The Day My World Shrunk

It was late June in Los Angeles. Evening, just when the sun was coming down and the humid SoCal valley heat morphed into a soft warm breeze. I was in the middle of the field, the ball went right over my head, and I sprinted back towards the goal. I was a defender, a good one too, and I held the backline like a sea wall in a monsoon. I stepped, my breath racing, legs darting, closer, faster to the ball— then SNAP! I fell to the floor like a dead fish. I grabbed my knee wailing aloud, and in that moment— I knew I was in for a long summer.

A month later and I'm being wheeled out of the hospital post surgery as my knee, hamstring, and nerves were reconstructed (curse you LCL). The doctor made it quite clear— six weeks and you can bend your leg. Three months and you can walk. Nine months and you can run. Twelve months and sports return. It seemed pretty straightforward, a clear itinerary of what I can and can't do— only one small issue, while I was told to stop, the world kept moving.

I'm currently twenty four years old. I'm an actor & writer working as a barista at Warner Bros Studios. I'm building my dream where I'll one day star in a major budget film I've written, which is being produced by one of the big studios. Now, a dream like that is constant, and requires continually stepping forward in my pursuit, so what do I do when the world forces me to stop and heal?

I'd say the first week of reading endless books & graphic novels is rather enjoyable. Followed by the endless journal entries, script pages, and poems I could write, the only downside is life gets pretty one-sided real quick. When all you can do is write & read, you crave the stuff that made you inspired to share and consume accordingly. When life gives you the stories and the sense of community, and your life is four walls and maybe the luxurious trip down the stairs, you get caught in the mind of radio static. Your creativity, which should be flourishing with unlimited time to craft & create, becomes watered-down wine.

People expect that unlimited time becomes unlimited creativity, that now your days are unscheduled, you can engage in all your imagination's wanderings. Only I've seemed to experience the opposite. Part of my creative outpour comes from my interactions with the world. A stranger's conversation, a dog running across the road, a friend laughing at a mediocre joke. These types of moments spur the creative mind with the fuel to create. Being a part of the world makes it easy to create and give back to the world. Being stripped of the energy of the movement of the natural world makes it seem, well, bland. Like a writer staring at the blank page of a screenplay, trying to find how to start. It's much more difficult than writing from the middle of a page you left off on— life makes the first page full of words, making it easier to write and share your thoughts.

I've been working on my travel memoir, and frankly I've found a semi-loophole to help me produce work. Recounting days where I've been living out of a backpack, hopping country to country, is relatively easy to tap into now— because I'm so far removed from that world. I have no choice but to crave it, and since I crave it, it comes with ease.

The harder, more scary concept is: what about my acting? My career, I dream of, and as a twenty four year old, I am in the prime zone of building that up so I can book the best roles of tomorrow. That is where it hurts. I can't audition for a role when it requires me to walk, knowing I can't walk— even though that role could change my life. It's like sitting on the train, seeing your favorite stop go by, and you can't get off. It hurts, emotionally, as you feel yourself falling, lagging behind, and the industry keeps pushing forward. No one texts you to collaborate, for they know you're injured. No one texts you to talk, 'cause they know you're injured and can't go out, so you feel almost isolated in a way— an isolation that, going full circle, makes it harder to create.

So here you are, injured, forced to reflect when the world keeps moving. All you can do is hope and believe that things happen for a reason, which I do. Having this period to be honest with my work, and my growth, is both nice and upsetting. However, finding the gooey center of all of this comes with being aware of your goals.

Taking this time forces you to ask whether what it is you think you are, who you actually are, and who you want to be, are indeed all the same.

At the end of the day, that's the most important thing. While I can still be creative through passion, by taking time to evaluate, I can build the person I want to be from scratch, so that when I walk again, I'll be running, and the world won't seem so far behind after all.