When I was younger, I desperately wanted to be a daddy’s girl. Instead, I can count on one hand how many times I saw him or my half-siblings. His addictions came first, and even when I traveled out of state to see him, he stood me up. The one and only time we hung out alone, he spent the entire time talking about his sexual conquests before trying to hook me up with his friend. My father was my first heartbreak, and that manifested as abandonment issues and feeling I needed to prove why someone should be my friend or love me. Eventually, I ended up in a domestic violence relationship with a man who mentally, emotionally, physically, and financially abused me, and I became suicidal before realizing I had to leave. In the last conversation I had with my father, about a month or two before he was murdered, I confided in him about the abuse, and he blamed me for it. That’s when I realized he’ll never be who I needed him to be. After that, I changed the subject and asked him about the family and culture I had never had a chance to know. My grandma, his mom, was Japanese, born and raised in Japan. We’d met when I was too young to remember, and when I tried to reconnect as a teenager, they kept her away from me. Then it was too late. She passed away from cancer. I knew she had a sibling and wanted to learn the language and travel to Japan to find them, but when I asked about them and what city she was from, my father said he didn’t know anything, only that they were racist. A couple of weeks later, my father posted on Facebook an old picture of my grandma, her Japanese name (I only knew her by her American name), and the city she was from. My father lied, and I didn’t find out until after he was killed, as I mourned the relationship we’d never have. I also found out he was Facebook friends with many of our Japanese family members, and some of them lived about 3 hours from my hometown. It was then that it finally clicked that he never really saw me as his child, and I’d never be a part of his family. My half-siblings drove the point home when they didn’t allow me to mourn with them or come to the memorial, so I stopped mourning what was clearly a pipe dream. I still desire a connection to part of my culture and family, but I no longer need it from people who refuse to give it. I am whole regardless. I still plan to learn the language, go to Japan, and find my family, the ones who aren’t part of the history between my father and me. I want to make a film about it: a Black, kuōtā Japanese girl traveling to Yokohama to find her family, learning her culture and history from Japan’s family registry. Much like journaling is cathartic for some people, screenwriting and filmmaking are therapeutic for me. They’re how I process my own and others’ experiences and emotions. I love that it can make you feel seen, like you’re not alone. It can help people. Filmmaking can change the world. That’s why I want to get an MFA in Film Production from USC. I’ve been passionate about filmmaking ever since I saw Ryan Coogler’s "Fruitvale Station", and I hope the films I make will help other people as much as it’s helped me.

The most meaningful relationship in my life that’s shaped who I am today, outside of God, is the relationship I am rebuilding with myself because it has affected every facet of how I show up in the world and every era of my life. Growing up, I could count on one hand how many times I saw my father. His addictions led him down a road that caused him to stand me up after I traveled out of state to see him. The one and only time we hung out alone was after I started college, and he spent the entire time talking about his sexual conquests before trying to hook me up with his friend. No matter how much I wanted him to be, he was never a safe place for me. I felt loved and safe around the women who raised me, but outside of them, I was very insecure. That insecurity manifested as abandonment issues and a constant feeling that I had to walk on eggshells and prove why someone should be my friend or why a man should love me. Eventually, I ended up in a domestic violence relationship with a man who mentally, emotionally, physically, and financially abused me. That relationship finally reached a breaking point when I became suicidal and realized I had to leave. Afterward, I spent years healing and finding myself again. I went to therapy and reflected on the choices I made and the mindset that led me to that point. I spent time pouring into myself, my goals, and my future. I started discovering my own opinions and the way I wanted to exist in the world. However, in finding myself and my peace, I also got overly comfortable being isolated because it was safe. I would put myself in places to meet new people and then find myself being extremely quiet and shrinking. I would even joke with my friends that if I wanted to get married, I needed to leave my house unless I planned on marrying a burglar. My fear and lack of trust in myself had led me to the opposite end of the spectrum. Instead of overextending myself for love and connection, I hid from it. Now, my relationship with myself has brought self-awareness that if I want to accomplish my goals, I have to forgive myself for my past. I have to trust myself enough not to hide or shrink, and know I will not allow myself to make the same mistakes again. I’m in an era of reclaiming love for myself and control over my life, and to achieve that, I know I have to show up authentically and fully in the world. I have to trust my voice, go after the career, relationships, and future that I want, and believe I am worthy and capable of having them. This experience has changed how I build connections with others because I no longer settle for or want connections where I have to audition for love, friendship, or acceptance. I want relationships where we both can show up honestly and safely, without feeling the need to shrink to be chosen. I am training myself to believe that I am worthy of love and good things, and I do not need to prove myself to anyone to deserve them. Every day is a work in progress, but like my pastor says, progression, not perfection. My relationship with myself has taken a lot of work, but it is the healthiest it has been my entire life, and because of that, the relationships I build with others can be healthier too.

