The Doe’s Latest Stories

With vigorous therapy and mindful practices, I’ve become more aware of the pain that depression has brought me for many years. As I uncovered the past, I became anxious to get better. It led me to start learning more about my heritage and what might lead to the types of automatic thoughts and disruptive behavior I experience.When I realized panic attacks were unavoidable, I then made it my duty to cope with healthier methods during them. The pain of an attack feels like all the air in the room is gone. I endure as much breathing as l can, even if it’s shorter than a second. Then my chest begins to feel like it’s filling up with worms, piling up and trying to escape my throat. The quickest way to release this feeling for me is to curate a bashment, or what you’d call a dance party.The genre I produce is called dancehall, and it enhances healing through culture and can transform oppressed people into spiritual royalty. Curating inclusive dance parties in urban developments has become our heaven on earth. People from my community who needed to “release their worms” sought therapy on the dance floor and our movement has created an outlet for them all. Through playlists and producing tons of content, we have connected with a following that needed to embrace a diverse culture.Our goal is to use research for a decrease in daily suicides and to pair anyone looking for therapy together with a therapist. Fundraising for suicide prevention and creating safe spaces for the community has and always will be the future for us.

When I realized panic attacks were unavoidable, I then made it my duty to cope with healthier methods during them.

The Event Space Promotes Healing and Inspiration

Sound systems notably originated in Kingston, Jamaica around the 1950s. Many promoters and DJs would collaborate with engineers and emcees to create events for low-income natives. Today, we serve the same purpose, in addition to spreading more information benefitting mental health. Offering education and career opportunities with local sound systems, we administer events to create stronger bonds between individuals who seek guidance as well as capable mentors. As soon as you arrive, the aroma wafting from the table areas transcends your palette to a summer night in the Caribbean. Freshly cooked with mouth-watering spices and served immediately upon arrival, we encourage our participants to be hydrated and freed of hunger. Nourishment and conversation begin to fill the room. Vibrations from the sound system cultivate rhythm and motion, indicating an energetic connection of meditation. Inside these dance therapy sessions, projections of motivational quotes appear on a wall to stimulate the mind for a positive event. Murals of black liberation are handcrafted, too. Family photos of a local lost to suicide appear on another wall near the eternity table. What’s an eternity table? A table on which you write kind messages to a family for a loved one battling with depression or suicide—a random act of kindness for a lost soul needing light. You can also choose a really nice care package to send as a token of appreciation encouraging a better life.

Vibrations from the sound system cultivate rhythm, indicating an energetic connection of meditation.

The Inside of a Dancehall Event Is Full of Life

After a trip from the eternity table, you can guarantee the dance floor is alive and thriving. Contortionists who are better known in the dancehall world as “bone breakers” will suddenly shift their arms in unnatural shapes and dive into back bending routines. Action from a “glider,” a hip-hop dancer able to move one’s feet as though floating, creates imagery only one can fathom, skating in all directions with memorable pauses. “Dancehall queens” display their genetic ability to perform acrobatic and contemporary maneuvers in fashionable risqué garments. For hair and clothing, eccentric styles are also encouraged. This is what you witness on the dance floor: a mother of four unleashing her depression through each move she makes; a college student who has been abused by relatives all their life has just written down the number for a free therapist; tech experts are operating the projections, which bring an advanced opportunity to develop a career in informational technology; emcees and engineers control sound waves and light to heighten positive moods. After attending these dancehall events, many participants return with great stories, ones they share through social media and live-streaming. Many new developments come from these stories, specifically research on the rates of local suicide and depression. As we create bashments, we tend to see the rates lower for the area. Through food and education disbursement, more individuals are creating a positive outlook and environment for the surrounding community. It can also lead to resume-building and employment opportunities. Expressing joy through lived experiences is a trend we tend to see.

In the Pandemic, Outreach Has Become Even More Vital

Now, during life with COVID-19, I see our work is far from over. We are connecting with others and sharing our stories via social distancing. With creative encouragement during interactions, we have developed vast cognitive therapy procedures through color and sound. We have also bridged the gap between more social workers and therapists being united with their local network. We supply hope and love to those seeking it, as well as those unaware. Panic attacks saved my life and I know they can save yours. Release your worms in a safe place with mindful intentions. Bask in your ability to feel what others can’t. Move toward your purpose with certainty accompanied by thought-provoking material. Heal yourself as you heal the world. Therapy comes in many forms. Release. Release. Release.

I grew up my entire life in Los Angeles, which means my career resume reads like a bad screenplay’s take on a Hollywood kid. I spent my early 20s in the modeling industry, traveling around the world—Milan, New York, L.A., etc. My late 20s were spent acting in Hollywood—a few soaps, a few bit parts, a few commercials. A lot of horseshoe and hand grenade moments. And then, when I finally saw the writing on the wall, I spent my early 30s as a producer. (There is some unwritten law of Hollywood that when you flame out as an actor you go on and become a producer.)The point of me listing out my Hollywood bona fides here is that after 15 years in the industry (whatever that means)—attending the film festivals, hanging at the cool Hollywood parties, dating Victoria’s Secret models—I have come to the ironclad and scientific determination that there are three types of people in the world: those who admit they’re influenced by celebrities, those lying about being influenced by celebrities and those who just don’t know it yet. I’ll even take it one step further. There is the famous scene in The Devil Wears Prada (now memorialized by every fashion design major across the country) in which Meryl Streep’s Anna Wintour character disabuses Anne Hathaway’s intern of thinking you can opt-out of fashion—that there is a “none-of-the-above” bubble on the sartorial multiple-choice test. Instead, she lectures, the reality is that “trying-not-to-try” is, in and of itself, a byproduct of the fashion influence culture, where millions of decisions by tastemakers and designers have been made. To believe there’s an authentic counter-culture is to reveal one’s own economic and cultural naivety. I firmly believe after 15 years in this business, Wintour’s maxims are not just constrained to the world of fashion. It’s just as accurate for consumer products, as it is for narrative content, as it is for our politics. And that last part should give us all a cause for concern. I’m not here to bemoan this phenomenon in general, cursing the fact that kids look up to LeBron James or care what Cara Delevingne is wearing. Celebrity culture is arguably as old as culture itself. We are an imitation species at our core—we’ve been mirroring each other since the first chimp picked up a rock, smashed open a nut and another tried it. Since then, the gears of celebrity culture were set in motion. The sooner we all accept this immutable fact of our psychology the better off we’ll be.What I am here to argue is that when it comes to imitation, celebrities, in general, are the last people who should influence our political opinions. They are, in fact, the most unreliable sources of political information in our culture, but because of our innate desire to mirror those we look up to, it is of critical importance that we curb the impulse to be swayed by their political opinions and be swept up by the celebrity influence tractor beam. Why should you listen to me? Well, you shouldn’t. But as someone who counts a fair number of high-profile celebrities as my genuine friends, and has spent the last 15 years with them as colleagues and associates, I do feel better equipped than most to make the following three claims as to why rewarding celebrity political opinions will bring about the downfall of the republic.

What I am here to argue is that when it comes to imitation, celebrities, in general, are the last people who should influence our political opinions.

1) The Reality Distortion Field

It’s a cliché that the only celebrity you should trust is the one who tells you not to trust them. But that cliché is mostly true. It’s a celebrity’s recognition that they’re aware of the fact that they’re surrounded by people who are economically and dispositionally incentivized to appease and indulge them. There are a lot of reasons for this. Principal among them is that “celebrity” draws its power from social cachet. And with that social cachet comes economic power. Do people “care” about you and what you have to say or what you wear? If yes, then you can convert that “care” into dollars—from summer blockbusters to tequila brands. But celebrity and social cachet are tumultuous and fickle muses, and the more insecure the celebrity becomes in regards to that social cachet waxing and waning, the more apt they are to gravitate towards the “yes” people in their lives.This isn’t a character flaw or moral frailty. I have met very few people capable of handling the power of celebrity on the biggest stages. Far more frequently I’ve seen it eat them alive. It’s the rare person who is autonomous, self-critical, secure and possesses an authentic courage of their convictions—both talented at their craft and successful with it—that end up invariably becoming icons. Think Dave Chapelle, David Bowie, Prince, Dolly Parton, Meryl Streep, the Rock, etc. Most, however, unfortunately, get swallowed up by their own gravity-bending vortex of affirmation and positivity. And those vortexes are especially great at ensuring that no cogent and sensible political views ever make it out of them.The truth that celebrity culture reveals to us most radically is that political opinions, most of the time, aren’t worth much. Doubly so for celebrities because they’re often surrounded by so many people convincing them that they somehow are the exception.

2) The Selection Bias

There is a very serious selection bias at play when it comes to celebrity political opinions. Notice there aren’t poor or old celebrities. If you’re still a celebrity past your 50th birthday, in some sense that means you’ve managed to make money off your talents and fame. It means you are, by definition, wealthy. There is some analog here to the old adage, “The only old mountain climbers are cautious mountain climbers.” Celebrity culture, in general, is a young person’s game. Music, acting, writing, even just beauty and glamour, and so forth. As much as the postmodernists would like you to believe, there are some very sound evolutionary, psychological and economic reasons for this that aren’t as fungible as an idealistic utopian society might like to believe about itself. The problem here is that those demographic skews are not representative of Americans or the majority of voters for that matter. Baby Boomers and seniors from middle- to lower-income backgrounds are what make up the majority of the American electorate. I promise you their political views are not getting accurately represented by the Hollywood political messaging community. Moreover, it’s also the case that, as much as good politics requires subject knowledge, so too does it require general life wisdom, which can only be acquired after working for the same boss for 15 years at your small manufacturing company, or being intimately involved in the local politics of your small town in the Midwest for decades. All types of “wisdom” that celebrities (for the most part) lack through no fault of their own. An industry and occupation sector that rewards youth, openness, creativity, outlandishness and attention-seeking is not what you want to be calibrating your national political compass against. Imagine for a moment if we gave Instagram accounts with a million followers only to rural 65-year-old farmers, suburban 55-year-old career nurses and urban 45-year-old construction workers. How different the celebrity politicking would look then.There is an alienation game at play here. The more celebrities speak up, speak out, get involved in politics, the more the rest of America gets the sense that their own opposing viewpoints are drifting further and further from the mainstream. The more they get the sense that America is leaving them behind. This sense of alienation inevitably leads to conspiratorial thinking and attraction to snake oil politicians shucking jingoistic, nationalistic nostalgia. The subtext being, “Remember when this country agreed with you on your views about the world? Let’s return to that time.” Sound familiar?

You get the cultural equivalent of drunk sailors flicking lit cigarettes inside a fireworks factory atop a nuclear reactor.

3) The Education Gap

For the majority of celebrities, education—at least formally in the undergraduate and graduate level—is often given short shrift, if not ignored altogether. In other words, having an MFA in playwriting makes you qualified to opine on all things playwriting and little else. And even that would put you in the top one percent of the educated class in celebrity-land. The reason for this is mostly theoretical. If celebrity culture is a young person’s game, then to be hunkered down in a library or chemistry lab is not an optimal usage of one’s time. You will hear no cries of institutional credentialism as the only pathway to intellectual legitimacy from me. The problem instead is mostly one of Dunning-Kruger (the psychological phenomenon proving that the less you know about something, the more likely you think you know a great deal about it), multiplied across an entire industry, in which millions of followers turned into nightly news sessions on their Instagram and Twitter feeds. It would send chills down your spine to hear some of the questions my celebrity and influencer friends ask me about basic science or world affairs, and then two minutes later jump on to their social accounts to speak with conviction and solemnity about the socio-political topic du jour.Celebrities, for the most part, are just like me and you, except many of them didn’t go to college and most likely weren’t all that great at school to begin with. If they did go to college, they weren’t majoring in mechanical engineering or biochemistry or public policy. They were communications majors just trying to make it through the second semester. And that’s the best-case scenario. The problem is only compounded by the fact that most celebrities are especially insecure about this fact and will go out of their way to publicly disprove it, making for a very dangerous combination. It’s simply the case that most political opinions suck. Most should never be shared with millions of people. The number of variables, counter-variables and deep knowledge required to understand the decision-making space concerning a single political issue is far too expansive for quick-draw political takes to ever be correct. Doubly so when you’re convinced that you have some moral legitimacy or high ground on your side, which celebrities in general never seem to be in short supply of doling out. To recap: Combining our psychological predisposition to be enamored and influenced by celebrities—a subset of the population composed mostly of young, creative, and exuberant people, who then surround themselves with sycophants and anchor themselves in scant expertise—and multiplying it across an instantaneous information network, you get the cultural equivalent of drunk sailors flicking lit cigarettes inside a fireworks factory atop a nuclear reactor. When asked why he hadn’t spoken more publicly against a clearly racist politician, Michael Jordan callously quipped, “Republicans buy sneakers, too.” This was poorly worded, poorly timed and poorly conceived. But there is also a deep wisdom hidden behind MJ’s statement. Offering political wisdom isn’t his job, and the only reason you should trust him is that he was humble enough to tell you not to. We’d do well to remind ourselves of this in the political election cycles to come.

There’s an old saw about two embittered screenwriters at the deli doing their weekly coffee and kvetch. Writer A unspools an unsettling yarn—a producer hated his newest “dogshit” draft and fired the hell out of him on the spot. So Writer A pulls into his driveway around lunchtime and hears the wailings of loud orgasm from inside. He climbs the stairs only to discover his agent in bed with his wife. Upon hearing the story, Writer B couldn’t be more appalled, shocked, scandalized. “Your agent comes to your house?!” Not a bad joke, and it’s instructive for how it captures the fundamentals of traditional Hollywood power dynamics. Screenwriters, famously and not so affectionately referred to by a big studio boss as “schmucks with Underwoods,” were a broken, buffeted and cowed breed. They were salary players, meant to be locked away in their little rooms pecking at their grimy keys until coffee and nicotine-stained pages were delivered, whereupon the real business of filmmaking could finally commence. Think Barton Fink towards the end. Agents, however, occupied the other end of the power-character spectrum: ravening, bloodhungry, shallow, spoiling for and relishing in the fight.

Well, that paradigm has lately been challenged in a startling and unprecedented battle of collective wills.

The Screen Writers Guild Has Finally Taken a Stand

I’ve had the privilege of being befriended and even mentored by some once-prominent, award-winning writers as they declined in their twilight years. They were sophisticated and confident and elegant and contained. But one could never accuse them of having taken joy in exercising their will over others. They were men who had managed to be the reed and maintained their decency and honor and voice in the face of the great blustering winds of shrieking producers, insufferable narcissistic stars, deaf studios and indomitable agents. Such was the paradigm for a long time. Well, that paradigm has lately been challenged in a startling and unprecedented battle of collective wills. Writers (Writers Guild of America) went to war against agents (Association of Talent Agencies). The causus belli was a lucrative practice called “packaging,” which we’ll get into momentarily. But that was more a pretext. You know that old wisdom regarding marriage-proposal-crises that says if the ring is the problem then the ring isn’t the problem? Same here, I think. It was a matter of time. After many decades, the writers got tired of eating shit; they got tired of agents entering their homes with impunity and despoiling their spouses. They were mad as hell and not going to take it anymore. They wanted money, sure. But they really wanted dignity. So they went to the mattresses, with all the trappings of a great underdog-fights-back story.

