My father-in-law Harry was 15 when his native England won the World Cup. He watched the 1966 final against West Germany on a tiny black-and-white TV propped up in the concrete hearth of his family’s cramped living room. His siblings—two brothers and two sisters—weren’t as interested in the match. Nor was his boilermaker father, who was always either working or at the pub, or his mother, who was too busy managing the household to indulge in such a pastime. Harry, meanwhile, found soccer to be a bright spot in his otherwise gritty and hardscrabble neighborhood of the Isle of Dogs. At age 15, after watching England win the World Cup, Harry began to dream that maybe he could one day be a professional soccer player.

The Isle of Dogs, nestled between the curves of the River Thames, is in the East End of London, and was known at the time for shipbuilding, organized gang violence (of which the notorious Kray twins became the face), and being the cultural cradle of soccer hooliganism. The typical path of an East Ender was to get a manual labor job, preferably one that did not expose them to asbestos, at age 15. Eventually, they might get married and start a family in a two-bedroom apartment, like the one Harry’s family of seven lived in. If they were lucky, they might even upgrade to a coveted upstairs three-bedroom. “People didn’t aspire to own a house where I’m from,” Harry explains in his cockney accent. “I never, ever thought I would own a house.”

He would, though. In his mid-twenties, he would tag along with fellow Englishman Teddy Thake to the United States. They would catch odd jobs along the coast of California, wait tables in Albuquerque, narrowly escape drunken bar fights in Florida, before ending up in Northern Virginia, where Harry would meet his future wife. Teddy would eventually return to England for good, but Harry stayed. He and his wife would eventually have three children and raise them in a 3,000+ square foot home in the well-to-do suburbs of Washington, D.C. It was a life he could have never dreamed for himself, made possible, he once told me, because “America is the best country in the world. That is my opinion.” And yet, every four years when the World Cup returns, it’s always England he roots for.

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Before Harry’s world expanded beyond the Isle of Dogs, his focus was soccer. A talented athlete, Harry was nominated by his high school, along with classmate Mickey Champion, to try out for a coveted spot on the West Ham United youth team. West Ham United was a shiny beacon in the otherwise grim, post-war East End. The club skyrocketed to fame because, as people often say, “West Ham won the ‘66 World Cup.” Three star players of the English national team—Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, and Martin Peters—all played club for West Ham, making the two teams virtually synonymous. West Ham was, in other words, the pride and joy of the East End, and Harry had a shot to train with them.

He and Mickey were invited to the training grounds at Chadwell Heath, where the youth team still trains today. They were tested against the area’s very best male athletes on foot skills and sprints, and played in an 11v11 scrimmage. It became immediately apparent that he and Mickey were in the middle of the pack. “The best ones had it all: athleticism, ball control, jumping,” he recalls with his arms crossed over his chest. “I knew I wasn’t that good. They wasn’t that impressed with us.”

The failed tryout didn’t discourage him, though. Soccer had started out for Harry as a casual playground game, and then evolved into a loosely organized afterschool activity. To receive insight from a top institution with resources like West Ham was a gift: It showed him what his level was and where he needed to be, because there was never a question about whether he would continue playing. He went on to play for local club teams and would continue that way, even after relocating to the United States, until age 48 when his knee gave out. For Harry, a job has always been a way to pay the bills. Soccer is what he lives for.

Neither did the failed tryout diminish his loyalty to West Ham and the English national team. To this day, his license plate reads “WESTHAM,” which occasionally garners friendly honks from fellow English Premier League fans. Most of his t-shirts and hats proudly sport the West Ham or English national team logos. His devotion is even reflected in his children and grandchildren, who support West Ham with a cult-like ferocity. Every weekend, the family schedule revolves around when the EPL is broadcast on NBC. Before it was available on American cable, they watched on pay-per-view. And before that, dating all the way back to the early ‘80s, Harry listened to EPL scores on his neighbor’s shortwave radio.

But being an English soccer fan in the intervening years since ‘66 has not been easy. The nation’s hope for another World Cup has waned with each successive tournament, as misfortune after misfortune seemed to befall them. Perhaps the most famous endured trauma was the 1986 quarterfinal against Argentina at Azteca Stadium in Mexico City. Football superstar Diego Maradona notoriously punched the soccer ball into the net with his fist. The referee, unsighted, allowed the goal to stand. The moment, now referred to as “The Hand of God,” helped Argentina to win the game 2-1. They went on to win the whole tournament.

West Ham, too, has let down its fans over the years. Most recently, the team performed so poorly that they were relegated out of the EPL and into the lower division. Yet fan loyalty remains steadfast. Out of all 20 teams in the EPL, West Ham home game attendance was second only to Manchester United last season. Similarly, Harry can’t stop supporting his team, no matter how many times they lose, no matter how high his blood pressure climbs while watching them play. After their recent relegation, he announced to the family that he will not be following the team next season, to which we all rolled our eyes. Sure enough, he let it slip a week later that West Ham’s first match of the season will be against Burnley F.C.

The longing for England to finally win another World Cup and for West Ham’s return to glory has played out like an unrequited love. Which explains why, when my husband announced that he had secured tickets for us to watch England play Panama at the 2026 World Cup, Harry responded, half-serious, that he would offer his ticket up to someone else. Of course, he didn’t. It rained hard the day of the match and Harry, now 75, had no problem standing in the rain for two hours to watch his beloved team play. And just as bickering lovers might do, he chided, “I know they can be better.” He downed his beer before adding, “People paid money and come all the way from England to watch this nonsense.” My husband and I withheld laughter, knowing very well the pain he’s endured all these decades in hopes that his team would deliver.

After the scoreless first half, England came out in the second half with renewed intensity. We stood behind the goal as superstar Jude Bellingham redirected a corner kick into the back of the net. And then, five minutes later, the net rippled again when captain Kane headed the ball off a cross. All of Harry’s halftime frustrations and worries evaporated. “That was special,” he said of watching England’s two star players score right before us. After the game finished, the England squad walked to our end of the field and stood before us as tens of thousands of England fans serenaded them with “Wonderwall” by Oasis.