Sickle cell’s always been this thing traitorously looming over my goals, ready to pounce at the worst possible moment. I’ve spent my life rebelling against that in every way, and honestly, my determination to live life on my terms is what kept me going. My first crisis was at 4-years-old. By 6, I had a seizure and had my spleen and gallbladder removed. Doctors estimated I wouldn’t make it to 21. Spoiler alert: I beat their prognosis! In high school, I was a theater major at Cleveland School of Arts. By junior year, I’d spent years on-and-off crutches, and had hip surgery just before we started musical theater. My teachers thought I’d watch classmates rehearse Hairspray’s “You Can’t Stop the Beat,” but instead I learned the choreography and modified it so I could perform on crutches. Soon, I was so adept that I could run and dance fluently on them. That fluency also came with linebacker shoulders, but I guess I had to pick a struggle! In college, I made good grades, but whenever I was hospitalized, professors lowered them due to attendance policies. Freshman year ended with a 1.6 GPA, a lost scholarship, and the disability office advised college wasn't for me. Instead of dropping out, I transferred and moved to Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the only insurance-approved hospitals didn’t treat sickle cell properly, so every crisis, I crawled to my car, drove to the only hospital I trusted, and begged them to tell insurance I couldn’t be transferred. Afterwards, I returned to class and fought to receive the grades I’d earned. It took 9 years, 4 schools, and several majors to graduate, but I graduated magna cum laude with a 3.8 GPA, and two bachelor's degrees in Theater and Pan-African Studies (PAS). Through PAS, I was influenced by films like Fruitvale Station and 13th, volunteered with Black Lives Matter, interned at Media Done Responsibly, and attended a summer film institute where I learned film can be a catalyst for change. Post-undergrad, I’ve acted in a movie, been parasailing, surfing, ziplining upside-down, and co-wrote a script about Tamir Rice. Unfortunately, the mentor I trusted to help because I was inexperienced and had sickle cell, acted without integrity, so the project fell through, and I’ve been fired from other jobs because of sickle cell crises Recently, I underwent a gene-editing treatment. Honestly, I was so terrified it'd go wrong and ruin my ability to live life on my terms, I tried going skydiving the day before as a last hurrah. It wasn’t until I watched The Gray Man and saw several action sequences and sickle cell triggers that I realized, to truly live on my terms, I had to do it. Now, my health is better. I’m back in LA auditioning. I’m the writer-director-producer of a new project, where the proof-of-concept short film script and feature film script are award-winning, and it’ll include an impact campaign to create tangible change, amplify the voices of communities affected, and serve as a blueprint for my filmmaking career. Additionally, I got into USC’s School of Cinematic Arts. I wanted to go after undergrad, but I was too sick, so I depended on others for guidance. After 12, I realized I needed knowledge for myself. At USC, I’ll experience the full filmmaking pipeline with the best professors, equipment, network, and opportunities available. I’ve fought so hard for the ability to freely act, write, direct, and produce; to gain the tools necessary to execute at the highest level, that, after everything, having the money to attend USC shouldn’t be the one thing standing in my way.