending the pitch or swiping right… or is it left? I met my husband before dating apps were really a thing. Which, yes, makes me a bit of a dinosaur but aging is a privilege and these days, so is getting to say “I met my husband in real life” so I’m very much okay with that. But I digress.

We still might fail, or get rejected or hurt if we try but also? We might not. So what if, instead of being the tyrannical bosses or critical bullies or anxious helicopter moms in our own ear, rattling off potentially negative what-if’s and talking ourselves out of ever putting ourselves out there and trying, we just… didn’t? What if we just convinced ourselves to try because this time, it might just work out. And if it doesn’t, what if it not working out this time leads us to the next time when it does?

When you think about it, that’s kind of just how the cookie called life crumbles. But if we don’t just do the thing or try, we’re essentially… how do I put this eloquently? I don’t know. Essentially, we’re fucked. Because we are absolutely guaranteeing, without a shadow of a doubt, we will never get to the time it all worked out because we’re stuck here, in this time, which I imagine isn’t really filling our cup or satiating our appetite because we’re actively toying with the idea of doing something to shift, transform or progress from where we currently are.

I don’t know about you, but a majority of the time, not doing “the thing” out of fear that I will pour time, thought and energy into doing something and failing at it, actually wastes way more time, thought and energy in the end. Because instead of just ripping off the bandaid and committing the means necessary to fail or not to fail, I will spend weeks, months, maybe even years ideating on it, wondering what could have been and/or regretting my choice to not take the shot. And guess what? I get absolutely nothing in return for all that valuable time and energy spent spiraling.

The sooner I just do it, whatever “it” is, the sooner I get to gaining a lesson learned, imperative feedback, boosted confidence — and hell, maybe even success! I may not get the ideal result I was after but I won’t leave the experience empty-handed. No matter what, I will move on to the next chapter with more than I had before and I will be one step closer to filling my cup, being the woman I want to be and showing my kids you actually can do anything you set your mind to. That, my friends, is time very well spent.

I know we’re all about to be inundated with the “new year, new you” marketing bullshit that anxiety attacks are made of so please, don’t misconstrue this for that. I have no doubt you’re fucking great exactly as you are. But, in fairness to the PR wizards that play on our emotional instability, we do all want to grow, evolve and improve. Life is short. Who doesn’t want to be, give and receive more while we’re here? And so we should. If it all stayed the same, it’d make for incredibly fucking boring chat during our bi-monthly coffee catch ups with the friends we wish we had time to see more often!

Thankful for the nudge that helped me get out of my own way so I could be here with you right now. Thankful for the fire in my belly that’s constantly pushing me to the edge of what could be next. And very thankful for you being here to explore this new adventure with me. Jury’s still out on if I’m “to fail or not to fail” on this one but I’m grateful for you supporting me while I just do the thing and try. I hope you’ll stick around for the inevitably wild ride ahead!

FYI, you can absolutely sign up for a free subscription but if you enjoyed this post and want to see more like it, you may be left with some FOMO! Posts like these will generally only be accessible for paid subscribers in the future, along with our chat group, exclusive video content and monthly Ask Me Anything’s!

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