It has been approximately five years since I left Silicon Valley. I headed to Los Angeles in the summer of 2017 to pursue my dream of becoming a filmmaker. It has been a sobering journey. I learned that I had armored up behind all the trappings of “success” in its narrowest definition: a six figure salary, steady career, awe-inspiring company, perfect-on-paper boyfriend. After I moved, the armors fell away and I felt a very deep sadness. The kind of sadness where I was telegraphing to everyone I met that I was on the verge of bursting into tears. I’m not sure what I was grieving because I don’t want to go back to the way it was. But still, it often felt as though I was walking around without a skin, searching for connection and validation, and finding none.

What my time in Los Angeles has given me, and continues to give me, is a real chance at introspection. Being constantly surrounded by other anxious artists made me question everything I thought I knew for certain. If I’m not my job title, the company I serve, my degrees, my profession, and my relationship, then who am I? I wasn’t sure. I wanted to beg God for what I truly wanted, except I didn’t know what that was. I knew how I wanted to feel: safe and seen. But film industry is a place that makes you feel neither safe nor seen... so I was in a pickle.

When the pandemic stopped the world and gave us silence, the last of the masks I was clutching onto shattered. I had to ask myself this now: who am I when I’m not even a filmmaker? It turned out that I love the soil and seeing the plants grow. Only they made sense and gave me peace. And when everything paused indefinitely, the only action I felt compelled to do was to write. I learned that I’m a writer because it’s something I enjoy for its own sake. I like exploring and finding myself on the page. It helps me make meaning out of my existence for myself. It helps me sort out the many questions I have about myself in relation to the world. Seeing words assemble on a page gives me joy. I feel comfortable being a “writer”. I can embody this identity and feel at home in it. And now I feel bold and much more empowered than before. Now that I finally know what I want, I can pursue it and this gives me a sense of purpose. I even feel joy in the pursuit. Perhaps it’s another form of striving for validation, but I don’t think it is only that. I think it’s my vocation, a calling of sorts. I think I always knew what I was. It just took me decades to claim it. I am a writer. I love that. I feel grateful knowing that.