The long walk out of the stadium was equally festive with singing, banging drums, and conviviality. In the men’s bathroom at the urinals, my husband told me, the drunk England fans on either side of him sang in unison about how head coach Tuchel will lead them to victory: “Football's coming Home again, with Thomas Tuchel, one, two, three, four…” And descending the stadium stairwell, the songs seemed only to grow louder. As we turned the final corner, England fans stood there welcoming us with their hands in the air, singing, “Don’t take me home / Please don’t take me home / I just don’t want to go to work / I want to stay here, / And drink all your beer / Please don’t, please don’t take me home!”

I thought watching England play at the World Cup in person—something Harry had never done until now—would be the highlight of this tournament. It wasn’t. A week later, England was to play host country Mexico at the Azteca Stadium, the very place the English say the Cup was stolen from them by the Hand of God in 1986. Mexico would have home team advantage with 73,000 fans behind them to England’s estimated 15,000. Furthermore, the Mexican team, unlike the English team, was well adapted to the 7,200 foot altitude of the stadium, where there is 23% less oxygen in the air than at sea level.

Harry, my mother-in-law, my husband, and I gathered in the living room to watch the match. Thunderstorms bookended the continent that evening: one fading over our house with the sunset, the other delaying kickoff at the Azteca by an hour. We watched the English bus slowly make its way through a crowd of booing Mexican fans, who spray painted and threw eggs at the team bus. We were nervous. The match started at an incredible pace. Both teams were running hard and muscling each other off the ball. One of us wondered aloud how long this intensity would last; it couldn’t, for long, could it? Not at this altitude.

The din of boos that rang out every time England had possession made our TV vibrate. Early on, Mexican forward Raul Jimenez rocketed a diving header that surely would have gone in, had English goalkeeper Jordan Pickford not fully extended his body and fingertips to save it. I turned around to Harry and asked if he was alive. We took a deep breath together. Mexico was using the altitude to their advantage, dominating possession 63% to England’s 37%. But in the 36th minute, Jude Bellingham dove across the pitch to head a cross into the back of the net. Two minutes later, a Mexico turnover led to yet another Bellingham goal, silencing the whole stadium. The two-goal lead took the edge off, but only momentarily, because Mexico earned a goal back four minutes later. Thanks to another clutch save by Pickford, England headed into halftime with a 2-1 lead.

If the first half was nerve-wracking, the second half was a white-knuckle ride. Somehow, both teams were maintaining the fierce energy output of the first half. When suddenly, English player Jarell Quansah took the physicality too far, earning him a red card. England would have to finish the remaining 36 minutes plus stoppage time a player down. Despite this, England went up 3-1. Things were looking positive, until the tide seemed to shift yet again in Mexico’s favor. They were awarded a penalty kick. 3-2. England was starting to slow down. Players were tired. Even the heroic Jude Bellingham stopped chasing down balls, exhausted as he was. The whole stadium was behind Mexico, cheering them on to tie it up. The referee generously awarded over twelve minutes of stoppage time. Two yellow cards were handed out, one apiece to Mexico and England. Mexico bombarded England with five nail biting shots, but none of them went in. The sweet whistle blew.

England had won 3-2. Players on both sides dropped to their knees, utterly spent. Shots of Mexican fans with tear-streaked face paint played across our screen. I turned back to look at Harry. He had his chin in his hand. At first I thought the TV was reflecting funny off his glasses. Then I realized: “Are you crying?” He didn’t answer, just wiped his glasses clean. A few minutes later he said, “Now I can die.”

The England team walked over to the fan section and, as we did at the Panama game, the fans serenaded them with “Wonderwall.” Except this time, the players stood in a line, hands wrapped around each other’s shoulders, and serenaded the crowd back. It was an unbelievable moment of unity. This team, against the odds of altitude and a historic curse, had won at the Azteca Stadium at the World Cup.

As I write this, England still have three more matches to survive if they are to finally hoist the Cup. And as any soccer fan knows, each of those matches will be its own Everest of a challenge. With the US and Japan eliminated, I have no one left to cheer for but England. But truth be told, having married into this soccer-manic family, and having learned Harry’s life story of love and soccer, I secretly would have been rooting for them anyway, for England to finally Bring it Home.

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In a 1998 episode of Inside the Actors Studio, Robert De Niro shares a parable about an actor who lands a one-line role in a play: “Hark! Hear the cannon roar!” Worried about forgetting his line, the actor repeats it to himself on loop in different intonations: “HARK! Hear the cannon roar!” “Hark! HEAR the cannon roar!” Finally, it’s opening night and he’s up. He walks on stage and an unexpected BOOM! blasts from backstage. The actor jumps and says, “What the hell was that?!”

De Niro says it reminds him of his first ever screen role—one line, “Gimme a drink”—and how nervous he felt to say those three words. The lesson is that acting has less to do with line memorization and more to do with staying grounded in the circumstances of the scene. I was ready to apply this lesson—along with countless others I learned on YouTube and in books and acting classes over the years—when I booked my first ever TV role on the NBC remake of Magnum P.I.

It was a big moment. Though I had been paid to act in several short films and commercials by that point, this was my first role on a major TV show or film. It would, in the eyes of other industry professionals, finally legitimize me as a professional actor. It took me seven years of building my reel, networking with representatives, and auditioning to land this part.

I happened to reach this milestone during a most distressing week. My husband had been laid off in an absurdly callous way, and I had just served jury duty on a case so harrowing that a fellow juror wept during the reading of the verdict. The pure elation I felt booking the show that same week gave me emotional whiplash.

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It melted away as soon as I landed in Honolulu two days later. Walking through the open air hallways of Daniel K. Inouye Airport, I stopped at a courtyard to photograph the tropical plants. I couldn’t believe I was there! And I didn’t want to forget a single moment. I barely ate that night because of the nerves and excitement. The next morning, I got to set an hour early. The aforementioned YouTube lessons always seemed to harp on how often actors were late and how easy it was to stand out as professional by arriving on time. I was so early that the production assistant assumed I must be a background actor and she almost sent me to the wrong location.

Instead, I was chaperoned to a trailer with my role name scribbled onto a piece of gaffer tape: Tech. My role was written into the season finale at the last minute. One of the main characters, Detective Katsumoto, tries to persuade a villain to reveal her plans, but she won’t budge. My character sits just outside in a spy van and taps the villain’s phone line. I tell Detective Katsumoto when he returns to the spy van: “She made the call as soon as you left her office.” The camera dramatically zooms in on the detective as he contemplates what to do next.

