When I create work, I need to smile and have fun, because if I’m not smiling, why would my viewers? One of the first movies I ever remember seeing was the 1980s Airplane! The film was created with so much joy, passion, and pure Hollywood scrappiness. As a creator, I see creating as a game, making the impossible possible. 

When I plan meticulously—through scheduling, storyboarding, lighting schematics, or simply imagining every way something could go wrong—I’m building a safety net for risk-taking. On my thesis film, my DP and I even scheduled extra time for a difficult shot because we knew we’d want to experiment and “play around.” I was also able to rehearse with actors and try different readings while my camera crew set up, because they knew exactly what to do from my shotlists. That balance—precision in preparation and joy in execution—is what makes filmmaking alive for me.

Play is a guiding principle to my creativity. I love trying weird things and putting way too much effort into small details that most people might never notice. Whether it’s in production design or cinematography, those little risks are the things that make me smile on set. Sure, there are stressful moments, but overall, I’m happiest when I’m surrounded by friends, being an artist together. I’ve been told by peers that my thesis set was “the most fun” and “the best set” they had been on. To me, that’s a badge of honor. Even outside school, I embrace play every year by working with my family on Frankfort 48, a local film competition. Those projects remind me that joy is just as important as discipline.

When I began writing my thesis, upperclass students warned me against using my own story—it could be too personal, too raw, too hard. But I wrote it anyway. My film explored anxiety and the little voice of denial and suppression that lingers in my head. Writing it meant reliving some difficult moments, and I was afraid of how it would be received. That fear shaped the work itself—the film became a kind of exaggerated portrayal of anxiety, infused with my own unease. In the end, people thanked me for sharing something so rarely spoken aloud, and that gratitude reminded me why bravery matters in art.

I’ve learned that bravery requires both vulnerability and experimentation. You can’t have one without the other. You have to be vulnerable with yourself and others, and then force yourself to experiment with things that may feel uncomfortable. That philosophy keeps me honest. I want audiences to feel seen, to step into another world, and feel it as true. My guiding question is always: How can I make my films feel real and true to the subject matter?

Film is a risky and terrifying career path—I don’t know where I’ll end up. But I know this: I’ll keep working hard, I’ll keep playing, and I’ll keep choosing bravery.