How the Writers Guild of America’s Grievances Started

Before we reveal the results, here’s a brief primer for those who relish particulars. In the beginning, Hollywood created Shane (writer) and Mel (agent) and they lived in the garden flats of Beverly Hills. Shane wrote TV shows which sometimes got made. Mel negotiated the deals to earn a ten percent commission. The more Shane made, the more Mel made. Incentive arrows aligned and Hollywood saw that it was good. Until Mel joined a serpentine agency called XYZ. Now, when Shane got a new TV idea, Mel said it would sell better if they “packaged” it with an XYZ star and a director. Which was true, probably. For the courtesy, Shane got to keep that ten percent commission that used to go to Mel. More money for Shane! Sound too good to be true? Well, XYZ’s “package fee” translated into part ownership of Shane’s show. As part-owners, XYZ preferred to see Shane’s earnings reduced, not increased. Indeed, XYZ might even prefer to see Shane fired. Incentive arrows thus wildly diverged. Packaging became the bread and butter of agencies, and poor Shane got cast out of the flats. In the old days, Shane would have moldered in the dirt and bitterly accepted defeat. Not this time. Shane demanded an end to packaging. Smart money was bet on the agents. I figured the schmucks with Underwoods were ripe to get steamrolled by those seasoned hagglers who reveled in the fray. Well, I was proven completely and delightfully wrong. It’s not quite over yet, but at the time of this writing, it's looking damn good for the writers. Agencies are caving and ending packaging one after another, which is astonishing. If you want to be hoity-toity about it then call it a “bouleversement.” I think I have a guess about how it happened.

It’s a changing of the guard.

The New Leaders of the WGA in Hollywood Are Formidable

At the WGA gatherings that strategized the battle ahead, I encountered writers who were principled, honest, stalwart, serious, undeterred. Someone had secretly replaced the withering daisies of old with ripe men and women who knew not only history and aesthetics but also organization and negotiation and finance. Badasses, basically—products perhaps of this “Third Golden Age of Television” that started with The Sopranos and carries on through today. They’re a new crop of wordsmiths who are also bosses, who know budgets, who know how to get things done and command respect. You think Matthew Weiner or Donald Glover or Shonda Rhimes just fold because some suit says so? Not so much. These are savvy, powerful folks. And they’ve prevailed. It’s a changing of the guard. Alvin Sargent was one of the writers I got to meet several times toward the end of his life. His urologist was a friend of my father. Go figure. The urologist kept saying what a talented writer his friend’s son was. Imagine the joy for Mr. Sargent being forced to sit down with my script. But he liked it enough to invite me to several breakfasts at his home in the Santa Monica Canyon. We had eggs, talked about the world and about writing. I asked once what he did now, and he said that he just teaches screenwriting. “Oh, at UCLA?” He smirked and led me into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and then gestured widely toward the walls and the mirror. “Out there,” he pointed. “There’s all my students. Every night I teach long courses. For hours.” He had not lost his marbles. Here was a man so steeped in the intricacies of his craft that he sought to share it with the only students who might understand it. Students occupied the amphitheater of his imaginarium. Alvin Sargent was a true giant in this endeavor of sharing stories with the world. I like to think that the lessons he imparted and the secrets he revealed to his walls and his wardrobe taught his successors how to be better. How to fight. Perhaps even how to win.

Rock 'n' roll is a secret society that everyone wants to taste but few have actually seen. For half my life, I was one of those few—first as a budding Annie Leibovitz, packed into a van with any band who would have me, and then, eventually, as part of an iconic all-girl band on the rise. I started playing bass the day I joined my first band at 26. I played my first show in a packed bar two weeks later. Within a few years, I was playing in front of thousands of people, making out with idols at celebrity after-parties and doing drugs on weekday afternoons. Having been on the fringes of the world as the photographer, girlfriend or crew member, and having been so quickly catapulted to the eye of the storm, I was acutely aware of how my experience changed overnight.

Within a few years, I was playing in front of thousands of people, making out with idols at celebrity after-parties and doing drugs on weekday afternoons.

Our Band's Rise Was Intoxicating

A lot of the assumptions you have about being in a band are true: You’re instantly admitted to a secret society and invited to all the parties; the clothes and drugs are free; people either want to be you or fuck you; and famous people want to be your friend. You and your bandmates are a pack, a gang, married by a blood bond that is forged on the road with over a thousand hours shared in small spaces. It’s the band against the world and all eyes on you. Over my career, I’d been the only woman in my bands, but the power of the all-girl band was unlike all the others. It hit me the night of the first festival we played. We entered a dining hall packed with every other band on the bill, from the headliner to the opener, my bandmates and I in our signature short black dresses, gliding through with an air of untouchability. Heads turned and eyes devoured us. I was intoxicated by the power. We didn’t play particularly well that day, but we were still that girl band. As we hung around backstage, a long-time crush of mine sauntered over and showered me with flirtation and praise. He was my first taste of feeling that anyone was “reachable.” Another Epic Dream Man in a Famous Band took me to a party at a Famous Director’s house. When we walked in the house, I noticed my date and the director himself were the only men amongst a room of French models. My former, less cool self, was convinced I was doomed to be ditched, but even as a known supermodel and indie actress made obvious passes at him, he stayed by my side, asking about life in my band. At one point, as the model tried to wedge her way between us, he leaned back and, straight to her face, proclaimed he wasn’t interested and whisked me away to the bathroom to make out. I played it cool on the outside, but my inner teenager was screaming.

I was intoxicated by the power.

As Our Popularity Grew, So Did Superficial Connections

I’ve never been one to love parties, but when you’re the token rock star or cool kid amongst cool kids, all the teenage anxiety around social situations washes away because people want you there and want to talk to you. When you’re among other musicians and artists, you have an automatic connection and conversation starter. And when you’re among regular people, they want a taste of your cool by osmosis. Soon after, famous authors, directors and TV executives wanted us to star in their videos or films. People I’d idolized watched us from the side of the stage or asked us to sing with them. When we played on late-night television shows, everyone from high school nemeses to distant cousins reached out, each sending congratulations and hoping to “hang out sometime.”

My Brief Fame Gave Me Greater Perspective

Every step of the way, I recalled those who had never spoken to me suddenly replying to every Instagram story, coming to every show or bragging about me to their friends. I noticed which acquaintances made a bigger play to get closer to me or to get on the list for shows. While our band gained some fame and recognition, we never reached the top. From what exposure I did have, I gained a lot of compassion for how isolating life can be for people who become household names. The constant motion from one city to another with barely any time at home is ungrounding, but the constant “yes man” culture that follows can inflate your sense of self. The persistent dopamine high of adoration and applause becomes addictive. I felt fortunate to have been a late arrival and to have had the gift of perspective. Years later, as the band dissolved and I returned to the outside, the invitations waned, the access diminished and only the true friendships stuck. But the bond between me and my bandmates continues, and the power I gained from taking the leap of faith and chasing my dream will stay with me forever. I wasn’t cool because of the clout or fame, but because I took the risk. That’s where the real power lies. Earned or not, real or illusion, I wouldn’t trade any moment of it. The high was worth the comedown, and I’d do it all over again.

The year was 1986, and I wanted to record my first prank call album. I had been experimenting with phone recordings for a couple of years already; now I wanted to actually document it. The problem: I was stuck in a juvenile detention center.My parents put me in rehab for my wild behavior and involvement with weed. And it was an indefinite program, so a kid usually only got out when the insurance funding finally reached its limit. This was one of those common 1980s teen-dehumanization places. I was tricked into coming there and was resistant to their treatment. By my second day, the staff had tackled me to the ground, held me down, ripped off my clothes—I remember I was wearing a Dead Kennedys shirt—shaved my head and put me in overalls with no shoes. I’m not exactly sure what lesson I was supposed to learn from that but I definitely still wanted to record my prank call album.

The problem: I was stuck in a juvenile detention center.

My Not-So Great Escape

I hung around for a couple of weeks, got to know most of the other kids and learned how things worked at the place. But I had every intention of escaping. One other kid did too, but when the time came, he decided against it and instead wanted to commit to the program. So, I escaped by myself. There was an old African-American man assigned to the sleeping area to monitor us overnight. I got up around four and he was totally asleep in his chair. I jumped out of the bathroom window, 15 feet down. I still had no clothes and no shoes but that was not going to deter me.I also had no money—or really anywhere to go—so I had to hit up anyone I knew for some assistance. I lined up a couple of places to stay and some clothes. Then, one day, a couple of weeks later, I was just walking around and—being the type of person who generally stands out—was noticed by a friend of my parents, who alerted them to my whereabouts. They all got in a pickup truck and cornered me. I took off running but they caught up to me and tackled me. They brought me back home and, after a few minutes, the police rang the doorbell. It turned out that some other neighbor had witnessed the chase and called the police to our address. After my parents explained the situation, the police ultimately drove me back to the rehab center.

Back to Rehab

This time, the rehab people insisted that I must be placed in a psychiatric hospital for a two-week observation before they would allow me back. So, I was transferred to a lockdown facility in an actual hospital. I had my own room, bathroom, a phone and a TV. I had a team of doctors checking me out. I remember their first concern was dehydration. Apparently, I had barely drunk any water in the last couple of weeks. My days at the hospital consisted of group therapy, arts and crafts class, and one-on-one counseling. It was actually pretty chill. The other patients were a combination of senior citizens, suicidal teens and whoever else. One elderly woman insisted that we stay in touch with each other in the future, as she enjoyed my artwork. And the hospital food was decent: I had just started a vegetarian diet, so I quickly learned about side dishes. Sometimes I picked up the phone and called random places but the environment wasn’t conducive to much chatting. The doctors seemed to feel that I needed to learn about family dynamics—and that was basically it. So I did my two weeks and was then transferred back to rehab.As soon as I got back there, a new kid introduced himself and said, “I heard that I should talk to you about breaking out.” So, I agreed to escape with him a couple of nights later. When that night came, it was a blizzard but that also was not going to deter me. We escaped through another window this time and were only a few blocks away when a police patrol car drove by. They shined their spotlight on us and yelled, “Freeze! Don’t move!” They handcuffed us and, after a brief stop at the police station, we were taken right back to rehab. It had only been a couple of hours.This escape-and-capture routine carried on for most of the year. I was in and out of that place over and over again. The last time I actually pretended to be interested in their treatment, when, in reality, I knew I did not belong there. At all. And since they would not allow me to keep shoes, they had me on a behavioral-monitor program to earn them back. One day, I had an evaluation where they determined that I had shown improvement. They said, “Would you like your shoes back now?” I responded, “You know what, I had better not. I don’t feel as though I’ve quite earned them just yet.” They said that that was an honest and commendable attitude. But I knew that as a result, they would probably not be watching me and, late that night, I jumped right out of the bathroom window again.

How I Began Making My Calls

This time, a friend of mine told me about a girl whose parents were in Europe all summer and that I could probably stay at her house. So, I went to a party there one night and I came right out and asked her if that was okay. She said, “Totally! You can sleep in my parents’ room.” So, I stayed there for weeks and did a lot of partying. I also managed to have some of my record collection with me. One night, I worked my way to the stereo and put on a prank call recording. I saw a house full of 100 kids immediately light up as they heard it. Also, to contribute, some nights I got on the phone and scammed a bunch of food out of local restaurants. During the days, I called old friends from school and did some weird prank call “rehearsing,” for lack of a better word. No recording, just trying to hear what it might sound like if I ever did make this album I wanted to make. The concept was becoming more foreign to me as this crazy time went on.Then came the local stop for Slayer’s Reign In Blood tour. I went to the concert with a few people. Once I got there, I ran into some other friends who had recently relocated way out to rural Colorado with their parents. They told me that they had explained my situation to their folks, who then said that I could go live with them at their new place. They hadn’t known how to reach me but they knew I would be at the gig. Shortly thereafter, I was living with that family out in the sticks. It was fine, we all got along. We would hang out together at night and, during the days, I had the house to myself. So, I tried out some phone call ideas—a lot of three-way calls, in particular. Then, after a few weeks, the parents informed me, “We called your parents to let them know you were here and they want to meet us for dinner tomorrow night.” The next night we all went to the only restaurant in town. I was apprehensive as I went in. I hadn’t seen or talked to my folks in many months since they were adamant about institutionalizing me. Anyway, after a few minutes of awkwardness, my parents basically just insisted that I return home with them. I would finish my treatment at another location—since the first one had completely given up on me—and then I could live at home again. And, somehow, for some reason, I agreed. The path of least resistance, I suppose. I said my goodbyes and thanked that family for taking me in.My dad drove us all the way back from that rural town and took me directly to a different rehab facility. Apparently, he had spoken to this place earlier in the day and they had agreed to create a space for me. However, when we arrived, it turned out that they had not done that. I sat in the waiting room as my dad and the staff argued back and forth about this. They said that there was no vacancy, there would be no vacancy, and they began suggesting other facilities that I could be sent to instead. Finally, after about 45 minutes of this, exasperated, my dad said, “Forget it,” and that I could just come home. We left and drove home together.

After a brief period of choosing a name for the project, I decided on Longmont Potion Castle. I just liked the way the syllables sounded together.

