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Origin Story

Over-thinking everything in my post-Plot Twist era

Where are you from? What do you do? What’s your story? As I shift through the years, places, and plot-twists, those questions create a storm of replies that whirl around my head. Who am I? Well, in the past I’ve felt like a stream of contradictions more than anything else— you know, the popular kid that doesn’t belong. Or an oxymoron: a brave coward for example. But I’m starting to understand that I (like many) are a bit of a paradox. This and that. Maybe it’s ok to be middle-age (how did that happen so fast?!) and not have a clear answer.

Of course there are the labels. I’m a proud Black woman. Less proud American. Wife, mother of two fantastic kids. I’m from a small town in Ohio. The daughter of educators, middle child of two brothers and one sister. My sis caught meningitis as an infant and has lived with a severely crippling form of cerebral palsy ever since, her life and my parents care of her has shaped me in lots of ways. My family is a loving branch of a gigantic, God-fearing, Midwest family tree. I happen to love astrology (a fact that some of my more religious family members will think is blasphemous), I’m a Cancer Sun/Gemini Moon/Cancer Rising. I lived in NYC for 5+ years and was a Knicks City Dancer (another life-shaping experience). I am an actress. A filmmaker. Cancer survivor (ugh, still shape shifting…).

At times I can be a (hopefully charming) tornado of chaos holding a color-coded spreadsheet. Or that Black friend that waxes on about diversity, race and culture yet finds spiritual release in Steve Perry’s voice. The happily married wife & mom with a pinterest page of ‘top hotels for solo escapes.’ A spiritually connected, optimist with a heavy dose of health anxiety. The over-thinker that over-uses ellipses then replaces them with commas, then re-edits more ellipses again (more times than I can count on this page alone). And yes… I also call myself a writer. Though, I haven’t been writing much. This little blog here is meant to be my re-entry. I’ve been a little antisocial physically and textually since being diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma 3 years ago. Just before that I was finding my groove. Rediscovering myself post kids. Just after turning 40, I wrote, produced and starred in a film that was very close to my heart. I even won some awards and got to tour the country with it. I was invited to join a TV writers group with intimidatingly talented and inspiring humans. I met some of my heroes… had big Hollywood meetings… wrote a pilot... It felt like I was momentum personified. I was tapping into this effervescent and social part of my otherwise introverted self. Optimistic & full of (semi)unrealistic possibilities. Sure, it wasn’t all butterflies and cartwheels. I still had motherhood responsibilities (but I enjoyed them more!) and my marriage was on struggle street (but I had a great therapist to help me deal!) and this odd, itchy, undiagnosable rash had been irritating me since covid (but I had lost 7lbs and otherwise felt awesome!). Then, December 12, 2022, two days after pitching my pilot to J.J. Abrams we meet with my doctor and bam… An invisible black wall.

My husband Christian and I held each other and wept for hours. I think we stopped crying because we had to pick up the kids. It took 6 hours to tell family. 3 days to breath properly. 5 days for me to find my voice and then subsequently my anger. First by screaming into pillows. Then screaming in my car. It only took 2 weeks for my husband to become proficient in all things multiple myeloma- reaching out to the best doctors, signing onto support groups, all the while I was curled into a ball of despair and denial. 20 days to say the scary word aloud. 23 days to tell a handful of close friends. 3 months to say it out loud without crying, 4 to share with more friends. 4.5 months to start my first round of treatment. 5 months to lose my manager, 6 for the industry to go on strike. 7 months to start believing I will be ok. That I will likely outlive this disease. 9 months to hit ‘complete stringent remission(!)’ 9.5 to check into City of Hope and have my stem cells collected. 1 year to start an indefinite maintenance regiment of monthly shots, pills, gratitude, anxiety and sometimes anger. 1.6 years to tell the kids that all the scary blood stuff mom was going through was actually called cancer. 2 years for my insurance to decide that my maintenance treatment was “deemed medically unnecessary.” Then somewhere in the next 5 months of fighting our case with insurance, Trump was re-elected, our entire community (literally!) burned to the ground and we decided to move to Portugal.

I had to go back to texts, emails, journals and conversations to write this fairly accurate timeframe. It was emotional diving back into these things. I dissociated from so much of it back then. My true memory is an epic blur of doctor appointments, body scans, holidays, weepy hugs, grandparents, paperwork and laughter. Yes, laughter. Seems, I don’t know, counterintuitive? But my God it was so important. The whole family watched a lot of comedy during those long days. Lots of standup. Lots of memes, podcasts, SNL. I can’t remember what exactly but I remember laughing often and it unbelievably cathartic.

Ok. So, there you have it. Bits and pieces of my story. The flurry of answers swimming around in my head are now on a page. And yes I am aware these are kinda just the surface bits. Still no clear answers to the deep ponderings of “who am I?” I can tell you this— I’m no Cardi B (I wish I could show up that unapologetic and authentic everywhere I go). Maybe with this opportunity abroad I will discover more pieces to my puzzle. And, if you have half enjoyed the run-on sentences and bad punctuation of this post, maybe you will join me in discovering…

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