The world cracked open.
I blinked. Then hit record anyway.

I had $10,000 in the bank.

My life savings.

I delivered DoorDash on my lunch break. From my full-time job.
Drove for FedEx on the weekend.
Pulled 12-hour shifts. 

And when I got home, I’d still open Final Draft despite being empty.

No agent. No backup plan.

And STILL, I spent every last dime chasing a show nobody asked me to make.

…that’s the moment I became the main character—and lost the plot entirely.…

I held auditions at Ripley-Grier like I was Shonda Rhimes with a studio deal.
Clipboard in hand. Doorman. Cold water bottles. The whole fantasy.

The rooms were packed.

Actors came dressed. Prepared. Hungry.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt powerful.

Not because I had money (I didn’t).
But because I had vision.

I called in favors.

Rewrote scenes to fit spaces while filming.
I borrowed furniture. Sweet-talked location deals.
I lit the room, whispered notes to the lead, then swept up chips between takes.

Producer. Writer. HR. Janitor. Me.

I barely slept. Ate standing up. Questioned everything.
But when I saw a shot match the image in my head?

I became addicted.

That three-minute trailer?
It exploded.
It gave “big budget energy.”
It gave, “This girl is not to be played with.”

But it wasn’t enough.

There was no way I could have so much control and then suddenly be at the mercy of some exec.

I was a producer now.
I wanted more. So I crowdfunded.

I studied campaigns like they were gospel.
Begged. Posted. Pitched.
Watched people disappear when I needed shares, not likes.
And watched my real ones show up—hard.

Me and my street team (aka friends who became publicists overnight) raised over $15,000.
Indya Moore donated.
Someone even wrote us a theme song.

I was two days from wrapping production.
Then someone on set whispered:

Phones buzzed. Crew cried.
Then the lights cut out. NYC had a blackout.

It was eerie. Ironic. An omen?

We never returned to set.

COVID came.
The world shut down.
And so did I.

I wish I could say I edited Hotline and uploaded it the next day.

I didn’t.

It sat on my hard drive for two years.

$30,000 worth of footage collecting dust while I unraveled.

The longer I waited, the more afraid I became.
Of failure. Of judgment. Of finally being seen.

I was terrified to finish it.
Terrified to fail.
And too ashamed to admit it.

So I spiraled.
Hard.

Meanwhile, the world kept burning.
And I kept pretending I was fine.

(Spoiler: I wasn’t.)

Eventually, I stopped trying to outrun the breakdown and walked straight into it.

Therapy.
Shadow work.
Spiritual rewiring.
The whole "maybe I’m the problem" starter kit.

And that’s when everything changed.

If you’re curious about how I clawed my way out watch this:

👉 Why Am I So Hard On Myself? And How I Rewired My Inner Voice in 2025

P.S. If you’ve ever wanted to make something but felt like no one would care—make it anyway.

You don’t need permission. You need a plan.
Start ugly. Start scared. Just start.