Back at Home, I Honed My Craft

Home was now someplace new. Over the past nine months or so, my parents and sister had relocated to a new part of town—in a new house that I had never been to before. As I settled in, I had a bedroom and I had access to my folks’ cassette-based answering machine with two-way record. So I quickly began recording every phone conversation I had—although the phone recorder “beeped” every ten seconds (an early security feature, designed to alert the other party that they were being recorded). I spent a lot of time on that phone recorder and I loved the material I was getting.However, settling into my new school was more difficult. I was way down in suburban south Denver at an enormous high school. I had some better subjects than others throughout my school day but it was lunchtime that posed a unique problem as I did not know anyone, or even what to do with myself. So, I quickly developed a lunchtime activity that kept me occupied and at least seemed harmless at the time. I stood at the payphone by the school’s entrance and placed collect calls into the main office. This meant calling the operator (which was free), having the operator call someone at the school (usually the principal or vice-principal) and having the operator ask them to accept the charges. I remember stating that I was “Dick Smack” and other absurd names. This went on for weeks, until one day when I was on the phone with the operator and the office, and in the middle of the call, the principal opened the door and saw me there. I hung up and he brought me into his office. He left me there alone for a few minutes. When he returned, he asked me, “Who sent you? Who do you work for?” I gave him my real name and explained that I was just a student. But, apparently, due to my status as a new student, there was a clerical error and I was not on file. They did not believe that I truly attended their school and called the police. Moments later, they finally did verify my enrollment and called off the cops. They then called my parents and suspended me for two weeks. Back at home, I went back to recording my phone work full-time. After a brief period of choosing a name for the project, I decided on Longmont Potion Castle. I just liked the way the syllables sounded together and the way that the name suggested something…else. Something distant, unfamiliar and a little odd. A few of those calls still stand out even now. Like calling a random old man and asking to speak to “Nipper” (which was the name of the dog owned by that family I was living with) and having him scream at me in response. Or pretending to be with a delivery service, along with my co-worker “Frank,” when simultaneously the guy on the other end screamed at me in response and my mom and sister returned home from the grocery store. They tried to get me to help carry groceries while this guy was losing his mind on the phone. Or trying to call this guy “Bryan” from school, who gave me his number, but the woman who answered the phone screamed that he did not live there. (It turned out he was trying to be clever and wrote his phone number down backward, unbeknownst to me.)By 1988, my cassette-only debut album was complete. I still love it today and I more or less have followed its template ever since. If I never had made another album, I would still think of it as a success. Since then, I have made over 20 more LPC releases with a plethora of indie labels. In 2018, for the 30-year anniversary, an LPC documentary movie was released. I have been told by a number of folks that I inspired them either to create or to somehow cope with their own difficulties in life. LPC has also performed live shows both as a one-man thrash metal project and by doing live calls from a remote location. But, to this day, any time that someone mentions a movie or an album that came out in 1986, I still draw a blank. I could barely pay any attention to popular culture that year.

The only thing I ever heard about pursuing an acting career was how daunting it would be. But after two decades in the industry, I can say it’s been worth all the hardships I had coming my way. Even the ones I’ve faced this year. You could classify me as many things: writer, director and actor—although, I think I’m more widely known for being in front of the camera. I’ve been acting for years. I am extremely blessed and grateful for my long-term success, and have probably been in some of your favorite movies and television shows. In fact, I’m sure of it. My point isn’t to brag, I promise. I’ve just been doing this for a long time and have seen it all. I didn’t recently move to Hollywood—I’ve lived here for years with a chip on my shoulder. Which is to say: I don’t take a single opportunity I’ve had for granted, and I absolutely love what I do, when I get to do it.Being a creative is challenging, no matter what your avenue. Some years are wonderful and others you’d like to forget. But 2020 has surely taken the cake. A question I get all of the time is, “What’s it like being an actor?” A question I get even more now is, “What’s it like being an actor in 2020?” To give you a better idea, I’d like to rewind to several months before the pandemic began. My nightmare year started a little earlier than most.

Before the Pandemic, I Was Already Filled With Anxiety

In October 2019, I was having a forgettable kind of year. Work was scarce, money was low and confidence was nonexistent—nothing out of the ordinary for a normal working actor. My girlfriend and I decided to get away to the East Coast for a friend’s wedding, a necessary trip in a tough year, and a true escape. We spent our first day taking in the sights of the city, eating, laughing, enjoying each other’s company—far from our gloomy reality 3,000 miles away. On the wedding day, we filed into shuttle buses for a 45-minute drive to the venue. To our dismay, we picked the one shuttle that had broken air conditioning and the heat stuck on high. I’ve never been good in tight or hot spaces for too long (I was trapped in an elevator for an hour and a locker for nearly four hours as a kid, which has forever affected me). As the drive began, I started to sweat. It was already 80 degrees that day, I was wearing a full suit and the heat was blasting. None of the windows opened. It was truly my nightmare. Soon, my heart started racing, my vision began to blur and my palms pooled with sweat. I couldn’t breathe, and I was moments from passing out. It felt like I was dying. In reality, I was having a panic attack, and against my better judgement, I indiscreetly sat through it for the whole bus ride. People whispered and murmured to their seatmates, intensifying the whole ordeal. The feeling continued for nearly two weeks after returning to L.A. Something had changed me—it temporarily broke me. The stress had gotten so bad, I realized it was time to seek help. I called my doctor and set up an appointment. I’ll never forget sitting in his office, sobbing like a child and describing the debilitating feeling I’d been having. The doctor explained I was experiencing symptoms of panic disorder. I had performed in front of thousands of people. The idea that I could have a disorder that would set off panic in my mind and body was beyond my belief. I’m still working through my disorder, but it has gotten better. Auditions were tougher to get through for a period of time, as if the nerves weren’t already a problem for even the steadiest actor. But I was determined to beat this invisible enemy of mine. As December approached its conclusion, my girlfriend and I both got severely sick. Looking back, it may have been COVID, but who knows? One day, as we continued to mend, our young dog began breathing weird and refused to eat. Four days after visiting the vet, we lost our husky to rapid-spreading lymphoma. The whole situation seemed unreal. As much as we cried until our eye-wells drained dry, we knew the new year was coming, a perfect time to start fresh, a perfect time to heal, succeed and accomplish planned goals. It was about to be 2020: “The best year yet.”

My nightmare year started a little earlier than most.

The Industry Shutdown Forced Me Into Unemployment

To be fair, the year started well. I moved into a new home, booked a job, secured some branding deals and was on the shortlist for two new pilots, with other potential lucrative opportunities on the horizon. Everything was looking up! Then the unthinkable happened. COVID-19 officially reached the United States. There was comfort in the idea that we were all going through it at the same time. I woke up every day and stayed creative. I wrote, read, looked for side work, even built furniture for our new home. Then after a month or two, I became antsy. Bored to the bone, I yearned for connection to the outside world. I missed my friends and family. I missed the days where I didn’t have to sanitize every item crossing my home’s threshold. I missed being on set! Unfortunately, for me and thousands of other creatives, there was no light at the end of the tunnel. Not anytime soon.In May, I reached out to my agents and managers to get an idea of the landscape. They had no clue. Everything was shut down indefinitely, no lifeboat in sight. Everyone was working from home, but “working” was an overstatement. There was no work. Productions shut down, studios sealed up and casting was the last thing anyone was concerned about. A high-profile show creator that I’d worked with over the years gave me some good advice: “Find a way to make money outside of acting because this is going to fucking suck for a long time.” I was frightened but knew I had to figure something out. I feared that I’d end up living on the street. (For anyone who hasn’t lived in Los Angeles before, it’s not cheap.) For the first time in my 20 years of working, I applied for unemployment. It was a shot to the gut. From time to time, I would—and still do—provide private and group coaching lessons for acting students over Zoom, teaching everyone from two-year-olds to adults my age. It’s a way to give back to a younger and more hopeful generation of actors. It gives me an outlet to be creative with like-minded people and make money on the side. But those jobs were few and far between in the pandemic. I leaned on my branding work, writing and creating short skits to endorse products on social media. These were fun, but not a stable source of income, either. I had to keep on trucking. I was selling things I didn’t necessarily need on Letgo and OfferUp. I became an assistant for a friend, running daily errands—groceries, package drop-offs, monotonous stuff. I was willing to swallow my pride to provide for myself and my little family. Thankfully, my girlfriend had already secured a job from home, so one of us was bringing home the bacon. I’m so grateful for her.

For the first time in my 20 years of working, I applied for unemployment.

I Began to Pivot in the Face of More Adversity

Over the summer, the industry had to change if there was any hope of reopening our business. Only a handful of big productions had started back up, but no one was willing to risk illness or financial loss for smaller, independent projects. That left a huge gap for a large portion of unspoken artists like myself—but also hair and makeup artists, camera crews and wardrobe departments. The whole industry was working at about a ten percent capacity. The weeks continued to count away, the days began to blur into one. The side jobs continued to help ends meet.Eventually, I started getting an influx of voiceover auditions for various animated shows, movies or commercials. These types of jobs weren’t typically my forte, but shit, I was grateful for the opportunities. Most of these jobs could be recorded and completed within your own home during the new COVID-era restrictions, but it wasn’t necessarily something I was good at, or even had the hardware to accomplish successfully. On my first auditions, I recorded on my phone, but was quickly told to purchase better equipment for enhanced audio quality. More money out, less money in, but I did as instructed and have continued to work diligently on perfecting the craft. Another bump in the road for actors occurred in August. Our union, SAG-AFTRA, changed its eligibility requirements for healthcare. The union that was supposed to protect us announced that actors needed to make an additional $10,000 a year to earn health benefits. In a year when almost nobody has worked, they turned their backs on the very individuals that kept the engine running. If I seem bitter and angry, it’s because I am, especially as someone with a diagnosed mental health disorder. For an actor who doesn’t fall into the top one or two percent, $10,000 is a lot. As a “working actor,” I’ll average one audition a month. That gives you 12 opportunities in a normal year, 12 chances to get a job. And for a successful veteran like myself, I’m considered one of the lucky ones. Some years you might book two out of those 12, and other years you book none. Employment is never guaranteed.

A Bad Zoom Audition Put Things in Perspective

By October, I hadn’t booked one real, live-action audition. I stopped bothering my agents and managers. I continued the side gigs, continued the grind, barely putting enough together. Then, finally, a call from my agent: “Hey! We have an incredible opportunity for us. It’s a new show. A lead role that you’re perfect for. The director and producers want to meet with you.” I read the script and fell in love. I rehearsed feverishly, preparing for my audition in a few days. Usually, auditions required driving an hour to a big fancy studio lot and walking into a small room with a large group of executives and directors to shake hands and show them your skillset face-to-face. But in the year of COVID, we just signed in to Zoom and waited for our virtual audition.If I’m being honest, I wasn’t mad about this. I love the idea of being at home (shoes off, don’t tell anyone) and giving my best performance. Technology, however, never works when you need it to. Based on my Zoom acting classes, I considered myself somewhat of a pro on the app. I never had an issue connecting. But when it came to an audition with ten people in the virtual room, I looked like an amateur. Upon entering, nobody could see or hear me, but I could see them and hear them perfectly. They asked me to leave and return. The second time I entered, my audio wasn’t working. Generally, people don’t know how to use Zoom, and while I struggled to fix the issue, one of the producers believed that because they couldn’t hear me, I couldn’t hear them. The producer took one look at me and told his colleague I was too small for the role. “Let’s just move on to the next actor, please,” he said. This broke me. On top of all the anxiety, insecurity and fear of rejection, I had to hear this bullshit? When my Zoom began working, 15 minutes had passed. I felt awful that I’d made them wait. It appeared to them that I wasn’t prepared. I was overwhelmed and understandably bombed. I had put too much pressure on myself, and completely ruined my audition, possibly the one chance I had to redeem the year. Who knows if my performance was the reason for losing the job? There are a million other reasons out of my control. For instance, my size. As an actor, I’m always first to blame myself. It’s sort of what we do as performers—we’re always our own toughest critics. The exchange with that producer obviously didn’t help. You’d think during such a trying year, we would find a way to be a little kinder to one another, a little gentler. This wasn’t just happening to me. Fellow actor Lukas Gage had a similar interaction and actually filmed it. In his case, the director believed he was muted and insulted Lukas’s “small” apartment—as if we’re all just supposed to live in mansions. It’s absolutely cringe-worthy. So, what’s it like being an actor in 2020? From a distance, pretty similar to any other year. It’s tough. Success is never promised. And you’re going to have constant obstacles. The one thing that 2020 has given me that no other year has? Perspective. I’m alive. I’m happy. I’m healthy. I have a woman in my life who, for whatever reason, absolutely loves me. I have a good group of friends and a family that would do anything for me. With all that in mind, I’ve decided that this year, I will no longer allow my career to control or define me. My profession is not what makes me who I am, and I’m grateful for that realization. More opportunities will come my way, more chances for you to see my pretty face on your TV. If you’re an actor reading this—or thinking about joining the business—do it! But don’t put too much pressure on yourself. At the end of the day, we’re all just playing make-believe.

When I was 13, I was obsessed with making people laugh. It was like liquid approval. That counted for a lot as the nerdy kid who felt (and still feels) like he had to justify his existence. I decided I had to become good at stand-up. Living in London, I was able to find workshops that taught comedy to children. And being middle class, I was able to afford them. In comedy, like in most things, privilege starts early. The times I spent in those workshops are amongst the happiest of my life. They made stand-up seem attainable, despite my youth and inexperience. I would leave class feeling like I could fly. To this day, when I’m with someone and we walk past the building where the workshops were held I feel like I’m keeping a secret. Eventually, I became too old for those workshops and the gigs that came with them. It was time for me to grow up and do open mics.

When I was 13, I was obsessed with making people laugh.

Open Mics Require Time, Energy and Sometimes Money

Here, you also run into privilege. In London, an open mic can be on the other side of the city and run for hours. That means that getting to one involves travel costs, and coming back could involve walking home at night in a busy and often unsafe city. The day after, you might be facing a long day’s work on your feet. You might need to sleep, and so you aren’t able to come home late. Leaving an open mic early is frowned upon, though, and might mean you fall out of favor with the promoter. Promoters talk, so this is bad. And this all assumes you even have the energy left over from working all day to even make it out in the first place. There’s also no money to be made: Open mics are all free, and some gigs are even “pay to play,” where the club or promoter charges for stage time. This is less common, and almost universally shunned, but far from unheard of. And even “free” nights might request a bucket donation from acts as well as audience members.Overall, we see that people like me are at an automatic advantage. I was (and am) wealthy enough to afford repeated trips on the Tube to provide a service for which I was not being compensated. I didn’t work long hours doing manual labor. As a man, I was at considerably lower risk walking home at night. Consider also that a lot of open mics in London are “bringers,” meaning you only get to perform if you bring a friend. This is a problem when you consider that privilege tends to attract privilege. When privileged acts bring privileged friends, open mic comedians soon find themselves having to cater to a disproportionately well-educated, wealthy, white male audience. It’s the audience in front of which so many comics get their start. A lack of diversity in the rooms above pubs breeds a lack of diversity on TV ten years down the line. The people who watch that TV get the message that comedy is for a certain “type,” and the cycle continues.