A classic TV “co-star” role, my job was to push the plot forward and set up the main character for his dramatic moment. People often associate the term “co-star” with leading actors in films, but in TV, the term represents the lowest level of speaking roles. Pretty much every actor starts at this level, including Robert De Niro with his “Gimme a drink” line. Co-stars can be fun, low-stakes jobs. You get to go on set, dress up, play pretend, and you don’t have to do much heavy lifting, acting-wise. In another sense, they can be a bit stressful. TV show sets are well-oiled machines with hundreds of crew and cast moving in tandem after years of working together. Being a co-star means you have little time to figure out the culture of that particular set, and how to fit in.

Since the role was written in last minute, we had to squeeze in the costume fitting the day of filming, when usually it would be a day or two before. The costume director brought several outfits to my trailer for me to try on, then I was sent to hair and makeup. After, I was excited to get breakfast at craft services, as TV and film sets are famous for having a buffet of goodies available to cast and crew. But it had already cleared out by the time I finished prepping! The day’s schedule required filming in several locations across the city, and crafty had followed the crew to set. I, meanwhile, was still in my trailer at basecamp. No matter! My scene was scheduled before lunchtime and I would be shuttled to set any minute now.

An hour went by, and then two. They were behind schedule. I didn’t have much to do, so I looked over my scene again and reminded myself of “the moment before,” or what my character is experiencing right before the scene begins. I was following De Niro’s orders, and focusing on feeling grounded in the scene. Yet the line popped into my head: “She made the call as soon as you left her office… She made the call as soon as you left her office.” That’s okay, I thought. Making sure the line is rote won’t hurt. It’s only one sentence and I don’t want it to get caught in my throat.

Bored, I stepped out of my trailer and made friends with two makeup artists. I told them I hadn’t eaten yet (it was afternoon at home in LA, so my tummy was grumbling). Appalled, they brought me along to set for the scene before mine so that I could grab a snack. “It shouldn’t be long before you’re up anyway,” they told me. Getting caught up in the excitement, I mentally reminded myself what I was there for: “She made the call as soon as you left her office.”

We were shuttled to the Hawai’i State Capitol where background actors dressed up as paparazzi “photographed” the main characters exiting the building. Another hour passed. Crafty was busy setting up lunch in yet another location, but I did get my hands on a bag of Sun Chips. It was sweltering that day, oppressively humid and approaching 90 degrees. My legs began to sweat profusely in my constricted black jeans. Finally, the scene wrapped and my scene was up. I took the van with the camera unit to set and made friends with the cinematographer, Christopher. “What’s your role?” he asked me. “She made the call as soon as you left her office!” I responded.

“Thank god, it’s almost lunch,” one crew member muttered to another as he checked his watch. “I’m hungry.” This was the 20th episode of the 5th season, so they knew how to move quickly and my scene was set up in no time. My character’s spy van was disguised as a laundry business. A crane sat off to the side to capture Detective Katsumoto, played by Tim Kang, running out of an office building, across the lawn, and into my spy van. The makeup team, now my on-set BFFs, learned that it was my first TV show. They were like proud mothers, photographing me around set.

I was ushered into a tent with two labeled canvas chairs: TIM KANG and GUEST. I would have the honor of sharing the holding area with one of the stars of the show. The crew funneled cold air into our tent via a massive AC hose. Did I mention how hot it was? My stomach rumbled. It’s almost lunch, I thought. Almost there. “She made the call as soon as you left her office,” then I get to eat. Tim was ushered in and we shook hands. Another lesson I had learned online and from actor friends who had done this before: Don’t disturb the big actors. They are usually tired from working long hours day after day and are focused on their lines. I pressed my mouth closed, not wanting to bother him. But he started chatting with me and was very friendly. He joked about worrying he’d forget his line in our scene (His only line was “Anything?”).

My tummy rumbled again. We had run out of things to talk about. Finally, the director came into the holding area and shook hands with me. Tim and I followed him to the spy van. He talked quickly. He said something funny, but I don’t remember the joke because in the back of my head blared, on-loop: SHE MADE THE CALL AS SOON AS YOU LEFT HER OFFICE. SHE MADE THE CALL AS SOON AS YOU LEFT HER OFFICE. I tried to calm my brain down. I knew my line, I wasn’t worried about it. I had done a million other scenes before, and ones much more complicated and with many more lines than this one. She made the call as soon as you left her office!!! My brain wouldn’t shut up.

The sun beat down on me. My legs were sweating through my pants. I felt hungry, and dizzy. A crew member opened the back of the van and I climbed in. For a moment, my brain silenced; the production design blew me away: a wall of fake guns on one side, computers with animated graphics on the other. I felt like I had entered the world my childhood friend and I had created as ten year-olds while playing “spies” in my parents’ basement, except this version was way, way cooler.

I took my seat at the computer while Christopher set up the camera. It would be his giant camera, a background actor, and me in the van; there was no room for anyone else. Christopher called in a production assistant to wipe away the sweat prints my hands and arms left on the desk, as they were visible to his lens. I laughed sheepishly and made a mental note not to put my hands there again. He smiled encouragingly. A production assistant removed the AC tubes that had been funneled into our suffocating black box of a set, cutting the air so the noise wouldn't interfere with filming. Someone else slammed the van doors shut. It was dark and stiflingly hot. From somewhere outside the van, the director called through a megaphone, “ACTION!!!”

Tim opened the door, letting sunshine and precious air flow in. He heaved himself up the big step of the van. “Anything?” he asked. “She made the call as soon as you left her office,” I replied. We held dramatic eye contact for several seconds. “CUT!!! LET’S GO AGAIN!” yelled the director. The first several takes were of Tim’s coverage, meaning the camera captured his performance first. Technically, my big moment was still yet to come.

By the time it was time for my coverage, Tim had run across the lawn and heaved himself up into the van several times. I was impressed by his fitness, and in the heat, no less. The camera was on me now. I straightened my posture. I thought about my moment before. The director yelled action, Tim opened the door, I said my line, we held dramatic eye contact.

“CUT!! EMI. ONE MORE TIME. Look at Tim, then say your line, then press the space bar, and look back at him! Ok, one more and then lunch, everybody!” My head spun. Look where, when? Say the line in between what?

