There’s a small, stubborn fire that lives inside most filmmakers: the idea that if you just push through the next audition, the next set, the next rewrite, everything will snap into place and you’ll finally be “made.” For years I treated my life like that fire was the entire map. I chased one version of success so single-mindedly that other parts of my life dimmed. By my 30s I burned out, stepped away, and had to learn how to stand again. That relearning—in short, finding my footing—changed everything about how I make movies, how I teach, and how I live.
The beginning: how an 8-year-old backyard film shaped a lifetime
I made my first film on Thanksgiving in my family’s backyard. We had a camcorder, an uncle, my grandpa, and my brother playing parts in a short that felt enormous to me at the time. I remember the exact rush of discovery: not just the idea of telling a story, but the way making something with other people connected me to them and to myself. That feeling was the compass I would follow for the next two decades.
From high school to film school, from grad school to early professional work, the daily life of storytelling—scripts, rehearsal rooms, terrible coffee on shoot days, the smell of equipment—became my identity. I pursued acting and filmmaking with the blunt ambition of someone who knows exactly what they want. That single-focus approach works when you are young and hungry, but it has a cost.
Mid-20s success, late-20s fatigue
By my mid-20s I had started working professionally. Things were happening. Commercials, television roles, film projects. But the business side of the industry—contracts, agents, expectations—began to show another face: transactional, draining, and sometimes indifferent to the art that had once lit me up.
I hit my 30s carrying a strange mix of pride and exhaustion. The pride came from having made it into “the system.” The exhaustion came from the way the system had hollowed out some of my reasons for doing this work. I found myself increasingly desperate, measuring worth by the next job rather than the next honest scene. I was less curious and more survivalist. That’s a dangerous combination for an artist.
What “finding your footing” actually means
When people say they found their footing, they mean a lot of different things. For me it was not a single decision or a one-time revelation. It was a series of pivots and small acts of recalibration that gradually reoriented my life and my work.
- Reconnecting with craft. I went back to the classroom—not as a student, but as a teacher. Teaching forced me to articulate fundamentals I’d started to take for granted. When you explain the bones of storytelling to others, you rediscover why those bones mattered to you in the first place.
- Choosing projects that sing to you. I stopped chasing visibility and started chasing resonance. That meant saying no to things that didn’t feel honest and saying yes to small, brave independent films that felt like they had something to say.
- Redefining success. Success used to be landing the gig that others validated. Success became finishing work that felt true to me, regardless of the size of its audience.
- Radical simplification. I sold my furniture, left an apartment I’d loved for eight years, and moved back in with my dad to save money and focus on the next movie. It looked nuts to some friends, and it was exactly what I needed.
These moves weren’t glamorous. They were messy and expensive in emotional currency. But each one nudged me back toward making films for the right reasons.
Why teaching changed everything
Teaching is a strange mirror. You prepare a lesson for someone else and find the lesson you need. Those early months in the classroom were awkward and cathartic. I would catch myself in emotional rants about how tough the industry could be, and a student would gently remind me that the curriculum was about directing, not my soapbox. It was humbling.
But teaching also reintroduced me to the purity of storytelling. In a classroom you can strip away the noise of deals, agents, and ego, and return to what matters—a character with a need, an obstacle, a moment that changes them. You see students discover that same Thanksgiving spark all over again. That is contagious. Over eleven years of teaching I learned that my work could include shaping other storytellers as well as telling my own stories.
The value of taking a leap: pivots as a creative practice
Looking back, every time I made a big pivot in life, something unexpectedly good followed. The pattern is not mystical; it is practical. When you pivot you break the pattern of habit that keeps you safely numb. That fresh exposure to uncertainty forces fresh thinking and better questions.
Examples of pivots that helped me:
- Leaving my agent and manager when my heart felt out of alignment with the projects I was being pushed toward.
- Choosing to teach rather than chase the next audition cycle.
- Moving back home to help my father during a time when he needed care and I needed clarity.
None of these seemed ideal in the moment. Friends asked, “What are you doing?” But the right question was not what people thought of the move. The right question was whether the move excited me, gave me time to create, and let me be present in a way I had not been.
Living with intention: selling the green couch
Maybe the smallest image here is the most revealing: the green couch I kept thinking about. I was imagining where it would go in my next apartment as if my future were already mapped and optimally furnished. That realization felt absurd. Why was I planning the location of a couch before I’d even decided the shape of my life?