Even When I Performed Well, I Wasn't Happy

This weighed on me, but only in terms of principle. Practically speaking, it was benefitting me enormously. But even then it wasn’t worth it. The enthusiasm and collaboration I’d enjoyed in workshops had been replaced by cliques which were rarely willing to give me the time of day. After two hours on the train and up to three hours of jokes about online pornography, I would come home from gigs utterly deflated. The night of a performance, or the morning after, I would evaluate my performance out of ten on a spreadsheet. (I mentioned being the nerdy kid growing up, right?) A crushing night might be a three or a four. After those performances I would sit in my kitchen for an hour, trying to process what had happened. The next day, I’d listen to the recording of the performance I’d made on my phone, reliving the disaster to see what went wrong. I would write down each joke and give it one to three ticks or, if it had gone down particularly poorly, a cross. Looking down at a page full of crosses is far from motivating. The closest thing I allowed myself to encouragement was a mantra, which I repeated in my head without being fully aware of it: “If I can’t be happy, I will be content.”One gig in 2018 was triple ticks all round. In my spreadsheet, I awarded myself a nine. It was the sort of gig you’d dream of, the gig that made the mental lows of all those threes and fours worth it. As I left the gig, trying to find some sort of a buzz, it dawned on me that I felt nothing. This was the first red flag that was big enough for me to notice. It still took me over a year to quit.That September, I came to university, and I decided I had to settle once and for all whether or not I was funny. Naturally, I started coming onstage in a fur coat and pretending to be a rapper. It felt good to retain the alternative streak that I’d found in the workshops from all those years ago, and bizarrely, it went over well with the audience. For the first time since I started open mics, I felt like I could tell people I did stand-up without being embarrassed. A year later, before I went into my second year of university, I had a couple of bad gigs. This may contradict my self-indulgent musing about not being embarrassed of my work anymore, but the truth is no one ever stops bombing. What was different with these bad gigs is they made me seriously consider whether or not I wanted to continue.

After those performances I would sit in my kitchen for an hour, trying to process what had happened.

Since Quitting, I've Become More Whole

The decision to quit came to me suddenly but gently, and a few years overdue. In an early draft of this article, I wrote that I quit stand-up the second I realized it wasn’t healthy for me, but that isn’t true. I’d love to say that it was, that I realized you’re allowed to trust your instincts and you don’t have to do something when you don’t enjoy it. What actually happened is I got good at stand-up. I’d finally “won.” If that hadn’t happened, I’d still be out there, doing something I didn’t enjoy, for free, with people who kept me at arm’s length.At school, I was a chronic overachiever. When you get consistently high grades, you start to see anything less than perfection as failure. When I used to tell myself, “If I can’t be happy, I will be content,” contentment was always in the future tense. It was reserved for when I was getting ten out of tens on the spreadsheet. Compounded by a culture that encourages competitiveness and tells you to “never give up,” perhaps it wasn’t surprising that I kept going. We are starting to wake up to this: The term “toxic positivity” has slowly been creeping into popular use. Of course, culture wasn’t the only thing at work—the worst part of me also wanted attention and fame, and to be better than the people doing porn jokes.Since quitting, things are better. The thing about thinking you’re funny is you can’t really help yourself. I help run a satire website for students at my university, and I’m not beholden to the approval of others to be happy. I’m not obsessed with the site being viral, or even successful. I don’t want the “top grade” in satire. I fear my spreadsheet days may be behind me. In a world saturated with an obsession about being popular, a term we don’t often hear is self-actualization. It’s a decidedly more solitary concept, and introspective. At least to me, it is the process of becoming whole. After quitting stand-up, a craft devoted to putting the needs of a room full of strangers above your own, I finally feel like I can put myself first. “Happy” was never a word I used to describe myself until the year I quit. It still isn’t the first word that comes to mind. (If you've made it this far, you’ll know that “concise” isn’t either.) But it’s progress.

We met in a strip club in Atlanta. He told me he liked my natural hair and that it reminded him of an African queen. Many of the women I worked with were very aware of who this guy was—and when I left they were full of questions. He hadn’t made any hints of self-importance, which I appreciated. But he was, even if I wasn’t aware, a well-known actor. We didn’t start dating at first—it started slowly, with a couple of acting roles, a few plane rides and fancy dinners. At the time, I identified as a lesbian and had recently had my heart shattered by a woman who I’d been with for a few years. But I also knew how to handle this situation, because working in a strip club gears you up for this kind of encounter. Usually you flirt a little, and the guy comes back regularly. That was the business, that was the point. But this guy was different. He seemed like he was just there to observe. We bonded over the fact that we were both humans within a space—not of that space. He seemed like he wanted nothing from me, and for about three years it stayed that way. Those were the good days. Indeed, those first few years were amazing. I quit my job at the club and started acting. I moved out of the city and ended up getting a larger role within a few months. I flew down to the city where we were shooting and stayed for two weeks. I barely saw him while working, but I always knew he was nearby and keeping an eye on me. He felt more like a mentor than anything else. About a year after landing that role, I was cast in a film that he independently produced. The process of auditioning for the film was long and hard, but I eventually ended up landing a different role and flying out to Los Angeles. This film would change the course of my life in many ways. This little indie film was short and sweet. It took a day to film my scenes and I stayed out in L.A. at his guest house for a week. I met some other actors and got to hang out with them, too. One particular actor shared an intimate moment with me and though I wasn’t prepared for the interaction—and still wasn’t sure if I liked men—I went along with it out of ignorance and fear. This particular decision, however, would come back to bite me. So unaware of the world I was entering, I had succumbed to a shark and would soon be paying for it tenfold. This encounter ended how most encounters seem to end with millennials—I was ghosted. I left Los Angeles the day after feeling useless and wondering what would happen next.

I went from being a regular woman to receiving VIP treatment everywhere we went.

Dating a Celebrity Had Its Glamour and Challenges

The next year, I was called down to meet the big-time actor—my original romancer—in Miami. By that point, I hadn’t worked since acting in the indie film he had directed the previous summer, and I was excited to shoot more. He’d purchased a one-way ticket for me and we spent quite a few months in Southern Florida shooting a television show. This is where our relationship rooted. When either of us wasn’t shooting we would spend time together. We hadn’t made anything official, so I was still able to do as I pleased without the “courtesy check-in.” Florida was our honeymoon phase. Things ended up going so well that he asked me to come to L.A., but I still had my own life and responsibilities. I said I would come eventually. “Eventually” happened fairly quickly. My cousin had a wedding in California on New Year's Eve, so he attended with me and my family. That night we made things a bit more official and I ended up staying with him. I wouldn’t say my life changed overnight, but it certainly became a lot more glamorous. I went from being a regular woman to receiving VIP treatment everywhere we went.In certain places, servers and waiters gave us free drinks or the best seats, but for the most part in L.A., things were normal. Elsewhere, it was far more extensive. If we flew to Atlanta or upstate, we’d leave from LAX, which was its own sort of trap. No matter what, I was destined to meet the paparazzi at least once, and I was never ready for them. For those who have never experienced being bombarded by strangers with cameras, it's not as fun as it seems. If you’ve ever walked through a grocery store deciding what to buy, and then suddenly come face-to-face with an ex you haven’t seen in years, it's that kind of shock. At least, for me it was. It took some getting used to, but it was my least favorite part of the entire experience.

Dating a celebrity is similar to dating anyone else once you remove all the fame and the glamour.

I Still Pretend Our Relationship Was Beautiful

We continued to date. We continued to go to places and run into people he knew. Our routine consisted of auditions, workouts, pool time and L.A. adventures. One night, I decided to tell him about what happened the previous summer. At that point, I was all about being transparent and honest with my partners. I told him everything, even the part about not really wanting to do it. His response wasn’t of understanding but of complete disgust. In one evening, I went from being his favorite person to being worthless. His words, his emotions, his actions all led me to feel that way. I slipped into a deep depression. In my eyes, I had been the sun in his life for so long. Now, I was nothing. I wasn’t even worth keeping around to him, but he kept me and brought in other women to fill the gaps.I found myself as the castaway girlfriend, the buffer for other girls who had to be nice in order to talk to him—a sort of comical gatekeeper. This wore on me, as I’m sure he knew. We began to drift apart, but we stayed together for a few months longer. When we finally did break up, and I moved back to Atlanta, I quit acting and became a standup comic. Dating a celebrity is similar to dating anyone else once you remove all the fame and the glamour. We had our problems and we handled them poorly, just like everyone else. We had public breakdowns, seen by other famous actors and civilians. We had horrible moments that we then had to push aside for red carpet events, for the semblance of unity. Dating an actor meant me laying down my comforts to pretend with him—to pretend, to this day, that our relationship was beautiful and beneficial because I was made to feel like I’d been given some sort of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.The fact of the matter is you can date anyone who is available to you. But you shouldn’t. Sometimes you see a lifestyle and you go for it, head first, without knowing the cost of the endeavor. Without this experience, though, I would have never discovered what I won’t put up with. Or how to read people without even knowing them. Or that I could be brave enough to become a standup comic.

I’m obsessed with horror cinema. It’s my life.I think the appeal is that I like to chase the bad feelings. It’s part of the same weird practice of saying the absolute worst thing that can happen out loud so it can’t actually happen. Horror is a way of managing emotions in my life that have been out of my control. I wasn't allowed to watch horror movies when I was growing up, and had no real interest in them until I was 16 or 17, when for some reason I decided to make my way through the entire horror section of our video store. My mother got her master's degree as a reading specialist in night school when I was growing up, and she encouraged us to read, and read anything, so I devoured Stephen King, Richard Matheson and horror comics. But I didn’t really consider it important to me until I engaged with the movies. I remember watching Alien with the sound off, hunched in front of the TV while my father was passed out on the couch. I watched The Toxic Avenger at 7 a.m. on a weekday in the emergency room where my mom worked nights. I remember not because of the movie itself, but because I was waiting for the school bus in my Catholic school uniform next to a man with a gigantic leg wound bleeding through a bath towel.

My Trauma Made Me a Horror Fan

Growing up, my father was an abusive addict. As I got older he became violent towards me and my sisters. He somehow got far worse after he sobered up. And he took advantage of my mental illness to keep me on hand to take care of my housebound grandparents. As an adult, I have pretty severe anxiety from post-traumatic stress. I had agoraphobia and didn’t leave the house for several years, leading to a suicidal crisis in 2016. My family had a home invasion in 2012. My uncle, a former Rolling Stones roadie who had fallen in with white supremacists at the end of his life, had died with some heroin in his possession. Some people came around to get it while we were home. No one got hurt, and the cops never got called, but it scared me. We lived on a dirt road in rural Pennsylvania. My room faced the driveway and I’d see headlights through the blinds at two in the morning. For a long time after that incident, every time someone drove past I tensed up, waiting for them to turn in and light up the window. I had some very intense insomnia and paranoid ideation after that. I didn’t talk about this with anyone or even rationally realize I was doing this for months. I wanted to stay awake, though. My agoraphobia was at its peak around then. My family went on a vacation and left me alone in the house for a few weeks, so I stayed up for days and watched every slasher movie I could find. Every home invasion movie. Gore. Torture porn. Italian Grand Guignol psychedelia. Korean revenge movies. New French Extremity. Paranoia thrillers. I don’t think I was working through the trauma, in the way that people commonly talk about. Instead, it was a trauma I could have distance from—like they say, “It’s only a movie”. Even the most realistic, most upsetting mutilation scene is still more of an object than any real problem someone could be experiencing. I find horror to be intense or disturbing, or even disgusting, but rarely ever scary. Horror films are efficient. Alfred Hitchcock’s geometric approach to suspense and perspective is the grammar of most modern cinema, period. The slasher movie’s rigid structure gives filmmakers space to explore their idiosyncrasies. But we sometimes punish horror for being too effective. The game of identifying with a character on-screen, and how that shifts, is more cathartic sometimes than the explosions of violence that punctuate the suspense. I don’t know that I watch Dawn of the Dead or Last House on the Left to be scared, so much as to use them as a black box of stories where I can process the things I’m actually scared about. The most intense of these films access how vulnerable they make you feel when you encounter the dangerous aspects of the real world: a movie like The Strangers, where the lead character asks why the brutal home invasion at the center of the story is happening, and the reply is, “Because you were home”.

Zombies aren’t something that keeps me up at night, but the end of the world is.

Horror Movies Are Scary, but Real Life Is Terrifying

When I was looking for an apartment in New York in 2019 I was deeply suicidal. When I wasn’t commuting to the city, I would sit and watch Day of the Dead over and over. The third zombie apocalypse movie in George Romero’s trilogy, a movie that very specifically has no hope: Some scientists—only one of them a woman—and army guys sit and experiment in a bunker in Florida as the whole world seems overrun. Empty. The savagery of the people sitting waiting for the end to come is much scarier than the endless hordes at the gates. It starts in a nightmare and never really leaves it; it never gives any false hope, not even once. It felt (and feels) like the only sane thing to do was cultivate that feeling. Zombies aren’t something that keeps me up at night, but the end of the world is. A semi-fictional thing to worry over instead of what was really bothering me: changing my whole life without a support system, a job or a house lined up. What I was even doing, trying to make a change like this? The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is scary. The brain surgery scene in The Dark Half is terrifying. David Lynch is disturbing. Rosemary’s Baby, with the idea everyone in your life knowing what’s better for you, is terrifying. When my mental health was at its lowest, I would repeat “all of them witches” to myself and laugh, because there isn’t a coven of witches out to destroy you. There are no body snatchers, no killers in masks standing out on the treeline. There are only unending questions about what happens and for what reasons. Our day-to-day lives are a lot more violent and unstable than we’re allowed to acknowledge. Sometimes you just want to rev up your anxiety far enough to bury the needle, just to know that it has a point where it can’t go any higher. Movies end. Life doesn’t. When director Wes Craven realized kids were watching his movies, as a way to inoculate themselves against real horror, he called them “boot camps for the psyche.”

It’s still been the best year of my life.

Survival Is Victory

Part of a great horror movie’s appeal is power fantasy. The “final girl” thing, where the perspective of a serial killer eventually shifts over to their victim as they overcome them, is so natural a storytelling idea that it’s hard to think that it’s only a couple of decades old. There is catharsis and there is also the knowledge that this isn’t happening and we’re watching a movie. The best horror films treat survival as victory. What happens that’s so radical in Texas Chainsaw and Halloween is that you, the viewer, have made it though at all. I haven’t spoken to my father since he attacked me in January 2017. I haven’t had contact with the rest of my family in over a year. I finally moved out of the decaying resort town I was raised in and moved to the city right before a global pandemic. It’s still been the best year of my life. Of course, everyone loves to fantasize about revenge, or making “living their best life” into a form of revenge. But cathartic conclusions rarely happen offscreen. What I’ve learned from slasher movies is that the only victory is survival. The world will inevitably change and lash out. The lesson of these movies, beyond everything else, is that the scariest thing you can imagine can happen. But also that you can live through it.

Turns out my husband likes the wine, not the label, if you know what I mean. And me? I’m corked. Sour grapes. Gone bad. Gone off. Whatever. He’s going to drink some red for a while, and maybe try an oak-aged pinot gris. I’m done with the wine metaphor. I got dumped, okay? He wants to see other people and decided that 12 years into a marriage was a good time to tell me that I was missing some of the requisite genitalia. I’m an ally, so I understand, right? I’m okay with this journey, right?Well, I might have been more understanding if he’d told me before he invited strangers from Adult FriendFinder over to our house while our baby was sleeping and I was out of town. I might have been more on board with this metamorphosis if he didn’t also say that it was all my fault he was in the closet so long, “Because I never would have understood.” I, a theater major, a liberal, would never have accepted that a human being can be bisexual? I knew that wasn’t it. I knew he was deflecting because of his guilt and his shame and his deep-seated white boy, suburban upbringing. I knew he needed therapy and to be truthful with himself and others. But, ouch, man. We got divorced.