“ACTION!!”

I did my best to implement his technical instructions. “CUT! OK, OK, Emi you got this!! One more time, ok? Make sure you press the space bar before you look back at him!”

Tim was sweating through his shirt. This was his third scene of the day. It was hot. We were hours past the scheduled lunch time. He excused himself for a quick AC break. In his place, they taped an X on Christopher’s camera rig. I was to deliver my line to the X, but I noticed the X was moving with the camera in a way that Tim had not been in the scene. I was confused. Do I look at the starting point of the X and keep my gaze fixed there, or do I track the X with my eyes? No time, we had to go again. I tried my best.

Robert De Niro’s advice had flown out the window. My performance boiled down to head turns, eyeline, pressing buttons, reciting my line. When I finally stepped out of that sauna of a van, my hair and makeup BFFs were waiting, beaming. They had snapped behind-the-scenes photos of me at video village, the place where the director and other higher-ups watch video playback. But I felt awful. I had a headache, I was dizzy, I was starving. And I thought I had done something terribly wrong. Why did we do so many takes? Did I mess up the eyeline? I told my new friend about these worries and she reassured me. “Everything seemed normal! I wouldn’t worry about it.” We walked over to a tent where finally, FINALLY! I had my first meal of the day.

In television, co-stars get cut from the final edit all the time. Even if your line survives, it’s often buried under a main character’s reaction shot—meaning you might see Detective Katsumoto on screen while only hearing my voice. Knowing this, I warned my friends and family as they eagerly marked their calendars for the premiere.

Ten months passed before my episode finally aired. When the scene before mine came on, my heart started pounding out of my chest. Would my line make it to screen? My face? Then, Detective Katsumoto emerges from the building and the crane sweeps across the lawn as he hurries to the spy van. He opens it, and… there is my face! Delivering my line! They kept my performance, and my face, in the final cut. The relief I felt. The joy. Seeing my name in the credits, I teared up. The next day, the credit appeared on my IMDb page. I could officially say I was a TV actor.

The next year, I booked another TV show co-star. I told my therapist that I was excited, but that the Magnum PI experience still troubled me in the back of my mind. Why did my recollection of the event feel so bad when really everything went fine? And, in spite of the acting lessons I had learned and tried to apply, why did I loop on my line, uncontrollably, incessantly, so loudly? I had felt like my brain was hijacked, and I was afraid it would happen again.

“It’s common for someone with OCD to experience looping in what feels like an uncontrollable and intrusive way,” she explained.

By this point, I was aware that I had some idiosyncratic tendencies, and that they might be considered obsessive-compulsive. For example, specific chewing and breathing noises trigger a wild, somatic discomfort in me. Repeating the sound to my fingertips, then touching them to my knees and the back of my neck seems to—at least temporarily—relieve the discomfort. I might repeat that ritual several times, until it feels “just right.” But I didn’t necessarily think I had full-blown Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I thought of my rituals more as a superstition restricted to the category of chewing and eating. It turns out that these rituals are a byproduct of the way in which my brain is wired, and the patterns it tends to follow. Specifically, that the neural pathway between my amygdala and frontal cortex is highly reactive, creating what sometimes feels like a high-voltage loop. The amygdala signals a fear (the breathing) and the frontal cortex has a “solution” (the ritual). I bounce back and forth between the two regions of my brain, on a loop. That same pattern happened when “She made the call as soon as you left her office” blared on replay through my brain.

Unlike De Niro’s parable, in which the actor chooses to repeat the line, in my case the line looped against my will. I asked my therapist why I had never experienced that in other acting scenarios. One reason might be that my stress was redlining that day: it was my first big TV show, it was a technical scene, I was hot and hungry, and the crew was waiting on me before they could break for lunch. The main reason, however, was likely the brevity. A single line is easier for the brain to trap and loop than a block of back-and-forth dialogue. A larger role is more grounded in narrative depth and has more dimensionality, making it easier to lose myself in the circumstances of a scene. A single co-star line, by contrast, is sterile and functional.

Thankfully, my second co-star experience was far less stressful. I learned how to redirect my attention when my brain loops (this has become especially important in places like the shower or car, when my mind has free range to roam). I learned to invest extra time in relaxing my mind and body before filming (journaling, breathing exercises, coloring). And it felt like kismet that this role was a fitness instructor who demonstrates a breathing exercise on a beach!

I haven’t booked the next level up, a guest star, yet. But I’m looking forward to taking all of my lessons, from YouTube, my therapist, and beyond, and applying them when the time comes.

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In the summer of 2018 I was invited to a meeting in Los Angeles with nine other people. We squeezed into a Koreatown apartment where there was no parking, minimal air circulation, and hardly any windows. I “knew” three other people: the organizer, Chris, a former college classmate I reconnected with on Instagram; Julia, whom I had randomly taken an improv class with several years back; and Lauren, whom I had cyber-stalked once on Facebook when she dated a friend, so really it was a stretch to say I knew her.

The point of the meeting was for everyone to pitch short film ideas, discuss them, and vote on which ones we liked best. Eventually, Chris announced, his company called Rude Horse was going to produce two of our ideas. The prospect of producing short films—and having the financing to do so—was tantalizing, but I was cautiously optimistic. I had just earned my Master’s in Entertainment Management a month prior. Going into the program, I thought my cohort and I would eventually ride off into the Hollywood sunset together, best friends for life, bonded by our love of watching and producing films together. But the environment ultimately proved to be competitive and hostile, and I kept in touch with maybe two of my former classmates.

I did make new friends when I snagged a coveted internship at a leading talent agency. We would meet in the coffee break room, assemble for lunch at Westfield Century City across the street, and get together for weekend game nights in the Valley. I began to notice a pattern in our conversations, in which we primarily discussed the latest abuses we had endured and how much longer we had to suffer at the agency before we had done “sufficient time.”

One coworker, John, was repeatedly verbally humiliated in front of the entire floor for having bought the agent he worked for Poland Spring instead of Arrowhead water. The diatribes only intensified when he tried to explain that the grocery store was out of Arrowhead. “There, there, John,” we’d console him in the break room. “That wasn’t right. It’ll be worth it, though, when you one day fulfill your dream of being the head of Disney. You’ll show him.” Doing time at an agency is a form of entertainment industry hazing and considered a rite of passage, which meant, in a sense, that I had something quite profound in common with my peers: we were willing to endure barely paid, borderline abusive work in order to one day realize our dreams. But I discovered in time that trauma-bonding isn’t fertile ground for lasting friendship.