So I sold the green couch. I sold everything I could sell and moved in with my dad. That act of simplification had multiple effects:
- It reduced financial pressure so I could take creative risks without being paralyzed by rent.
- It created space to work on the movie I cared about with less distraction.
- It brought me into a relationship with my father that would later resonate deeply in my work.
When you remove the weight of small comforts that become anchors, you discover what actually moves you forward.
When life and art align: making a film about what’s closest to you
During the period I was living with my father—who has Parkinson’s disease—I was writing and shooting a small independent film called Burt. The film is a father-son story that touches on themes of illness, caring, and memory. The timing felt uncanny. Helping my dad day to day and making a film about that relational terrain intensified my attention to details that only come when you are actually living the subject matter.
That alignment mattered more than any festival laurels. It informed every choice: the way a character held a hand, the silence between lines, the specificity of a domestic rhythm. Those are the kinds of choices you cannot fake from the outside because they come from lived experience.
How regret taught me to be kinder to myself
I carried regret for a long time—especially about the way I exited the industry in my late 20s, about leaving my agent, and about choices that looked, in hindsight, like mistakes. Regret is a heavy coat. It prevents you from moving freely.
Two things helped me shed that coat. First, reframing. Instead of parsing which decision was right or wrong, I began to see those decisions as part of a path that led to where I am now. Every wrong turn was also a lesson, and often the lesson was necessary to get to the right place.
Second, achieving work I loved. There is no erasing past disappointment faster than making something you believe in. When Burt reached a place I felt proud of, many of the old regrets simply dissolved. The work acted like a reconciliation between my past ambitions and my present reality.
When a project breaks your heart: learning from the painful shoots
Not all projects heal. Some projects fracture you. I was on a film that took years to finish, and during that time I was carrying personal heartbreak. The project asked more than I could give in a season where my reserves were already low. Watching it consume me taught a painful lesson: there is a limit to how much sacrifice you can make before the project stops serving the work and starts serving your need to prove yourself.
The lesson was not to stop making difficult work. The lesson was to protect my capacity to show up honestly. If you are depleted, you cannot do justice to a story, regardless of how noble it seems. Protecting your emotional bandwidth is actually a craft choice. It matters as much as lighting or blocking.
Practical steps to refind your footing in your 30s (or anytime)
Refinding your footing isn’t mystical. It’s incremental. Here are concrete steps that helped me and that you can try now.
- Audit your attachments. What are you holding onto because it looks good to others rather than because it feeds you? This includes agents, projects, and even possessions like a couch.
- Create a three-step simplification plan. Reduce the things that keep you from working: financial drains, toxic relationships, or roles that force you to perform rather than create.
- Teach something. Even an informal workshop will do. Teaching clarifies your thinking. Explaining story structure or character beats to others makes you a better storyteller.
- Choose small, honest projects. Look for stories you can make with heart rather than with a marketing plan. Small films allow you to experiment and fail cheaply.
- Set a guardrail for emotional capacity. Know what you can carry into a production. If you are grieving, moving, or otherwise unstable, consider postponing intensive projects.
- Be intentional about where you live. Your environment shapes your work. Sometimes a move that seems regressive—like moving home—can be the best creative choice.
- Make time to reconnect with the craft. Relearn basic exercises: write a ten-page scene every week, shoot a short for no reason, or do a single-page storyboard exercise.
Questions to ask before you make a big career pivot
Pivots are not always the right move, but when they are, they should be purposeful. Ask yourself:
- Why am I considering this change? Fear, anger, or curiosity?
- What will this pivot enable me to do creatively that I cannot do now?
- What are the measurable costs and benefits? Financially? Emotionally? Relationally?
- How will this change affect my capacity to complete meaningful work?
How to evaluate a project before you sign on
One of the hardest lessons is that not every project that looks important actually serves your growth. Before you commit, consider:
- Does the project resonate with something specific in you? If the answer is “not really,” be cautious.
- Who is the decision-maker and what are their track record and temperament?
- What is the timeline and how will it intersect with your life? Multi-year projects demand durable reserves.
- What is the creative latitude? Will you be able to shape the story in a way that matters to you?
The long game: why small, honest films matter
Independent films, by nature, are a laboratory. They may not make money quickly, but they allow you to build a voice, test methods, and show what you care about. When you build a body of work that reflects your taste and your voice, opportunities start to follow that are better aligned with who you are.