I got dumped, okay?

In Tough Times, I Turn to Comedy

On my first night alone with no kids (we began sharing custody), I didn’t know what to do with myself. Alone time was an unknown concept in my previous life. I deserved a treat. So, I ordered the sixth season of Schitt’s Creek off Amazon Prime. It was going to come out on Netflix in a few weeks, but to quote my soon-to-be-ex, “I couldn’t wait one more day to be happy.”He and I had binge-watched the first five seasons earlier that year. We happy-cried when (spoilers!) Patrick proposed to David on a hike. That was how my husband proposed to me! He’d dragged me—David, in this scenario—up a large mountain (hill) against my will. We’d gotten nearly lost and given up and then, at the top, a beautiful vista, a man on one knee, a sweet marriage proposal. We were like them! We were not. David and Patrick would never. Ew. As I binged the entire season in one night, I laughed. This was good. Sitcoms are good. When I’m upset, I rewatch sitcoms I’ve seen before. In 2005, when we broke up for five days, I watched Arrested Development. In 2015, when he admitted to cheating on me, I watched 30 Rock and Parks and Rec. This round, I’d already re-watched the first five seasons of Schitt’s Creek and now, after only a few hours of screen time, I arrived at the final episode: the wedding. It’s called “Happy Ending,” and it signified the end of an era. My friends are very attentive. One had recently asked me if I’d had a breakdown yet. I’d been panicked in the wake of this quickie divorce. I’d been fueled by adrenaline and Klonopin and had been running as fast as I could into my new life. I got a lawyer, a new house, a mediator, a therapist, a financial advisor, a dog! I didn’t have time for a breakdown! “You’ll have one,” my friend said. “When the dust settles and you’re alone, you’ll feel everything.”

People sobbed at my wedding. Remember, I was a theater major.

Life Doesn’t End at ‘The Happy Ending’

In the finale, as David walked down the aisle, I began to sob. This, on my television, was true love. This was acceptance. This was pure. This was trust. I really thought I had it. I thought I had a happy ending. People sobbed at my wedding. Remember, I was a theater major. People dramatically, openly wept. We both cried up there, being married by one of our parents, just like David and Patrick, though ours wasn’t dressed so magnificently. We had written our own vows. I’d told him he was my home. I’d believed it. I was so wrong. We’d said we’d love each other “for all the days of my life.” We did not. It was over. Schitt’s Creek, this bastion of love and acceptance, was over. This place where people can trust that their loved ones won’t betray them, was gone. As the Schitts drove away from their town forever, I sobbed harder than I had since he’d first told me he was leaving me. I sobbed so hard it hurt my body. I felt sick. I thought about reaching for my Klonopin, but I waited. I sat in my uncomfortable grief, my absolute distress. I felt sad. Not panicked. Not stricken. Not mad. Just sad.I was going to miss them all. Schitt’s Creek and its inhabitants deserved their happy ending. Why not me? A cheesy John Lennon quote comes to mind, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” Of course it’s not the end! Sitcoms end with everything tied up in a nice little denouement. Of course, I don’t get a happy ending. We had our happily ever after wedding with wine and dancing. We had our picture-perfect blonde children. We had our big, old house with a maple tree and a swing. We had backyard BBQs and double dates and birthday parties. We had Christmas mornings and a Disney vacation. But we are not characters in a sitcom and we do not live in idyllic Schitt’s Creek. We can visit it on our televisions to feel comforted that love does exist, but it’s not a place we can live. Sadly, unlike David and Patrick, our love was not simply the best. But Schitt’s Creek, in all it’s Canadian goodness and glory, was, indeed, the best.

I’ve never been what you might call a “fangirl.” I never really got into boy bands in the way some teenage girls did, lining up for hours to get tickets for concerts, obsessively tracking their every move in hope that I might catch a glimpse—or even better, win a VIP face-to-face meeting. No one ever really captured my imagination or awe in that way. But I did always love Beyoncé.Of course, like any real Beyoncé fan, it all began with Destiny’s Child. The band’s first two albums, The Writings on the Wall and Survivor, were the soundtrack to my early teens. I was so inspired by these strong, powerful women. I wanted to be like them and wished they were my friends.At the time, I was going through hell at secondary school. I was bullied almost every day by older boys who hadn’t taken well to me rejecting the advances of one of their friends. They’d wait outside my classrooms, throw rolled-up paper at my head and spread horrible rumors about me that spread like wildfire. In one instance, they kicked a football at me as I walked to class—I still remember the sting on my face. It was hell, but I shrugged it off like it was nothing.On the way to school, music was my escape. It took me to another world where I was happy and confident, and my heart didn’t pound in my chest as soon as I stepped off the school bus. I listened to the Survivor album on my Walkman on repeat. Destiny’s Child lyrics became affirmations for me.“I’m a survivor, I’m gonna make it. I'm a survivor, I'm not gon' give up, I'm not gon' stop. I'm gon' work harder.”

I felt like Beyoncé was having the time of her life, and so was I.

Beyoncé’s New Albums Corresponded With My Life Situations

Fast forward to 2003, and those stressful days of school were long behind me. I had started university and had thrown myself headfirst into my new independent life, surrounded by new friends who made me feel good. One of them, a guy named Toby, was extra special to me. From the moment I met him on our very first day, I knew there was something unique about him. I knew I wanted to be part of his life.I found out pretty soon that Toby was in a relationship with a girl from his hometown. I was gutted, but after a few months, I found myself seeing a totally unsuitable boy, Jack, who lived in my hall. He ended up becoming my boyfriend, and an emotionally volatile one at that. Jack was a lot to handle. He was jealous, controlling and obsessed with Toby, who he quite rightly thought I had feelings for. He would often go out for the evening, drink way too much and I’d wake up to dozens of abusive text messages and voicemails. I told myself it was just the alcohol. I put up with it. I remember lying with Jack in my student digs listening to Destiny’s Child’s Dangerously in Love album. I would think about my dear friend Toby and wish I was with him instead. I had ended up being bullied again. But this time it felt worse—the bully was in my bed.A few months down the line, Jack admitted that he’d been deleting Toby’s text messages from my phone. His jealousy had got out of control and our relationship ended when he physically tried to hit me in my parents’ house when he visited during the holidays. I looked to the music of Destiny’s Child to help me process my feelings and find the strength to leave that toxic relationship behind. The bully was finally gone. I was free.After 2006, much lighter years followed. Now a graduate, I was working and renting a place with friends. Beyoncé’s B’Day album was out and life was good. I had found a new boyfriend who I’d met in my final year of university, and my housemates and I were still pretty much acting like students, just with a little bit more money in our pockets. Tracks like “Déjà Vu” and “Freakum Dress” would be the soundtrack to a fun night out. We’d drink cheap wine from plastic glasses while applying far too much mascara and recreating Beyoncé’s dance routines.The albums I am Sasha Fierce and Beyoncé have similar associations with the carefree days of my 20s that saw a move to London, the beginning of a fast-paced career and a totally new circle of friends. I felt like Beyoncé was having the time of her life, and so was I.

It was something I knew she had been through herself, and I felt in awe at how strong she still was.

I Relied on Beyoncé’s Strength to Get Through Challenging Times

But in 2016, life had started to feel heavier. My boyfriend had become my husband, and we’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to have a baby for two years. It was a difficult and worrying time that made me angry and resentful. This coincided with the release of Beyoncé’s anticipated album, Lemonade, which told the story of her husband Jay-Z’s infidelity. As soon as it dropped, I plugged my earphones in at work and listened to it on repeat for the rest of the day. Every track was so full of rage, sadness and strength. It was exactly what I needed. I felt all of Beyoncé’s pain in her music, and saw my own reflected back at me in the process. During the difficult months that followed, I began the grueling first steps of IVF to help us on our way to becoming parents. And then, after a single round of treatment, we finally got our baby. When our son was born and finally in my arms, I played him so many Beyoncé tracks. I sang “I love you like XO” to him over and over again. I was happy. I was content.Two years later, on the morning of my son’s birthday, I sat and watched Beyoncé’s visual album Black Is King on my laptop. I was in the early stages of my second pregnancy but I had started to bleed. I knew I was losing the baby. I didn’t cry or panic or ring my mom in tears. I just sat and watched Beyoncé quietly. It was something I knew she had been through herself, and I felt in awe at how strong she still was.In the same way I had done 20 years before, I found sanctuary and strength in her lyrics. “I'll be your sanctuary, you just don't know it yet. You just don't know it yet. No matter how hard it gets. You got my blood in ya. And you're gonna rise”.Beyoncé, Spirit. Black Is King.I’ve never been able to completely put my finger on what I love so much about Mrs. Knowles-Carter. All I know is that she has always made me feel the same way through her many incarnations: Stronger, more powerful and resilient. Sometimes we just need someone we admire to remind us of our strength and help us navigate the chapters of our lives one day—and track—at a time.

Ten out of ten book readers agree books are good, according to a statistic I swear I totally read in Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, or possibly some other good and virtuous pro-book book. Books! They teach you to be a citizen; they teach you to be sophisticated; they teach you to be moral. They teach you to be cultured and shit. Social media makes you cramped and cruel; the internet gives you the attention span of a goldfish if you put the goldfish bowl in front of Twitter for some reason. (Glug.) Video games make you violent and then you shoot the goldfish and there are goldfish guts on your attention span. Television is a vast wasteland, yes—even The Sopranos, even The Wire, even the Kardashians. But books are the real thing, the Smart Art, the healthy vegetables of information transmission. You can't go wrong with books.

Are Books Really That Great?

Or so the books tell us. But I have read books, and I am here to tell you it isn't all Moby-Dick and Piketty's Capital. For a year or two back around 2016, I worked as a writer for a couple of book summary companies. My job was to write around 3,000-word condensations of the best-selling books of the day. And having done so, I can say with some confidence that what Americans read to improve themselves is not necessarily better than watching television or playing video games or scooping your brain out with a melon baller. To be fair, I did read a couple wonderful, interesting and insightful books, like Matthew Desmond's Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City, Colson Whitehead's The Underground Railroad, and even Piketty's Capital. But for the most part, according to the algorithms and my assigning editors, the American public spends its time consuming far less elevated fare. I read a lot of self-help books about how if you pull yourself up by your bootstraps, make your bed and don't let plants with lectin slide through your leaky gut, you will become a tech billionaire with a butt of steel. Unf*ck Yourself tells you to get your get up and go in “fucking” order through positive self-talk and strategically placed asterisks. Or you can try The Tapping Solution, which promises that if you tap on magic meridian points on your body you will unblock energy and heal trauma and cure cancer and make Netflix produce another season of Glow (if you like television, which of course I don't, since I am not a goldfish).And then after you've removed your boils and gutted your gout, it's time to make yourself proud to be an American with big, honking American biographies about some important white male American: George Washington! Alexander Hamilton! John Adams! Dwight D. Eisenhower! Thomas Jefferson! Maybe George Washington again! They were great men, with flaws, like owning slaves. But don't those flaws actually make them even greater if you think about it? Or alternately, if you don't think about it too hard?

I can say with some confidence that what Americans read to improve themselves is not necessarily better than watching television.

What Americans Really Read

I read and summarized so many terrible books that it's hard to pick a Most Terrible. The right-wing Clinton hate screeds during the 2016 election season were impressively awful. Ex-Secret Service agent Gary J. Byrne's Crisis of Character, an interminable self-aggrandizing memoir spiced with dubious anecdotes from the Clinton White House, was probably the worst of those. The book I found the absolute most painful to read though was Steve Harvey's almost incomprehensibly ignorant and unpleasant Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, which explains that men are commitment-phobic emotional toddlers and that women need to give them unconditional love and sex or guys will collapse into their component parts of jealousy, ego and greed. It's 230 pages of simplistic gender stereotyping, presented in a tone of unrelenting hectoring self-satisfaction. “Men,” he tells us, “will treat women like one of two things: a sportfish or a keeper.” Yuck.So the books most Americans read are Founding Father patriot porn or open scams, offering actively harmful life advice and quack cures. And my job was to take these simplistic nostrums and make them even more simplistic—to take the dumb glibness and make it even glibly dumber. I was distilling the vacuous essence of the bestseller list into a truer, more essential vacuousness. The whole point of Bill O'Reilly's Killing England is to make people feel like they've learned something about the American Revolution without actually thinking, or even paying attention. So a 2,500-word summary of Killing England is really even more Killing England than Killing England. It's less informative. It's more half-assed. It makes you feel like you know just as much when you know even less. The summary of the bestseller is really the purer, more Platonic form of the bestseller. I was writing these bad books better (which is to say worse) than the originals.The publishers of Killing England or Crisis of Character don't see it precisely that way, of course. Selling summaries of books to compete with the original books is pretty obviously an intellectual property violation. To get around the copyright and trademark issues, my employers had us writers include analysis sections, so that the summaries doubled as Cliffs Notes of a sort. You weren't exactly allowed to criticize the books in these criticism sections, though, which got me in trouble. My editors cut out the bit where I pointed out that Steve Harvey, comedian and radio blowhard, had no meaningful expertise in human sexuality, human relationships or human anything. Editors cut out the bit where I linked to articles showing that the guy offering dubious weight-loss advice was a fatphobic jerk. And they really didn't like the bit in the summary of Walter Isaacson's Leonardo da Vinci bio where I pointed out that Da Vinci's relationship with an underage boy named Salai might well have traumatized the child in question. “Salai means ‘The Devil’, and Leonardo referred to the boy indulgently as a thief and a scamp, always getting into trouble,” I wrote. “Salai may have just been mischievous. But he also may have been acting out in response to a confusing and possibly painful sexual relationship over which, as a child and dependent, he would have had little control.” Those were not sentences that made it into the final draft.

I read and summarized so many terrible books that it's hard to pick a Most Terrible.

My Escape From the Content Sweatshop

The Da Vinci summary was the last one I wrote. One of my employers discontinued their line because of legal worries. The other fired me. Maybe in part this was because I kept doing things like suggesting Da Vinci was a child abuser. But mostly it was because they decided my work needed too much editing. The pay for the summaries was not great—it came out to somewhere around $15/hour for a week of work if I was lucky and the book was short and there were no edits and I lied to myself about how little I was actually making. The only way I could really manage a living at it was to read and write very quickly. It seemed fair to me: I was providing them with a shoddy inferior product, just like they were providing readers with a shoddy, inferior version of shoddy, inferior books. We were all participating as partners in the shoddy, inferior hackwork that makes the American economy go round. Though, alas, as I said, my employer didn't quite see it that way. So what did I learn from all this reading? Well, a steady diet of books about how to be a success taught me how to be a failure. I learned I was incapable of working hard enough or fast enough for too little money, and that I was inept even at betraying my principles. In summary, if you want a lesson about the virtues of reading, you should read something by somebody else. Or maybe, even better, don't.