So, newly married and graduated, I found myself in the big, glittering city I had always dreamed of, with my husband as my only meaningful friend. I thought that Rude Horse would introduce me to new people and teach me something about independent filmmaking, but I tried not to hope for more. True to his word, Chris organized two short film productions. I learned how securing a permit to shoot outdoors in LA is its own genre of nightmare as well as what it feels like to see my name at the top of the call sheet (thrilling and terrifying). What surprised me most about the experience was how, for the first time since moving to LA, these friendships didn’t come with an asterisk.

I remember meeting up with a former classmate for coffee who told me how a producer on their project had stolen money and refused to pay the crew. The culture on their set reminded me of graduate school and I felt lucky to have stumbled upon Rude Horse where everything was above board; people were friendly, hard-working, and—as many people had a background in comedy— remarkably funny. Sure, we didn’t really know what we were doing, but it felt like everyone had something to offer, whether it be their background in performance or writing, education in entertainment law, experience in production, or simple emotional support.

Organically, the Rude Horse crew began to assemble in other ways, too. We met for writers’ support groups, made comedy sketches, and gathered for July 4th fireworks-viewings, Christmas carol sing-alongs, and just because we wanted to. My husband Harry and I would have everyone over at our apartment’s rooftop pool, from which we could see the Hollywood sign and the skyline of Downtown LA. We’d eat snacks and have contests on who could swim the full length of the pool and back in one breath. We’d jump between the cold pool and the hot tub and hang out and laugh until all twenty fingers and toes shriveled to prunes. It became known as Pool Club.

Two guys in the group had an attic in their spacious West Hollywood abode and any get-together there was deemed an Attic Party. Several of us started a side group-chat, dubbed Moon Club, where we exchanged fun facts and pictures about the moon. Anything and everything became a “club” or a “party” and anyone who wanted to join was always invited. We attended each other’s shows, acted in each other’s table reads and invited each other to the movies. We went on hikes and explored areas surrounding LA, like Joshua Tree and Big Bear Lake and Sequoia National Park. It was like college, minus the exams and homework and with the added element of us all chasing our lifelong dreams together.

When the pandemic struck in 2020, our friend group, which by then had expanded beyond the original ten people, simply moved online. We met virtually for Zoom trivia nights and text-organized games of Survivor and mafia. Some of us broke off into our own pandemic pods, and Julia, Harry and I decided to escape the claustrophobia of the city one weekend with a trip to Lake Arrowhead. Except our getaway turned apocalyptic when, during a midday hike, a shadow seemed to pass over the sun like an eclipse. From a clearing overlooking a valley, we saw a giant plume of smoke drifting our way; the horrifying aftermath, we later learned, of a gender reveal party gone wrong. We went into town, anticipating an evacuation announcement. Instead, we found ash falling from the sky like snow as people milled about as normal, eating ice cream cones and pushing strollers, enjoying life to its bitter, ashy end.

As the pandemic dragged on, several people in our friend group moved away from LA and some pivoted from the entertainment industry altogether. At some point—I’m not sure when—I realized that the Rude Horse Era had passed. Just as the pandemic never had an official end-date, neither did the Rude Horse Era. Which, of course, isn’t to say that those friendships haven’t lasted. We just don’t assemble with the same bright eagerness and frequency anymore.

Eventually, Harry and I even left LA, something I never thought we would do. I had waited so long and worked so hard to get there that I assumed nothing could take me away. But when Harry was laid off and my acting union went on strike, we decided to temporarily put our belongings in storage, embark on a cross-country roadtrip, and spend some time with our folks in Virginia. It’s been three years and our stuff is still waiting for us in East Los Angeles. We’re not ready to fully leave, nor does it feel right to return, either.

In 2025 I visited LA for the first time knowing I wouldn’t be moving back. I cried 80% of the trip. Every coffee shop, familiar neighborhood, and old hiking spot I drove by brought back memories. Pool Club had officially disbanded (there was no pool anymore!) and every single one of my friends had moved—across town if they’d stayed in LA at all—with new jobs and several with new partners. Everything had completely changed.

There’s a scene in Inside Out 2 where the character “Nostalgia” emerges from a back room. She’s an old lady holding a teacup, and reminisces about the good old days. The other characters shepherd her back into her room; nostalgia is for later, they tell her, when we’re older. I thought to tell my Nostalgia the same. Then I realized that time really had passed and she was right on time.

There’s something magical about an epoch of life so full of energy and joy that you don’t realize it’s happening until it’s over. Except it isn’t exactly over. Each of us was chasing a dream—a writers’ room, a major acting role, the director’s chair. And some of us are continuing on the paths we were on the day we met in that Koreatown apartment, even if they don’t look quite how we imagined. A few have done the astonishing work of actually arriving. Others have veered somewhere new entirely. Regardless, we were never meant to stay frozen in time together; that would defeat the whole purpose of finding community in the first place. We wanted to help each other grow, and growing means changing.

My Master’s capstone was titled “Women Directors and Sustainable Careers.” While many studies examine why women are barred from the film and TV industry, we interviewed women who had built long-term careers in it, and tried to understand how. One answer recurred, emphatically, in every interview: the communities of friends they came up with—the people who read their screenplay drafts, gathered for weekend dinners, listened to them complain when a project fell through—were stated as critical in their success. I remember thinking, “How are we going to present this as scientific research? What are we going to say, if you want to succeed in Hollywood, make good friends?”

I get it now. It’s not necessarily that making good friends makes you successful in Hollywood. It’s that they make life infinitely more bearable, especially in an industry where volatility, rejection, and shallow relationships are commonplace. The people who last in this industry aren’t the ones who suffer best, but the ones who found a way to enjoy it. And you can’t enjoy it alone.

This past weekend I flew to Austin to meet up with Julia and Lauren, along with some other friends. The woman I randomly had an improv class with many years ago and the other woman I had cyber-stalked on the internet have become two of my dearest friends. And now, both of them are getting married! To different people, I might add. Lauren, in fact, is marrying Jordan, an OG member of the Rude Horse aka Pool Club aka Attic Party crew. To me, their union represents the lasting magic of that time, that it didn’t end so much as evolve.

