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If I had to distill my life into three words, those are the ones. Not because they sound poetic together, but because they are the only ones that fit. The only ones that carry the weight and the wounds and the weird, incredible hope of the life I’ve lived so far.
Honest, because it had to be. When you grow up inside chaos—when your childhood is laced with abuse, when the adults around you become architects of fear instead of safety—you learn fast that lies won’t save you. Not their lies. Not your own. I never had the luxury of pretending things were okay. Not in the mirror. Not to the people around me. And especially not to myself.
I faced abuse in all its forms: physical, emotional, sexual, financial. I endured manipulation, cruelty, silence, gaslighting, control. It didn’t end when childhood did. It followed me into adulthood, into relationships, into jobs, into rooms where I knew I didn’t belong but stayed anyway. Because that’s what you learn to do. Survive first. Ask questions later.
But I always had one rule: tell the truth. To yourself, at the very least. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. If the world is going to try to write your story for you, the only power you have is to take the pen back. So I did. Again and again.
Brutal is the second word. Not as a badge of honor. But as an acknowledgment of what it costs to live honestly when the world around you would rather you didn’t. Brutality was in the way I had to learn boundaries—not from books, but from betrayal. It was in the years I lost to someone else’s version of who I should be. It was in the mornings I woke up wondering how I’d keep going. In the nights I didn’t sleep. In the jobs that drained me. In the dreams I shelved because surviving felt more urgent than thriving.
Brutality shaped me. But it didn’t break me. Because there was always a voice in my head, however quiet, saying: Get up.
That was my mantra. My anthem. My rebellion.
Get up.
No matter who knocked me down. No matter how deep the pit was. No matter how convincing the voice of doubt. I got up. Sometimes angry. Sometimes numb. Sometimes laughing in spite of it all. But I got up.
And that’s what led me to the third word: Inspiring.
Not because I tried to be. But because I stopped trying not to be.
When I started writing—truly writing, not for a paycheck or a polished resume, but from the marrow of my life—something shifted. The pain didn’t leave. But it became useful. The chaos didn’t vanish. But it had context. Every ugly thing that had ever happened to me found its place on the page. It became dialogue. Scene. Emotion. Movement. Truth.
I became a screenwriter not because I was chasing Hollywood, but because the stories wouldn’t stop chasing me. The truth needed a shape. And screenwriting gave it one. Clean. Visual. Unforgiving. Beautiful.
It taught me that you don’t have to have a fairytale to write something worth watching. You just need a truth that burns. And I had plenty of those.
Screenwriting gave me access to a second life. One where I could take all the wreckage and build something useful. Something even beautiful. I started telling my story, in pieces, in characters, in scenes that felt too raw to share until I did. And every time I did, someone would reach out. Someone would say, "That sounded like me."
And that was everything.
Because for most of my life, I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one keeping secrets, patching wounds, hiding bruises with good grades and professional polish. I thought survival was a solo sport.
But it turns out honesty is contagious.
And inspiration, real inspiration, doesn’t come from pretending you have it all together. It comes from showing the cracks. From surviving long enough to turn the story around.
So yes. Honest. Brutal. Inspiring.
Those are the words I carry with me. On the good days and the brutal ones. In the moments I win awards, and in the moments I still question everything. Because this life I’m living now—this screenwriting, traveling, speaking, creating life—didn’t come easy. But it’s real.
And it’s mine.
No one builds a second life unless the first one nearly killed them. But I’m here. Telling the truth. Writing the story. Getting up. Every day.
And if that inspires someone else to do the same?
Then all of it—every scar, every silence, every script—was worth it.
Honest. Brutal. Inspiring.
Honest, because it had to be. When you grow up inside chaos—when your childhood is laced with abuse, when the adults around you become architects of fear instead of safety—you learn fast that lies won’t save you. Not their lies. Not your own. I never had the luxury of pretending things were okay. Not in the mirror. Not to the people around me. And especially not to myself.
I faced abuse in all its forms: physical, emotional, sexual, financial. I endured manipulation, cruelty, silence, gaslighting, control. It didn’t end when childhood did. It followed me into adulthood, into relationships, into jobs, into rooms where I knew I didn’t belong but stayed anyway. Because that’s what you learn to do. Survive first. Ask questions later.
But I always had one rule: tell the truth. To yourself, at the very least. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. If the world is going to try to write your story for you, the only power you have is to take the pen back. So I did. Again and again.
Brutal is the second word. Not as a badge of honor. But as an acknowledgment of what it costs to live honestly when the world around you would rather you didn’t. Brutality was in the way I had to learn boundaries—not from books, but from betrayal. It was in the years I lost to someone else’s version of who I should be. It was in the mornings I woke up wondering how I’d keep going. In the nights I didn’t sleep. In the jobs that drained me. In the dreams I shelved because surviving felt more urgent than thriving.
Brutality shaped me. But it didn’t break me. Because there was always a voice in my head, however quiet, saying: Get up.
That was my mantra. My anthem. My rebellion.
Get up.
No matter who knocked me down. No matter how deep the pit was. No matter how convincing the voice of doubt. I got up. Sometimes angry. Sometimes numb. Sometimes laughing in spite of it all. But I got up.
And that’s what led me to the third word: Inspiring.
Not because I tried to be. But because I stopped trying not to be.
When I started writing—truly writing, not for a paycheck or a polished resume, but from the marrow of my life—something shifted. The pain didn’t leave. But it became useful. The chaos didn’t vanish. But it had context. Every ugly thing that had ever happened to me found its place on the page. It became dialogue. Scene. Emotion. Movement. Truth.
I became a screenwriter not because I was chasing Hollywood, but because the stories wouldn’t stop chasing me. The truth needed a shape. And screenwriting gave it one. Clean. Visual. Unforgiving. Beautiful.
It taught me that you don’t have to have a fairytale to write something worth watching. You just need a truth that burns. And I had plenty of those.
Screenwriting gave me access to a second life. One where I could take all the wreckage and build something useful. Something even beautiful. I started telling my story, in pieces, in characters, in scenes that felt too raw to share until I did. And every time I did, someone would reach out. Someone would say, "That sounded like me."
And that was everything.
Because for most of my life, I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one keeping secrets, patching wounds, hiding bruises with good grades and professional polish. I thought survival was a solo sport.
But it turns out honesty is contagious.
And inspiration, real inspiration, doesn’t come from pretending you have it all together. It comes from showing the cracks. From surviving long enough to turn the story around.
So yes. Honest. Brutal. Inspiring.
Those are the words I carry with me. On the good days and the brutal ones. In the moments I win awards, and in the moments I still question everything. Because this life I’m living now—this screenwriting, traveling, speaking, creating life—didn’t come easy. But it’s real.
And it’s mine.
No one builds a second life unless the first one nearly killed them. But I’m here. Telling the truth. Writing the story. Getting up. Every day.
And if that inspires someone else to do the same?
Then all of it—every scar, every silence, every script—was worth it.