My husband is not the same man I married.I married a dentist, expecting a care-free life with fixed office hours and a stable income. After immigrating and settling in America, he had to start over because his degrees weren’t accepted here. Opting to remain in healthcare, he chose nursing. It was a hard decision to switch careers, but looking back, I’m really glad he did. We planned to buy a house and finally get settled down. He had only worked about a year before the hospitals began to get flooded with COVID-19 patients. It became the collective pulse of the entire nation. But just like everyone else, we thought these kinds of things don’t happen to people like us. Boy, were we wrong.

COVID Nearly Tore Our Family Apart

I’ll never forget that early Saturday morning when he called me on his drive home from a particularly grueling overnight shift. He made me an offer I easily refused: take our two kids and move in with my parents. My husband had taken care of a particularly sick patient the night before, who ended up passing away during the night. I declined his offer, opting to stay with him and be optimistic about the entire situation. However, unbeknownst to me, the virus was already making its way toward the home we loved and the two girls we were raising together. The days passed like normal and my husband worked a few more night shifts. We felt a sense of serenity since he was taking all the necessary precautions, both at home and at work. Little did we know that the world as we knew it was about to be turned upside down. A few nights later, after having spent the evening playing with the kids, my husband was lying next to me in bed when he complained of chills. He had a fever. I quickly grabbed a few of my personal items and moved into the bedroom that my daughters share to bunk with my youngest. As we lay in the grips of sleep, we prayed that it wasn’t what we each thought it could be. I did my best to pacify them, telling them that it was probably nothing and Daddy would be all better by morning. He was just tired from working a few back-to-back shifts. But I couldn’t help but think deep down inside that it had to be something more—that the very thing which we tried to keep outside our home had finally made its way in. The kids slept soundly and I lay awake in fear, often getting up during the night to listen at the door to make sure my husband was still breathing. I always hated his snoring, but honestly, hearing it now gave me a sense of relief. The next day we communicated through text and FaceTime between rooms. Two days later, the now-infamous nasal swab test came back positive and we were all crushed with the news. I remember feeling this overwhelming rush of fear and hopelessness that I had never experienced before.

Two days later, the now-infamous nasal swab test came back positive and we were all crushed with the news.

In March, Frontline Workers in Healthcare Were Constantly Risking Their Lives

Context is everything. I have to remind you that this all happened toward the end of March, and, as the world recalls, anytime you flipped on the news, reports of anywhere from 700 to 1,000 people who lost their lives (a day) to this merciless virus—this silent killer—flashed across screens. The harrowing images of giant freezer trucks and overflowing body bags on the streets of New York were still fresh on my mind. The world was shocked to its core. I couldn’t help but wonder: Would my husband be next? My children are only 12 and 13, yet old enough to connect all the dots. After we learned that he tested positive, they looked at me wide-eyed asking what would happen to them if I got sick, too. I could see genuine fear in their eyes and I knew the lines in my forehead betrayed my weak words of assurance. It all seemed inevitable. So we started making plans. Sometimes, when my husband was awake, we exchanged texts or whispered through tightly closed doors, making roughly laid plans for our children’s future. “Be patient with them and make sure they push themselves to succeed in school and in college,” he said. “Make sure you marry again,” he would then insist to me. My husband was weak and his entire body hurt, but he wrote down his passcodes and usernames and told me where to find any documents I may need if something were to happen to him. I didn’t argue with him this time, and it almost felt foolish to remain optimistic. I felt like I was his nurse now, bringing him food and medicine, but never entering his room. I sent him videos about breathing exercises and encouraged him to do them hourly. We held our breath until the day his symptoms started decreasing and eventually disappeared altogether.

We Got Lucky; but It Was Still Just the Beginning for Us

Thankfully, his case was mild and nothing like what we anticipated. Even more surprising was that the kids and I, despite living in close quarters, never developed any symptoms. Within two weeks, he had fully recovered, but we continued wearing masks around the house. Slowly, our happiness began to be overshadowed by the endless calls my husband would receive from the short-staffed hospital to return to work and pick up extra shifts. There’s no way we can send him back to Ground Zero, I thought.Months earlier, by a strange coincidence, he was scheduled to start a new nursing position at the hospital, which eventually became the epicenter of the outbreak in our state. We feared sending him back there, especially after feeling we had narrowly escaped. What’s to stop it from spreading throughout our family if he starts working there? My husband decided to push on and accept the new job even though it was not the position for which he was hired. Our fears were realized when he was sent to the COVID-19 floor. It was essentially a large open space, converted into a makeshift ICU unit and populated by ventilators, aiding patients who couldn’t breathe on their own. Healthcare workers tried to keep their heads above water as the positive cases and admissions increased exponentially. Desperation hung low in the air and everyone could feel it.Work was excruciatingly hard, but the worry we experienced over those weeks was even worse. After all, you can’t underestimate the power of fear. The next struggle was how to survive in the same living environment. My husband insisted on eating with paper plates and plastic utensils, and avoided touching metal surfaces. We continued wearing masks at home and sanitizing all surfaces. My kids weren’t even able to hug their father for the longest time. He continued to plow through each day, brushing aside my worries, and insisting he was immune because his body may have developed resistance to the virus. However, we had both heard that there were mutations and plenty of cases in which people contracted the virus a second time. Feeling bad for having kicked me out of the bedroom, my husband decided he would sleep on an old futon that we had borrowed. Although it was uncomfortable—and even harder to stay away from the family he loves—he was determined to isolate himself. He continued to self-quarantine at home out of fear of carrying the virus from work and infecting either myself or our two young girls, one of whom suffers from asthma.

Like many Americans, it was a tough few months and quite easily the darkest time in our lives

This Experience Has Made Me Even More Grateful to Frontline Workers

Like many Americans, it was a tough few months, and quite easily the darkest time in our lives. As the months passed, however, my husband began to share more and more heart-warming stories of patients who recovered. Without realizing it, I began to allow myself to hope once again. In the middle of this pandemic, our nation saluted first responders, who were the ones fighting our battle on the front lines. I couldn’t have been more proud of my husband, who I felt was like our personal soldier. I realized how lucky we truly were. They say everything happens for a reason. Sometimes, we just need a jolt to wake us up from going through the motions of life. As our world came crashing down, it allowed us to see what actually held it up and prevented the ceiling from caving in around us. Unless you know medical professionals who work directly with sick patients—and even become sick themselves—it’s hard to understand the impact on their family. My husband made a huge sacrifice for our family, as well as those patients he helped treat. We know how difficult this was for him, and for all healthcare workers. Without a doubt, these experiences have changed our outlook on life and strengthened our family bond, For that, we will always be grateful.

Protesters in this country always have the moral high ground. Always. I didn’t make up the rules; the Founding Fathers did. The protesters own that First Amendment right, plain and simple, especially when they’re speaking truth to power. I’ve seen an assembly declared unlawful, and the announcement came after the tear gas was fired. So whether it’s pro-life, anti-police violence, or anti-mask protesting, or you’re in the streets for climate change, women’s rights, gun control or to support the Second Amendment, I’m not splitting hairs anymore. You all have my support based on your right to assemble. I may disagree with what you’re saying, but like Voltaire, I support to hell and back your right to say it.That said, emotional crowds are like cows: You’d better watch yourself or that fucker will getcha. Any farmer or ranch hand worth their weight in shit could tell you that. Since growing up on a farm, I’ve spent my whole life around cattle. I’ve also been involved with protests since 2012, when I attended a Westboro Baptist Church counter-protest. There ain’t much difference between cattle and crowds. This country may be better off if we looked at protesters the way a farmer looks at his herd, but that’s not saying much. We become animals when we’re pushed past the brink of sanity. Our intellect dissolves and we look for something to lash out against.In the past when I’ve gotten them cows riled up, all I’ve ever had to do to calm them down was back off. That’s it. When something is under stress, give it space to breathe. Otherwise, you probably won’t like the outcome of frustrating a thousand-pound animal. If people thought of protesters the way a farmer thinks of his herd we’d be all the better for it.

The United States will never fall to an outside force, but we could implode. We could cave in on ourselves.

It’s Amazing What We Can Accomplish When We Don't Provoke One Another

One time I was working with an old cow with pink eye. She hadn’t wanted to come up to the pen to eat, and her eye had only gotten worse. Over a few days, her eye grew cloudier. By the time I had her in the pen she was having a terrible time seeing. She stirred up dust as she paced, bawling and snorting toward me. I already had put her under a lot of stress and I still had to get her in a head chute to treat the eye. She’d butt the gate with her head, stamp to one corner and stop just short of plowing through the fence.Well, no offense, but I’m not as stupid as I look. I wasn’t getting in the pen with her. She was piss mad and stressed beyond a reasonable doubt. I gave her time, gave her hay, gave her feed and water, gave her an hour to settle before I hopped in the pen with her. She looked at me and went back to eating. I clapped my hands a few soft times, cooing to her as I took one slow step at a time, careful not to startle her. Soon she was in the chute with a treated eye, on her way back to eating hay. It ain’t rocket science.I’ve seen protests fueled by love and understanding, and they have an amazing way of self-regulating. Love is hard to provoke. It will seek refuge in what it knows to be true. Acts of empathy and compassion look like love. Acts of anger and fear, by contrast, look in the moment like hatred. You can feel that scared anger, that simmering fight-or-flight.Protests fueled by anger aren’t nearly as uncomfortable as ones fueled by fear. I’ve been at Trump rallies where protesters and rally attendees hurl insults and middle fingers across the police line. I’ve also been to nighttime protests where cops fire tear gas and declare an unlawful assembly, and it’s scary to see people robbed of their senses by tear gas and pushed over the line by police. Everyone is only human, including the police, who want to return home that night and who meet anger with force.

The Future of Democracy Depends on Making Room for Each Other to Say Our Peace

We all have to turn down the heat. Whether a protest exclaims that Black Lives Matter or rails against mask mandates, it’s made up of people, of Americans, of patriots. Everything else is just noise. Calling one another Marxists or fascists pits us against one another. Dismissing protesters builds only more frustration. Extreme frustration drives people to extreme beliefs, and nothing builds frustration like a do-nothing government.Protests point to a larger sickness: inaction by politicians who serve special interest groups. That’s why so many people are in the street. That’s why Midwesterners feel forgotten. That’s why longtime voters have dropped out. They’ve lost faith.The United States will never fall to an outside force, but we could implode. We could cave in on ourselves. Yet when we exercise our fundamental right to point out this fact, politicians and business leaders push us to further extremes.Peacefully assembly is the most direct action citizens have available. Outlawing it is dehumanizing. When our fundamental rights are lost and we abandon our institutions, what will we be left with? Failure. On a massive scale. A profound disconnect from one another and from the world itself. Democracy will crumble. And when we lose it, reality too will buckle. When we don’t trust the news, our law enforcement, our Congress, our judges, schools, churches or neighbors, what’s left? What will we break bread over?Our system needs repairs, with real action. We can’t lose one another to extremism. We can’t let each other drift to the edges of the map, because many of us will never come back. If we forget who we are, if we stop talking to one another, we’ll go the rest of our lives believing we’re all more different than we are alike. We will lose everything that propelled us forward. And we really will become more beast than man.

When I was ten I saw my friend Adam plummet to his death from a tree at our sleepaway camp. At the time, I recall thinking that it couldn't be possible. I was certainly aware that tragedies happen all the time, but they just didn’t happen to me, or to people I knew. My bubble of safety had been burst.My parents are both Hasidic Jews—my mother comes from a Satmar family and my father comes from a Bobov family—and growing up I always saw my only possible career choices as the stereotypically Jewish doctor, lawyer or accountant. Watching Adam die probably had something to do with my decision to pursue a medical path.By my mid-20s I’d left medicine and the New York Hasidic community to work for a software company in Wisconsin. It was my first real exposure to anything outside the tight-knit world I grew up in, and it was eye-opening. The ultra-Orthodox community I grew up in prided itself in helping strangers, and taught us that non-Jews didn't know the meaning of help or kindness. But everyone I met at my new job wanted to help out any way they could.

I would donate an organ again without a second thought. I believe everyone should. Thousands of people are dying every single year for no good reason.

Religion and Morality Aren’t the Same Thing

If you look anywhere else in the world—at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, at what Jimmy Carter did—they didn’t do those things because of religion. They did them because they believed they were good things. You can have someone who's very religious and is a horrible person, and you can have someone who's not religious who does good deeds. I've not seen any evidence that religion plays a role in that. I don't think religion gets to take credit for all the good that religious people do, just like religion shouldn't take the blame for all the bad things that religious people do. It's up to the person themselves. I eventually lost my faith, but I didn’t lose my desire to save people’s lives. During my EMT training, I learned about cadaveric organ donations. This whole topic was new to me and I couldn't help wondering why I hadn't learned about it sooner. I began pushing the subject on some of my religious friends and family, but everyone had their own reasons why they couldn’t: We have an obligation to bury the entire body (halachically true, but saving a life trumps that commandment); our entire body is needed in order to be resurrected when the Messiah comes (tell that to the victims of the Holocaust); our parents and grandparents didn't do it (they also didn't drive cars).Finally, one of them asked me, “Well, why don't you do it while you're alive?” And I said, “You know what? You're right. Why not?” I looked into it, and it turns out that if you donate when you're alive, the organ lasts longer in the recipient. Cadaveric organs don't last as long. So there's no question that it's more beneficial for the recipient to receive a living donor's organ.

We Should All Be Organ Donors—While We’re Still Alive

I was in the medical ethics society for the university I was in at the time. One of the advisers there was a doctor who hooked me up with a nephrologist, who hooked me up on Facebook with a woman named Rachel, who set up matches between organ donors and the people who need them. I reached out to her and expressed an interest in donating a kidney. She set me up with a recipient who’d been waiting for 15 years for a match. I was that match.Unfortunately a scan showed that one of my kidneys hadn’t developed properly, which meant that they couldn't take either one. I was furious about this but I didn't really have any options. I tried coming back to Rachel asking if I could donate a part of my liver to a different patient instead. Unfortunately, altruistic liver donations were not allowed in New York at that time. That ended my hopes of becoming a living donor.Four years later, Rachel called me up to tell me that the rules had changed, and altruistic liver donations were now accepted. She asked if I was still interested in donating a part of my liver, and after talking it over with my wife I told her I was, and we started making arrangements.Donating an organ isn’t as scary or as big of a deal as people think it is. With kidneys, you're usually out of the hospital within four days. It's very low risk, and you’re completely functional after you donate. (Most diseases that take one kidney usually take the other, so not donating doesn't make you any safer.) With livers, it's a bit riskier, but there's still nothing to it. Hospitals won't let something go wrong with an organ donor. If something happened to you, that's the end of the department for the foreseeable future. And while you’re there recovering they treat you like a king. Plus you get to save a life. There's no reason not to do it.