Experienced screenwriters and producers will say that what the protagonist wants is never what she really needs. The stated goal—the role, the writers’ room, the executive producer title—drives the plot forward, but the true narrative runs deeper. I think back to that day in Lake Arrowhead when the ash was falling and everyone continued eating their ice cream cones. Julia, Harry, and I looked at each other and burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. We returned to our cabin and played Pandemic, a cooperative boardgame in which you either all win or lose together. We didn’t know if the world was ending. It certainly felt like it was. I feel proud of the work I’ve done in my filmmaking and acting career, though I don’t know if I’ll ever work on the kinds of feature films I’ve always dreamed of. I hope I do. But what matters is, I have my people.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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In preparation for summer, I tucked my winter clothes into my dresser and hung warm weather ones in the closet. I swapped the comforter on our bed for a quilt and ordered a box of locally made sodas in flavors peach, strawberry rhubarb, and blueberry basil. Then, I set out the wooden rocking chairs on the porch and observed. Some days required a coat and other days a t-shirt worked fine. It was still spring, in other words.

Last week I went on a midday bike ride. The air felt warm and heavy, the smell of pines hung thick, and tree branches laden with foliage shimmied in the breeze. When I returned, my shirt was sticky against my back and my face felt hot so I cracked open a peach soda and sat in the sunroom. Over the faint laughter of a neighbor’s barbecue, cicadas whined—the first of the season. “Oh,” I thought. “Summer’s here.”

After that, I began to notice signs everywhere. In the meadow behind our house, for instance. At twilight, bats float high in the evening air while swallows dip and dodge across some invisible plane just below them. What’s the winged equivalent of dog zoomies? Well, it’s on full display just before sundown.

All of a sudden, crickets have something to say, especially the ones hidden in the reeds along creek beds.

And the resident bullfrog hasn’t been shy about claiming his territory in my neighbor’s front yard.

At the pond just down the road from him, a chorus of green tree frogs serenade each other with mating calls.

I wish snakes would announce their presence, as I almost stepped on one while descending the porch steps the other night. It escaped beneath the white pebbles in our blooming hydrangea garden.

In celebration of summer’s arrival, I thought to visit the beach. I was ready to roast oceanside and had just pulled my bucket hat over my head when low, gray clouds rolled across the sky. Five minutes later a subtropical storm set up shop over our little town. That is the real sign summer has arrived; flash storms are characteristic of summers here at the border of North and South Carolina. I sat in the sunroom and inched open the screened window to let the humid scent of rain shower wash over me.

And yet, the deluge fails to drown the resilient weeds or heavy blossoms, nor has the summer sun yet faded everything to monochrome yellow-brown. Yes, late May into early June is perhaps the most delightful section of the warm-weather season. Mother Nature pregnant with humidity, her mood shapeshifting between intense sunshine and low, angry clouds, the trees buzzing with insects and creek beds lush with flora. A cacophony of birds, breeze, and bullfrogs. As someone with OCD who is usually triggered by sounds, I find peace in this kind of chaos. The Sounds of Summer soothe me.

The ceiling fan is perhaps more mechanical, but none-the-less an important accompaniment to the soundtrack of summer. In the evenings, after walking Ripley to the tune of uproarious frog song, I take a hot bath to relieve muscle tension. Then, pajamas on, I lie on top of my quilt and fall asleep to the rhythmic whop-whop-whop.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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Deep in the serene mountains of Nara Prefecture sits an unassuming village named Murou. Lesser known internationally, Murou is famous among the Japanese for its mythology, historic pagoda and, in more recent years, a modern sculpture park.

In March, I rented a car and navigated the highways coiling around Osaka until they spit me out into the countryside. The ascent to Murou took me across clear streams, along rice fields, and into a forest of ancient, Japanese cedars. The village itself was unremarkable. A cluster of traditional homes with kawara clay tile roofs, an udon noodle shop with a sun-faded poster from the 90s.

My discovery of Murou’s existence was happenstance. A year ago, while writing a screenplay about a protagonist who travels to Japan, I perused the internet for locations that might be visually striking and came across Murou Art Forest. Moved by the contrast of modern sculptures with the backdrop of the forest, I wrote the location into my story. Fast-forward to March when I happened to be traveling to the city of Kobe, and I learned that Murou Art Forest wasn’t far away. It was serendipity.

When I arrived, only a handful of people were scattered around the expansive, terraced park. It was chilly, but warm for early March in the mountains. The trees seemed to guard the perimeter of the park like sentries and I felt intimidated by their presence. But when I approached the edge of the forest, I felt summoned into another world.

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It was breezy that day and a patch of bamboo stalks seemed to whisper to me. A crow cawed overhead. I remember feeling spooked and looking around to make sure people were nearby, lest the forest spirits snatch me away before I could scream for help.

I learned later that Murou is, in fact, a spiritual place. For thousands of years, it has been revered as sacred ground. It was thought that a powerful Dragon God lived in the caves and regulated the flow of water. Emissaries of the Emperor were sent to supplicate the Dragon God at Murouji Temple during times of drought.

Over time, a miniature five-story pagoda was erected and is now a National Treasure. While women were banned from worshipping at most sacred mountain temples from the Heian through Meiji Periods (8th-late 19th centuries), Murouji became famous for allowing women.

Learning the storied history of Murou and experiencing its aura in person was, as you might imagine, an entirely different experience from looking at striking photos on the internet. It made me wonder how I might better capture its essence or use it for inspiration in my screenplay. I still haven’t fully figured that out, and feel apprehension that I might never (an anxiety perhaps universal among writers).

Regardless, I left the park feeling like I had been summoned, that maybe I had even crossed paths with spirits without realizing it. It was an experience that even two months later is difficult to translate into words.

So for the time being, here are some photos and self-portraits I took in the park, which hopefully convey a glimpse of its aura to you.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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My mom and I were on an airplane somewhere over Alaska this February when I turned to her and asked what, exactly, the plan was. We’ve visited Japan together annually since I was a child, and this time we were headed to Kansai, the region famous for Osaka and Kyoto. We make an effort to explore different parts of Japan, but her primary motivation this trip was to see an old friend named Mariko. They were classmates until my mom, Yuki, immigrated to the US in 1969 at age 14.

