THE STORY I HAD TO WRITE

The Story I Had to Write:

The last two years have been, without question, the hardest of my life. The kind of hard that forces you to strip everything away and face yourself. The kind of hard that pushes you to either sink or swim — and for a while, I did both, flailing somewhere between drowning and gasping for breath.

When the film industry strike hit in 2023, it felt like the floor was ripped out from beneath me. Productions stopped. Work dried up. Projects that had been months in the making disappeared like smoke. Like so many in my field, I was left scrambling — not just for income, but for purpose. I had built a career in entertainment production, freelancing in a world that thrives on motion, momentum, and stories. Suddenly, everything was silent. No cameras. No calls. No crew. Just an eerie stillness and a haunting question: What now?

What came next was an unraveling. Slowly, subtly at first — then all at once. Credit card debt began to creep in as I tried to stay afloat. Every month I told myself, "Just one more bill, just one more month, it'll pick back up." But it didn't. The strikes dragged on, and with them, so did the silence. I watched as the numbers climbed, my finances buckling under the pressure, and still — no work.

In the midst of this, my home — my supposed place of peace — became a new source of chaos. What started as small maintenance issues grew into glaring habitability violations. Mold. Plumbing. Electrical. I documented everything, filed complaints, and still, nothing changed. My property management company — the largest in the country — treated me like a number. I was just another voice in a sea of tenants complaining. But I wasn’t complaining. I was begging. Begging to be treated like a human being.

It took nearly a year to find an attorney brave enough to take them on. Most didn’t want to touch it. Too big. Too powerful. Too many resources. But eventually, I found someone. We filed. We fought. And I waited. Through every court date, delay, and deposition, I waited — not just for justice, but for some kind of closure. For validation that what I was going through mattered.

Somewhere in that waiting, I lost myself.

There were days I didn’t want to wake up. Nights I didn’t sleep. Moments I wondered if life was still worth it. The pressure was unbearable, and I was tired — bone-deep tired from holding up the weight of everything I had once built, now crumbling beneath me. I felt invisible. Forgotten. Defeated.

But the funny thing about rock bottom? It gives you ground to push off from.

One day, I opened my laptop and began to write. At first, it was just letters — to attorneys, to potential employers, to people who might care enough to help. Then it became cover letters, applications, and eventually… stories. Words started pouring out of me. Everything I had held in — the frustration, the sadness, the anger, the hope — it all came out in ink and pixels.

And with each word, I started to feel again.

I remembered what it felt like to have a voice. To have something to say. I started to realize that writing wasn’t just an outlet — it was my lifeline. I wasn’t just venting. I was creating. Documenting. Reclaiming.

Then came the unexpected: Netflix reached out. They asked me to help develop E-module training courses for accountants in the entertainment industry — my industry. My world. It felt like a cosmic nod from the universe: You’re still here. You still matter.

That moment lit a fire. I looked around at the ashes of what had once been and realized something vital — if I had been more prepared with multiple streams of income, maybe I wouldn’t have fallen so hard. I had gotten complacent. I had believed that because everyone needs TV and movies, there would always be work. But the truth is, they don’t have to be made here. And they weren't.

The productions left. I lost everything.

And at the same time — I found myself.

Now, two years later, I have two scripts registered with the WGA and in editing. My book is just two chapters away from completion. A new clothing line is underway. And I'm working toward my CPA and Master’s degree, aiming to finish in 2026. My multimillionaire friend once told me: "You need seven streams of income to not fall." I'm up to three and building number four. And I know more are coming.

I won my habitability case against a huge conglomerate real estate property management company — a victory that felt not just personal, but powerful. It affirmed that standing up for what’s right, no matter how long it takes, is always worth it. That win gave me more than just justice — it gave me the chance to start fresh. To move into a home where I can breathe again. To finally pursue the things I need in order to grow into the multi-faceted person I’ve always been meant to become.

I’ve stopped crying on the floor. I’ve stopped looking for someone to save me. I’ve stopped throwing a temper tantrum at life, yelling, "Why me?"

I’ve gotten back on the bike.

I’m riding again, even if I scrape my knees or fall flat on my face. My balance is coming back. The bruises are fading. The fire in my belly is roaring again.

What changed?

I stopped pitying myself and started rebuilding. I stopped trying to get back to who I was, and began becoming who I am.

The truth is, I’ve reinvented myself more times than I can count. Each version has been a step up — sometimes a stumble, sometimes a leap, but never backwards. Reinvention is my rhythm. Resilience is my birthright.

I can’t control what others do. I can’t stop strikes, economic downturns, or unethical landlords. But I can control my own narrative. I can choose how I rise. How I speak. How I move forward.

And I’ve decided to move boldly.

Because no one’s writing my story but me.