There is also a psychological effect. Making a movie you love is proof that you can do it again. That proof is more effective than any agent-pitched plan. People respond to work that feels essential because that work signals courage and clarity.
How caregiving informed my creative choices
Living with and caring for my dad changed the way I look at scenes. Caregiving is a curriculum in patience, ritual, and unspoken language. Those are the same elements that create honest moments on screen.
For example, Parkinson’s changes the way a person moves. That change becomes part of the film’s rhythm. Small physical details—how a hand trembles while holding a cup, the length of a pause while a memory rises—become currency for emotional truth. Living in that environment taught me to pay attention to the unspectacular moments that accumulate to shape a life.
When you feel stale: tactical resets
Sitting in one place too long breeds staleness. You may be comfortable, but you are not growing. If you feel stale, try one of these tactical resets:
- Change one daily habit for a month—a new writing time, a new commute route, a new camera lens experiment.
- Teach a class or lead a workshop.
- Volunteer on a micro-budget shoot in a role you do not usually occupy.
- Go somewhere unfamiliar for a short writing residency or retreat.
These resets are not grand gestures. They are small ruptures that interrupt complacency and create mobility in your thinking.
Stories about regret and reclamation
I carried regret for years about the way I left certain parts of the industry. For a long time I attempted to “claw back” into the system, wondering if the exit was a mistake. Those attempts felt desperate because they were attempts to convince others that I still belonged rather than to prove to myself that I could make the work I wanted.
The reclamation came when I stopped trying to recreate what I had lost and started to build what I wanted. Building Burt—a film close to my heart—was less about proving anything to the industry and more about showing myself I could do this on my terms. Achieving that erased a lot of the quieter regrets because it offered something better: a story I was proud to attach my name to.
Protecting your creative energy on long projects
Long projects are marathons, not sprints. They require planning for emotional, financial, and logistic sustainability. Consider these protective measures:
- Set boundaries around your time. Long shoots can dominate everything unless you carve out non-production time deliberately.
- Have a small team you trust to share the load and feed you honest feedback.
- Schedule micro-rests—weekends where you do not think about the script.
- Keep a parallel, low-stakes creative practice—like one short scene or a photo series—to remind you why you create.
How to decide when to pause and when to push
There are moments when stepping back is brave, and there are moments when stepping back is an avoidance tactic. Deciding which is which takes honesty.
Pause when:
- Your reserves are depleted and you cannot give honest work.
- Life circumstances demand attention—health, grief, caregiving.
- You need time to reframe your goals and reconstruct a sustainable plan.
Push when:
- You have a clear plan and an achievable next step.
- The project energizes you even if it is difficult.
- You have support in place to manage the stress.
Action checklist: how to refind your footing this month
- Write down three reasons you make films. Keep them visible.
- List two projects that no longer serve your goals and plan how to exit them respectfully.
- Schedule one teaching opportunity or a one-off workshop within six weeks.
- Identify one small story you can make with limited resources in 30 days.
- Choose one practical simplification (sell an item, sublet a room, or move temporarily) to reduce pressure.
- Call or visit someone whose life experience might inform your next story.
What I would tell my younger self
I would tell my younger self to cultivate patience with the form and impatience with the narrative of success. Cultivate craft—study scene structure, talk to older actors about their choices, shoot short films often—and do not believe that timeline determines talent. Be impatient with the idea that success will validate you. Validation is built into the work itself when you focus on truth and craft.
“Make something that sings to you, sings to the audience.” That sentence became my north star. When you begin from that place, everything else—agents, offers, industry chatter—starts to click into a sane orbit or falls away for good reason.
Final thoughts on the next chapter
I am in the best place I have ever been in my life. That is not a boast. It is a steady observation grounded in work that feels true and relationships that matter. The path that led here included disappointing choices, lonely nights, and a series of pivots that looked weird to other people. It also included listening to small inner cues and paying attention to what life gave me—like the chance to care for a parent while writing a film about fatherhood.
If you are feeling stale, misaligned, or regretful, remember that standing back up is rarely sudden. It is patient. It is an accumulation of small courageous choices: selling the couch, teaching a class, saying no, saying yes, moving home, and making a film you cannot imagine not making. Those choices add up to a life where your work finally has a place to land.