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My mom smiled sheepishly and confessed that she wasn’t sure what the plan was. Mariko was so self-admittedly offline that Yuki had to snail mail her a letter reminder to check her email. It had been over a month and there still was no word on the official plan. I gawked at the revelation. In that moment I felt deeply skeptical the meet-up would happen. Wouldn’t she have checked her email unprompted if she actually wanted to meet up with us? Regardless, my mom and I would have a good time. We’ve managed many-a-trip to Japan, just the two of us.

This wasn’t the first time they had trouble linking up. Yuki and Mariko’s communication over the years was spasmodic. For several years in their 40s, for instance, they both lived on the East Coast—Yuki in the Washington, D.C. area and Mariko in New Jersey—and they never once met up. They were penpals throughout high school and had recently reconnected online, but beyond that I didn’t quite understand the connection. Since we were going out of our way to meet Mariko under such uncertain circumstances, I asked my mom what the motivation was.

A Kindness Remembered

Over the years, I’ve heard stories about my mom’s experience assimilating in the U.S.: How overwhelming it was to study for the SATs at the same time she was learning English, the inspiring view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the library in her new neighborhood, tricks for pronouncing the word “milk” (by replacing the “l” sound with a soft “w”), how being both a twin and the only Asian students at their high school brought my introverted mother a lot of unwanted attention. What I knew less about was what she had left behind.

Yuki and Mariko were not so much attached at the hip as they were two misfits in a cliquish middle school. But out of a curiosity for what was happening at her old school and, perhaps, a longing for home, Yuki started writing letters to Mariko from San Francisco. At age 18, my mom and her twin enrolled in different colleges and they were separated for the first time in their lives. Throughout the loneliness and confusion of immigrating, Yuki had always had her twin by her side. Facing the cold and unfamiliar SUNY Binghamton by herself left her feeling particularly isolated and depressed. My grandparents grew concerned and suggested she visit home.

Mariko caught word of my mother’s return to Japan and planned a grand homecoming. She first arranged a trip to Kyoto, where they visited the famed Kinkaku-ji, a gold-plated pavilion situated on Kyoko-chi (“Mirror Pond”), and Koke-dera (literally, “moss temple”), which features over eight acres of garden carpeted in 120 varieties of moss. Less flashy was their visit to Ryoan-Ji, a minimalist Zen garden in which a courtyard of meticulously raked white gravel features 15 ancient stones that emerge like islands. The stones are arranged such that, no matter from which angle you view, only 14 are ever in sight. The garden was designed to embody the Buddhist principle that true understanding requires acknowledging our limited perspective. My mother was raised Catholic and recalls less the profundity of such Buddhist notions and more the overwhelming peacefulness of each location. “The moss,” she told me, “gave me a warm feeling, like a carpet.”

Mariko and Yuki then headed north to the remote countryside of Aomori Prefecture. 39 years later, I would get a job teaching English in Japan and be asked which prefecture I preferred. I randomly chose Aomori after googling “Japanese prefecture with pretty nature.” Little did I know that my mother and Mariko had visited several decades prior, and that the prefecture is likely the origin of my lineage. Our family name, “Tomabechi,” is highly uncommon everywhere in Japan except Aomori, where even a small village bears the name.

Mariko brought another friend along for the Aomori leg of the trip and my mother remembers relishing the role of third wheel; Emotionally exhausted at that point of her life and an introvert through and through, she remembers how relaxing it felt to not have to carry the conversation, to simply listen to their light banter while gazing out the train window or observing whatever monument they visited that day.

When she returned to New York, she received a package in the mail from Mariko. Inside were photos and clippings from tourist brochures so that Yuki could easily assemble a commemorative album. My mom came across that album 50 years later. Flipping through the pages, my mother says she can see through her smiles in the photographs, the pain from that time still visceral today. It moved her, remembering the lengths to which Mariko had gone to welcome Yuki back to Japan during that challenging time in life.

After that trip, the flow of communication petered out until it stopped altogether. Life got in the way as they embarked on their own life journeys, which took Mariko to Australia, England, New Jersey, and back to Japan with her husband and two daughters. Yuki, meanwhile, went to graduate schools in Connecticut and North Carolina before settling down in Virginia with my dad, save for a yearlong fellowship in Tokyo in 2003, with my brothers and me in tow.

Looking back on my early 20s, I remember feeling unmoored—What should I study? Who will I become? Where will I land? My mother navigated those same questions with the added complexity of no longer fully identifying with her home country and not yet entirely fitting into her new one. She remembers having clarity by the time she graduated SUNY Binghamton: Despite her parents’ wishes, and despite the challenges of her college years, she was determined to stay in the US.

I take the liberty of imagining that in 1975, returning to Japan for the first time to Mariko’s warm hospitality helped cultivate a sense of security in my mother. She learned that she could always go back, that Japan would always welcome her no matter how many years she spent away. My theory is that her trip with Mariko wasn’t just a friendly pick-me-up, which in itself is a profound gift; It might also have been a turning point that helped solidify my mother’s commitment for returning to and remaining in the US.

Regardless of its subliminal effect, the discovery of the album 50 years later reconnected them. Yuki scavenged through school directories to track down Mariko’s contact information. She sent an email reminiscing about their trip and thanked Mariko for her kindness all those years ago. Mariko responded warmly. She was happy to hear from Yuki and wrote that she, too, had been reminiscing about the past. Yuki was visiting Japan soon, would Mariko be interested in meeting up? Thus reinitiated their spasmodic exchanges.

A Sweet Reunion

Mariko informed Yuki that she now lives in a mountain town 30 minutes by train from Osaka, and that their former middle school teacher, a nun named Sister Kameoka, also lives in the area. She invited Yuki to visit Sister together, and my mom invited me.

I couldn’t believe my luck—that I would get to meet people who knew the “before” version of my mother: Before she moved to the US and learned English. Before she received four years of college and another six years of post-graduate education, worked for the US Census Bureau for 35 years, and raised three children, all done exclusively in her second language. Before she learned about the MLB or the PGA or UNC basketball and became super-fans of all three. Before she knew that there was an alternative to match-making or being a stay-at-home mother, both respectable practices, but a path she knew she was not meant to walk.