Donating an Organ Isn’t as Bad as It Sounds

Before the surgery, I remember sitting in pre-op and hearing the person I assumed was the recipient talking to her husband. I don't recall much of what she said. The surgery went fine. They ended up needing to take my gallbladder out in order to get to the liver. The operation involved two small incisions on either side of my abdomen and a longer incision down the middle. I woke up nine hours later and remembered almost nothing in between.While I was recovering, Rachel let me know that the recipient had expressed an interest in meeting me before I left. On my third day in the hospital, I stopped by their room. When I walked in the door the recipient burst into tears and her husband came over to me and started blessing me over and over. He handed me a framed thank-you letter and a bag. I told him I couldn't take it, since compensating people for organ donations is illegal, but he insisted. I thanked him and left. It was an extremely awkward encounter. Between her tears and his blessings, I just wanted to get out of the room as soon as possible. I don't know what to do or say. I don't do very well with emotions and I've never been great with people. I kick myself for not handling it better and maybe developing a relationship with them. Part of me wishes I hadn't messed with the experience by visiting their room at all. But I would donate an organ again without a second thought. I believe everyone should. Thousands of people are dying every single year for no good reason. To me, donating an organ felt like I was completing a mission that was the sole purpose of my existence. I had been given a chance to save a life. My recipient was supposed to be gone in six months if she didn't get a liver. Instead, she lived. She got to see her kids get married. She got to experience life a bit longer. I don't know how she's doing. I hope she's still alive. But it's none of my business. You don't do this to get something out of it, and if you go into it that way you won't get anything out of it at all. And you’ll regret it. You'll regret it. You do it because you get a chance to do something good, then you move on.

There’s an interview with the late poet Seamus Heaney where he describes the subtle but stark difference between hope and optimism. Optimism, he says, is the assured belief that it’s all going to be okay. Hope is the belief that something is worth working for and sticking at. It’s transcendental, he says. For hope to manifest, a hardship must be endured. Kindness, in its unfettered form, is similar in this respect. Tough and durable, most visible in sorrow, kindness requires other people to act upon it. It comes in many different forms. It’s not merely being amicable, although this is surely a side effect, the way paying attention is a side effect of love. There is practical kindness, helping physically, and there is tough kindness, pushing to do the thing you need done but are most definitely avoiding. There is also the tricky beast that is the kindness of letting go, and the kindness of pulling close, even when being pushed in the opposite direction. Kindness is acted upon you like a great blanket thrown over your shoulders. When I was small I saw “kindness” as a cheap word, interchangeable with dull descriptors like “nice” or “pleasant.” I chased more impressive adjectives like “intelligent” or “ambitious,” or the less-achievable “beautiful,” that I could pin to my lapel. My mum always took the time to remind me that I was preoccupied with a fool’s errand. “All that matters is your kindness,” she would tell me anytime I was faced with the prospect of unprecedented failure. “The world is not a kind place, and it will not thank you for your kindness, but someone might. Plenty of people are successful, and you can be too, but you should strive to be a good person.” Of course, I didn’t listen. I wanted to be good at things.

For hope to manifest, a hardship must be endured.

How Other People’s Kindness Changed Me

When my mum got sick, I realized kindness was actually quite a difficult measure. It meant donating time and headspace, learning how to pack the shopping bags so the bananas didn’t end up pulped. I gave up my first years of being an adult, and with it the privilege to dabble in petty problems of my own making. Every minute spent on my own whims was a minute wasted in a steady downward count. I learned how people could be unkind in the way they misunderstood this—how a nice date with a nice boy could turn into a mean boy spreading rumors around campus just because I didn’t answer his text. I learned how to hold my quick tongue, how to listen to other people’s woes and pile them against mine with equal weight. I learned how to distract myself, how to bury myself under books and talk about nothing of much importance. Then, suddenly, there were no more numbers to count down, and I was released into the cool expanse of the rest of my own life. I have nothing new to say on grief or the wide gaping hole it left in my torso. The oddity of it all was how stringently okay the passing days were. Mum died in March, and the heavy light lifted as the summer months rolled out like an ill-timed welcome wagon. My younger sisters and I floated through a warming world and barely saw the calendar flip from March to April to May. Looking back on it now, the small acts of good were the ones that dragged me through: a cooked dinner left on the doorstep, a professor buying me a coffee whilst I struggled to finish a year of now vastly uninteresting study. I visited an aquarium with a new friend and went to a dorm room and danced in my socks to battered, old vinyl records. There was a sunny comfort, and a presumed free pass for my low energy and solemn lack of enthusiasm.

Kindness, Grief and Confusion

But after a little while, everyone resumed regular programming. Those grieving should never begrudge those who are not, and their easy slip back into normal life. Pretending to be like them was easier. “How are you doing?” people would ask in their hushed, serious voices. My answers were veils: “I’m great. I’m actually doing so well.” I didn’t even know I was lying. If you ignore grief, it will eat you alive and make you mistake each woe for something fatal. The next act of kindness I experienced was a gentle nudge to talk to somebody. The one after that was a car driven to A&E, and the three friends who sat by my side as I hyperventilated into a paper McDonald’s bag. There were invitations into homes, house keys offered up by parents of friends, enveloping arms, my father’s voice coming down the phone telling me that I needed to wise up. The last act was not kind in execution, but it was in theory. There was bruteness as well: friends who kept their distance and those who picked at my newfound shallow pleasures in favor of despair. There was the confusing act of kissing, which was a kindness because it was new and kept the little churning wheel of my life in motion. What I’m saying is, kindness came in many forms, and at the time some of them didn’t feel kind.

If you ignore grief, it will eat you alive and make you mistake each woe for something fatal.

The Quest for the Caramac

The February after mum died, I house-sat for a family friend while they were on holiday. It was my job to sit for a week in their lovely, old house and look after their dozen pet rabbits. I would feed them chopped vegetables and apple vinegar water, and if I got sad, I could climb into the hutch and kneel as they ate whole apples from my hand. One evening while I was there I invited some friends to visit. We sat in the living room, fire burning in the hearth and did nothing. I felt the stony walls of my heart begin to thaw in the flicker of the peat fire. They all stayed the night, and all skipped the first class of the following day to snooze on the living room sofas. Then there was the night of the quest. Sitting up on the balcony of a dorm, I took a hankering for a Caramac. Caramacs, for those who do not know, are caramel-flavored candy bars that debuted in the U.K. in 1959. They aren’t particularly good, but they have such a specific flavor that the craving for one can’t be satiated by anything else. After voicing my desire, three of us bundled into my car. It was still wintery outside, and we were all wearing fleecy pajamas under our coats, thinking the outing would be a short one. We drove to the corner shop, and to our great disappointment, Caramacs were out of stock. Then we drove to a 24-hour supermarket, also to no avail. We had conversations with shop managers who shared their own preference for the odd snack. “Oh, Caramacs! I haven’t thought about those for years,” and “Now there’s a request you don’t hear often—if you find them let me know where they are”. Not quite defeated, but definitely a little cold, we pulled into a gas station on the way back home. The owner was just locking up, but at the sight of the three of us, he sighed and switched the shop light back on. (Another kindness!) We pushed through the door, thanking him for his time, and within seconds spied the red-and-yellow packaging we were seeking. Back at the dorm, we brewed a pot of tea and settled back down on the balcony, still wearing our coats. The Caramacs were gloriously underwhelming, as expected. It became our little tale though: the quest for the Caramac. It was simple and became funnier every time we told it. Caramacs became a tradition, and a way to mark time. When the end of the semester came, and it was time to move back home, our parting gifts were wrapped in red-and-yellow wrappers. When I applied for my second degree and got in, my acceptance was rewarded the same way. Throughout this time I visited a therapist once a week, and then fortnightly, and then once a month. I was able to tell her about a house full of bunnies, an unprompted sleepover, a nighttime pajama adventure. She would sit and listen to how I began to wear glitter for makeup, and how I was reading again, and how I was cooking again and writing again. There is a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye which reads, “before you know what kindness really is / you must lose things […] before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.” Like a watered plant, kindness turned me back towards the sun. It gave way to small hopes, which gave way to bigger hopes, which gave way to the small paving stones of the future, and the belief that life was worth sticking at.

When I first signed up to deliver for DoorDash, I never considered that one day my job would be deemed essential—particularly during a worldwide pandemic. I remember when the panic set in. The streets were barren, and many of the folks I saw on the road were those delivering items to various homes. I’d arrive at a restaurant to pick up an order, only to see fellow delivery drivers lined up in front of me with no one else in sight. Many restaurants had to furlough their staff, leaving one or two managers handling hundreds of orders at a time. This created a sense of unity between the restaurant managers and the delivery drivers—we knew we had to work together to take care of our customers. The experience felt both scary and sacred. At that time, we had no idea what we were dealing with, but it felt right to be serving my community by bringing sustenance in the form of food, a smile and a wave.

Things were already different, and they would be different for many days to come.

I Received Some Unusual Special Instructions on DoorDash

About a week into the lockdown, I received a delivery notification from a familiar restaurant. I knew the folks who worked there, so I would always accept any delivery I received for that location. I found that it was now even more important to check in with the restaurant staff, to ask them how they were doing and what I could do to make their job any easier. After accepting the delivery and arriving at the restaurant, I scrolled down to see which address I would be delivering to and found a note attached that read: “This delivery is for my son. It’s his birthday today. I can’t be there with him, so I was wondering if you’d sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him for me after you drop the food at the door. It would mean the world to me.” Upon reading the message, I felt a sense of sadness that this mother could not be there to celebrate her son’s birthday, which was then accompanied by a sadness for the collective loneliness settling into our daily lives. Things were already different, and they would be different for many days to come.

I Followed the Instructions, but Something Happened I Didn’t Expect

When I arrived at the son’s home, I emerged from my car to see kids playing outside, neighbors doing yard work and folks just trying to maintain a sense of normalcy amidst the coronavirus pandemic. I walked up to the son’s door, gently placed his order on the porch, rang the doorbell and walked quickly back to where I had parked. As the door opened, I began to sing “Happy birthday to you…” and to our surprise, the neighbors joined with me in song. The kids clapped and sang with such joy and amusement. We all looked at one another, almost in amazement, at the simplicity and purity of the moment. Once we finished singing, the son gestured my way and said, “I’ll leave this card for you at the door. It’s from my mother. Thank you so much for today.” Once he closed the door, I walked back up the driveway to take the card. “Dear Dasher,” it read. “Thank you so much for making my son’s day so special. It means the world to my family and me. Please stay safe!”

I Never Thought Those Instructions Would Create Such a Beautiful Moment

As I walked back to my car and marked the order as delivered on my phone, I couldn’t help but reflect on the moment of connection I just experienced. The mother did not know who would be picking up her son’s order, yet she put her trust in the humanity of the person on the other end of the phone to help make her son’s day special. I do not know this mother’s name. I do not know where she is from or what she believes. I do not know her political leanings. And I do not know her son’s ideological beliefs, just as they do not know who I am, the identities I hold, and the life I have lived. Yet we all chose to trust that a moment like this—“small” in comparison to the many things happening in the world—could help us all feel a little more connected and show how essential connection really is.

I first encountered Virginia Ali when she was serving her famous chili dogs at her restaurant in Washington, D.C. Virginia is the 86-year-old owner of Ben’s Chili Bowl, and has worked almost every day since it opened its doors in August of 1958. Over the years, Virginia has become an integral member of her community, and is affectionately known by many as “mom.”When I met Virginia in June of 2018, Ben’s was only weeks away from celebrating its 60th anniversary. For six decades, Virginia had lovingly served locals, tourists and even a handful of celebrities. President Barack Obama was perhaps the restaurant’s most famous customer—he stopped by for the signature “chili half-smoke” just days ahead of his inauguration.I asked Virginia what it felt like to have served dozens of well-known public figures. “They’re all just people,” she assured me, “And they’re just as important to us as every other guest who walks through our door.” I was struck by Virginia’s humility as we spoke and later watched her tend to each customer with the same love and respect.

Ben’s Chili Bowl Is a Civil Rights Landmark

On August 22, 1958, Ben’s Chili Bowl first opened on the corner of Washington’s 14th and U Street. The diner served the segregated neighborhood known as “Black Broadway,” the city’s prominent cultural and entertainment hub for African-Americans. As the Civil Rights Movement gained steam in the 1960s, the Chili Bowl served movement leaders including the likes of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and donated food to activists attending the 1963 March on Washington.Virginia remembers working at the Chili Bowl in April of 1968 when news broke that King had been assassinated, sparking a violent outbreak that razed communities to the ground. “The sadness was overwhelming and people came in in tears,” she recalled. “Later on, that sadness turned to frustration and anger.” U Street became the epicenter of civil unrest in the city, and within three days, 13 people were killed, 8,000 had been arrested and 900 businesses were damaged or destroyed.Similar scenes erupted in response to the murder of George Floyd in May of 2020. Across America, demonstrators protested police brutality against African-Americans. In response, Virginia revealed her heartbreak that 50 years earlier, Black Americans had been expressing the very same grievances. “We still have problems and our basic human rights are being violated,” she stated. In September, George Floyd’s family visited Virginia at the Chili Bowl after attending the historic Commitment March on Washington 2020. “It was our honor and pleasure to serve them. Please know we are continuing the dream,” Ben’s posted on social media in response.

The U Street Restaurant Has Seen It All Over the Years

Following the King-assassination riots in 1968, many businesses on U Street never reopened. With visceral grief, Virginia remembered how her “beautiful neighborhood” descended into decades-long decline as middle-class residents, businesses and tax dollars vanished. This compounded the devastating drug epidemic, which ensued for the next 20 years, marking U Street as D.C.’s most prominent open-air drug market. By the end of the 1970s, little was left of the self-sufficient neighborhood that once boasted multiple minority-owned businesses. “That was a very sad time,” Virginia lamented.Construction of the city-wide subway proved another challenge for the family. For four years, not a single car passed in front of the Chili Bowl due to building works. When the metro system was finally completed in the early 1990s, a new era was born as businesses emerged, middle-class professionals moved in and the local housing market gained considerable momentum. Life, once again, returned to U Street.

Virginia Ali Has Kept Her Late Husband’s Vision Alive

When Virginia’s late husband and Chili Bowl co-founder, Ben Ali, passed away in 2009, it might have signaled the end of the Chili Bowl. But Virginia’s three sons and their wives stepped in to assist with the family restaurant and carry out their father’s legacy. “I get to see my children every day,” Virginia told me. “I feel so blessed.” The Ali family has extended this blessing to the wider community for many years. In both an official and unofficial capacity, the Chili Bowl’s mission has always been to love and serve others. Whether providing free meals to the homeless, funding a child’s martial arts classes or providing schoolchildren with a safe space to do their homework, the Chili Bowl has done what it can each day.Virginia’s daughter-in-law, Vida, told me about a local woman who recently walked into the diner to give Virginia a $20 bill. She had recently been employed and wanted to thank Virginia for her kindness during her hour of need. “You don’t remember, but you have given me a number of meals for free,” the woman told Virginia. “I know it’s not a lot, but I wanted to give you this.” It’s not hard to believe that this woman’s story is just the tip of the iceberg. Virginia’s warm smile, gentle spirit and unmistakable compassion are qualities shared by her entire family, which performs kind acts on a daily basis. “That’s what the magic of the Chili Bowl is,” Vida stated.

Ben’s Chili Bowl Has Always Put the Community First

The coronavirus pandemic has presented a once-in-a-generation crisis for small businesses throughout the United States. In March, the Chili Bowl was forced to close six of its seven restaurants, as sales plummeted 80 percent overnight. That same month, the family’s request for a loan under the government’s Paycheck Protection Program was rejected, and there were growing fears about the future of the Chili Bowl. Happily, their second application was successful, but Virginia admitted that she was overwhelmed by the community’s support, which came from far and wide. D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser and Senator Kamala Harris, who frequented the Chili Bowl in her college days, publicly declared their support. One customer even bought $500 worth of gift cards from the diner. “No one has to do any of this,” Vida told me, but supporters were reciprocating a tradition of generosity, which the Alis exemplified for decades.Even when things have been uncertain, the Ali family remained committed to serving others. Over the past six months, they have provided over 2,000 meals to local medical professionals and first responders, and continue to raise money as a thank you to their healthcare heroes. The Ben’s Chili Bowl Foundation, established in 2010, is another testament to the Ali family’s community investment. So far, the charity has distributed $50,000 each year to community-based organizations in D.C., while running its own programs to educate and inspire underprivileged children. This builds on a legacy of philanthropy, which Ben and Virginia have demonstrated from the very moment they arrived on U Street 62 years ago.

Whether providing free meals to the homeless, funding a child’s martial arts classes or providing schoolchildren with a safe space to do their homework, the Chili Bowl has done what it can each day.

The Iconic Restaurant’s Legacy Will Live on Forever

When I asked Virginia about the 60th-anniversary celebrations, she recounted the stream of people lining up for a taste of Ben’s chili. True to form, she humbly bypassed details about the “Tribute to Virginia Ali Gala.” I later learned that this event, as well as a press conference, was held in her honor and was attended by local dignitaries and politicians that included Reverend Jesse Jackson. It was clear that the neighborhood block party, visited by hundreds of locals later that day, remained Virginia’s highlight. “It touches my heart,” she recalled, “because you realize that people appreciate that little place.”From opening in the midst of segregation to serving America’s first Black president, Ben’s Chili Bowl has seen it all. Throughout its history, Virginia’s love and commitment to her beloved community has remained steadfast. It would seem that this—along with a helping of their famous chili—has been the secret to Ben’s long-lasting success.

Three months ago I lost my father to cancer. Or, rather: I had to help cancer take him. I held his hand as he took his last breath. I felt his pulse slow until it came to a stop. I watched his chest, wasted to skin and bones, subtly rise and fall and not rise again. And I had to experience the trauma of giving him that peace.My father’s cancer started in his esophagus, then it spread, to his stomach, his liver, his thyroid. Finally, they found a large brain tumor behind his left ear. The cancer in his esophagus made it extremely difficult for him to speak and to eat. He lived a month after his diagnosis. At the miserable end, no medical professional, no hospice nurse, could grant his wish to end his own life. Instead, it fell to his family. It fell to me.I flew to Pennsylvania from Florida to visit him. He’d said he didn’t want me to see him. In health, he was very good-looking: six-foot-two, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, 250 pounds of muscle. He could be proud, even vain. When I heard he’d lost 100 pounds, I couldn’t imagine what I’d find. He was always a strong figure in my life, literally and figuratively. I knew I could never live with the regret of not seeing him. He and I went back and forth over the phone about whether or not I could fly up to see him, because of COVID, because of his immune system, whatever excuse he came up with. He finally broke my heart with the truth. “Honey, I do want to see you,” he said. “I’m just scared it will be the last time.” I asked him if he was scared to die. Except I couldn’t say the words “to die.” He knew what I meant. “No,” he said. “I’m not scared.”

I Wasn’t Prepared for What I Would Find

My dad had decided to leave the hospital and refuse more treatment. I was angry with him for giving up. That was, until I saw him. When I got to his house his girlfriend told me he was upstairs sleeping. She said I should pop my head through the doorway to see him before I went in to visit, so I could compose myself. She asked whether I'd seen Dallas Buyers Club with Matthew McConaughey.When I looked through the bedroom door my body shut down. I fell to the floor, hyperventilating, crying. I couldn’t believe the person in bed was my father. He was shirtless, with a sheet partially covering his right leg and exposing the adult diaper he was wearing. His bodybuilder frame was boney and limp. His skin was a glassy, pale yellow. His eyes, sunken into his head, were ringed in black. His cheekbones were razors. His teeth protruded from behind his lips.I caught my breath and wiped my eyes. I knew I had to be strong for him.When I walked into the room, my dad tried to cover himself. I walked over to him and helped him with the sheet. I kissed him and felt his cheekbone on my lips. Neither of us knew what to say. I held his hand and told him Mom had sent some pictures for him to look at, if he wanted. He nodded and mumbled, “Sure, honey.” I took out the large white envelope my mother gave me with tons of old pictures from when he was younger. I pulled out a photo of him and his friend posing, around 18 years old. The back read “Sears Pose.” He laughed. I asked if he wanted to see more. He said, “No, not really.” I asked him if he wanted to hear about my cat Arthur getting into a scrap with a dog? “Not really.” He was defeated. He said he needed a minute. I left and told him I would be back to say goodbye.Downstairs were my two uncles and my aunt. We talked about his will, his wishes, his cremation. I signed papers. My uncle told me that in the hospital my father told him after he saw me he’d be ready to “go.” Once I said goodbye, they thought, he might pass away: “He needs to know you’re gone so he can stop trying to hold on.”I went back upstairs to say goodbye to my father, forever. I kissed him, this time on his forehead. I held his hand and told him I was going to leave now, and that I loved him very much and he was a good father. He told me to tell my brothers that he loved them. He couldn’t remember the name of my younger brother. I felt bad and reminded him. He let out a few tears and he lifted his fingers to his mouth, kissed them and reached out to give the kiss to me. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “It’s okay.” I pressed his hand to my cheek and kissed it. I told him I loved him again and left the room.As I was walking down the stairs, I knew there was no way I could leave. I told my uncle that I was going to stay until the end. My father had said he was ready to die. We needed to end his suffering. So how did this work?

I went back upstairs to say goodbye to my father, forever.

We Were Left With Decisions No Family Should Have to Contemplate

My uncle had hired a hospice agency to make daily housecalls. The nurse would be there at 6 p.m. We figured we would bribe her to help us end his life. After seeing him I knew it was the only option. He was taking morphine and a fentanyl patch for pain, and Ativan for anxiety. I presumed that if he overdosed, he would be blissfully unaware of his heart stopping.The hospice nurse had a different idea. She suggested continuing to give my father small doses of morphine until he passed on his own, perhaps in three days.I was not going to leave my father lying in a bed waiting days to die. Desperate, my uncle offered her $1,000 to tell us what would stop his heart. The nurse, afraid of taking a bribe and losing her job, told us that we could give him a morphine dose every half hour instead of every hour. So we did that.I always thought morphine was given through an IV in your arm, like you see in movies. The liquid morphine we had came in a square plastic bottle with a twist cap that reminded me of the Bubble Jug powdered gum we used to chew as kids. The instructions were to fill syringes and empty them into his mouth, toward the back of his throat. He moaned and cried as we did. I’d never seen my father cry. The brain tumor made him delusional. He mumbled about cranes at the port and weight loads, presumably from when he used to help his father at the shipyard as a teenager. My uncle told me my father had nightmares on morphine while in the hospital. He dreamt that he died and we buried him alive. He made my uncle promise not to let that happen to him.He really was gone inside that body I didn’t recognize. It felt like a knife in my chest that I didn’t know how to help him. I was terrified he was suffering and unable to communicate. The morphine put him into a waking sleep. He was laid back with his mouth open and his half-closed eyes searching slowly and aimlessly around the room. When he focused on me, I could tell that he knew who I was. I locked eyes and told him that it was okay for him to go, that he didn’t have to keep fighting and that I wouldn’t be mad at him if he gave up.It’s impossible to describe what it feels like, to want a person you love more than anything in the world to die.

It’s impossible to describe what it feels like, to want a person you love more than anything in the world to die.

In a Terrible Moment, We Were Forced to Improvise

I couldn’t take any more. We came up with a plan, my uncle and me. We would give him everything at once: the morphine, the Ativan and the fentanyl patch that was supposed to be delivered soon. My uncle crushed up anti-nausea medicine, mixed it with water, and put it into a syringe. We gave him that and a double dose of morphine.We aren’t doctors. We didn’t know what to do. We waited on the fentanyl patch we thought would put him over.Hours passed. No patch. We called and called. Finally, someone told us it was on the way. When the delivery came, there was no patch, just more Ativan. We called again and were told they’d made a mistake, we couldn’t get the patch until tomorrow. We needed a new plan. So we googled: How much morphine will kill someone? Turns out it depends on various factors. I was afraid my dad would vomit the morphine and we would have none until the nurse brought more the next evening. We decided to keep up the double doses and Ativan: from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m., each half-hour. I held his hand and felt his pulse, hoping it would fade. His shallow breathing would stop altogether until he took a huge gasp of air. I hoped he wasn’t in pain.For 12 hours, I tried to kill my father. Every time I gave him more morphine I hoped it would be the last. I could see the whites of his eyes roll back. His mouth hung open. When he took a large breath, his throat gurgled. I would never wish such grief or agony on anyone.I began to have a panic attack. I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t catch my breath, felt like the world was ending. I grabbed Xanax from my purse and took one. (I’m prescribed a low dose for anxiety while flying.) My uncle had the idea: “We should give him those.” Yes. How many? Ten to be safe? We agreed. In the kitchen, my uncle crushed the Xanax, added water and filled one of the syringes. I made a syringe of morphine. We brought them upstairs. I held up my father's head as we gave him the liquids. I poured a sip of water into his mouth. Then I laid his head back down and sat on the chair beside the bed.

For 12 hours, I tried to kill my father.

In the End, I Know We Did the Right Thing

It happened fast. I held my father's left hand in my left hand and felt his pulse with my right. His heart beat slower and slower. His breathing softened. I knew he was going to die. I reached my right hand out to touch his face and said, “I love you.”Then he was gone. I was relieved and devastated. I lay next to him for hours. I cried on his shoulder, held his hand, and closed his eyes when they opened. I told him everything I couldn’t say when he was alive. Then I watched two strangers take his body away in a bag.This was not the way my father wanted to die. This is not the way anyone should have to die. With no help from doctors, hospice or anyone, my uncle and I were left on our own to end his suffering. Because euthanasia is not legal in Pennsylvania, my father and our family were subjected to insurmountable grief, grief that I live with every single day of my life.Euthanasia is legal in only nine places in the United States: Washington D.C., California, Colorado, Oregon, Vermont, Maine, New Jersey, Hawaii and Washington State. I hope no one has to know the excruciating pain of watching a loved one suffer needlessly. I know that many do and I hope that in the future this will not be a reality many are forced to face. The optimistic thing I can leave you with: These are only laws. And laws can always be changed.

I grew up in the ‘80s, when bangs were big and shoulder pads were plentiful. My parents fought to make a living after a huge economic recession in the early years of my life. I remember the feeling of fear and uncertainty as my dad searched for work. He worked as a roofer in a rather remote area of the Texas Hill Country. Roofing in the August heat in Texas has got to be one of the worst jobs on the planet, and my dad sacrificed sleep and sanity in an attempt to keep us fed. Eventually, he transitioned to building whole houses, and the stress level just went up as he tried to hold it all together while learning the business the hard way. At the time, the custom home business wasn’t booming. People were struggling financially, as the country climbed out of the hold of the recession. My father interviewed for different jobs in other states that might provide more security, but nothing panned out. Instead, he and my mom carried on fighting for work, trying to make ends meet and raising three kids. It was feast or famine. Some months we had money, and others we had next to none. My mom grew up in Scotland, and was by nature very frugal. I know most people who grew up in this time remember plastic tubs being reused for all manner of leftovers. My mom took it up a notch, also washing out Ziploc bags, bread bags and anything else she thought could be put to use. She didn’t buy herself anything—I’m fairly sure she wore the same clothes for the first 15 years of my life, and I never knew her to go shopping for fun.

My Parents Made Growing up Poor Easier for Us

Looking back now, I realize how hard my parents worked, not only to keep my brothers and I fed and clothed, but also to keep us free from their grown-up worries. We played hard, making use of every inch of the property we lived on, finding adventures as we explored the forest next to us. As kids, we weren’t conscious of how much money we had, but we did understand how we were doing based on my parents’ stress level and where we shopped. Most weeks, we strolled down the generic aisle that grocery stores had in those days, with the depressing black-and-white packages that blandly stated what type of food they contained. We would also go to the day-old bread store, where we’d sometimes find very little and other times score big loaves of bread (cinnamon raisin being the most exciting variety), and even pastries.

Looking back now, I realize how hard my parents worked, not only to keep my brothers and I fed and clothed, but also to keep us free from their grown-up worries.

The Things My Mother Taught Me Have Helped Me Be More Selfless

On one of these occasions, my brothers and I were following my mother around the tiny shop. We’d finally made it to the checkout line and were desperately hoping that we were almost done with the shopping. A little old woman with a different skin color than us was checking out in front of us, trying to buy a loaf of bread and a chocolate cake. She pulled out her cash to pay, and realized she didn’t have enough for both. Her face fell, as she put her head down and paid for the loaf of bread, leaving the cake behind as she hobbled towards the door with her cane. I watched my mother, who had barely enough money for our bread that week, pause for only a moment, looking from the chocolate cake on the cashier’s shelf to the back of the woman slowly making her way out of the store. She slapped her money down on the counter, picked up the cake and ran—with the sweetest gift of love and sacrifice in chocolate form—to the little lady getting in her car outside. I remember the look on the woman’s face: sheer surprise and wonder that someone had noticed her pain and had stepped up in compassion and kindness.It was a simple gesture, and we didn’t go hungry because of it. But my mother’s sacrifice that day stuck with me, and I can still see that little woman’s blissful face in my mind. To me, it’s a symbol of the way compassion and sacrificial love can break down all sorts of barriers, even if it’s just in the form of chocolate cake. I am convinced that for that woman, it wasn’t just cake that my mom gave her. It was the gift of being seen, loved and given hope for another day.