But then, radio silence. There we were, somewhere over Alaska, unsure if this meeting would happen at all. When we finally received word from Mariko, we were about to board the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Osaka. She was inflexible in her plan—only certain days and times would work—and I had an engagement, so I would unfortunately miss the moment she and my mother reunited. But to be honest, even after learning the plan I felt unsure it would come to fruition.

I was wrong. Mariko showed up as planned and spent all day with my mother. When I eventually linked up with them, there was no awkwardness, but rather a palpable rapport. They recounted their day in overlapping fragments, chatting with the easy rhythm of good friends. When I mentioned their trip across Japan 50 years ago, they burst out laughing. Mariko had no recollection of the event! Apologetic, she said she remembers a lot else about their relationship, just not their cross country tour. She humbly added that she was glad to have had such a positive impact on Yuki during that time.

I found it strange that she forgot such an elaborate trip. But then again, I haven’t lived 70+ years during which so much can happen, nor seen my country evolve from post-war disarray to post-digital age normalcy, nor raised my children in various, foreign locations across the globe. In fact, her forgetfulness of the event in contrast to the potency of it in my mom’s memory may just be an indicator of how precious that time was in the trajectory of my mom’s personal journey.

Sisters

Jetlag was sneaking up on me as our taxi wound its way through the narrow streets of Takarazuka, a scenic mountain town. The weather was mercurial that day, shifting between bright sunlight and dark clouds. The taxi deposited us at the wrought iron gate of the convent and we climbed a steep driveway along a manicured garden. I remember the wind whisking fallen petals off a dazzling camellia bush and I pulled my jacket tighter around me.

Sister Kameoka received us with such warm liveliness that I felt certain she wasn’t the one we were meeting. If she taught my mother in middle school, wouldn’t she be approaching 100? Hard of hearing? More…decrepit? Far from it, her tiny frame moved nimbly and her still-jet black hair had dashes of silver in it. We sat down in a modest living room with teacups and a snack of dates and looked out at the garden. It shone stunningly in the golden, late afternoon light. I had an urge to pull out my camera to photograph it and take candid photos of Yuki, Mariko, and Sister Kameoka, but I didn’t want to be intrusive.

Instead, I staved off the jet lag by tuning my antenna to better understand their rapid Japanese. It was difficult to follow the nuances of their conversation and I noticed both Mariko and Sister Kameoka slow their speech and turn to me to make sure I felt included. Sister Kameoka described joining the convent shortly after graduating from college in the 1960s. At that time in Japan, and especially in a Christian setting, English was highly regarded and all Sisters in the convent were expected to be fluent. Sister Kameoka was chastised by her elders for her ineptitude at the language. Even now, she remarked in Japanese, she struggles with English. I could feel that she sensed my embarrassment for not being fluent in Japanese and I greatly appreciated her relating to me in that moment. I felt touched more generally by her engagement with myself, Yuki, and Mariko; Retired from teaching (though still a guidance counselor for troubled students), she still possessed energy, genuine curiosity, and enthusiasm for her former students.

The conversation as a whole was remarkable to me. To hear them draw connections between their wide-ranging experiences was a type of conversation I have never had, nor could I if I wanted to—I’m only 34 and they’ve lived over twice my age! For example, Sister Kameoka was diagnosed with cancer at age 32, and again with a different type of cancer in her 50s. She listed her diagnoses as a matter-of-fact, as though they were simply bullet points in her life. Those years battling cancer must have been grueling, uncertain, and impactful to her worldviews and relationship with life. But there were so many other things to discuss besides her now-decades old cancer diagnoses!

Instead, she elaborated on the evolution of her students’ behavior patterns over the years and explained how nuns, who rotate convent locations every few years, must re-learn how to coexist with a new cohort of roommates every time they relocate. Mariko related in having moved to three foreign countries, and how her daughters, similar to Sister Kameoka, had to re-adjust to their new circumstances each time. Mariko elaborated on her responsibilities as a shufu (literally, “master woman”) in which she tirelessly managed their household, the development of her children, supported her husband in his business endeavors, and beyond. My mom, for her part, could relate in having two sisters who also took on the demanding role of shufu, as well as in the contrasting shape her own life took, in which she became an American office worker.

I felt like I was witnessing some kind of historic conversation that would be later transcribed in textbooks. Actually, this was the stuff historical films and school textbooks are missing: the profound, lived experiences of remarkable women.

It was all so fascinating, watching their complex, winding lives play out in front of me over the course of three hours. They were once three, young women living in a tenuous, post-war order. They had dreams and they had uncertainties about the future. It was like they blinked and—in that brief moment when their eyes shut—years passed, children were born, lives were lived. And when they opened, here they were, old women, telling me how it all plays out.

Towards the end of the conversation Sister Kameoka positioned her body to face me. She held my hands in hers and asked, “What are your interests? What dreams do you have for your life?”

Counting the Stones

My dream in life has shifted and morphed in my short life thus far. At one point it was to be a world-famous actor. At another point, a filmmaker more generally. At the moment, I’m keen on finding Home, on cultivating creativity, on nurturing relationships important to me. Nothing is for certain and I acknowledge my limited perspective. I think I’ll find myself lucky, though, to reach an age where I’m able to look back on my life with more clarity. Where I can see how it plays out, all the ups and downs, dashed dreams and unexpected wins, and say—with a perspective I don’t have now—how many stones there are in my garden.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

Leave a comment

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A novel feature of my current, temporary address is the alligators. The neighborhood is structured around an 18-hole golf course that doubles as a nature preserve for local herons, egrets, rabbits, and our little swamp-mates, the alligators. I’ve spotted several of them and heard many stories, but none as exciting as the case I encountered this week: A neighbor walked into their garage to find a 6.5 foot alligator hiding under their car. They had to call the town sheriff and a wildlife officer to wrangle it back into the pond at Hole 15. More on that later.

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First Encounter

One of my favorite activities is biking the full length of the course just before sunset, once all of the golfers have left. The path leads me by about a dozen ponds and connecting waterways surrounded by patches of pine woods and marsh marked with “Keep Out, Protected Land” signs. It was on one of these rides last August when Harry and I first spotted an unusual outcropping in the middle of the pond at Hole 15. As soon as we dismounted our bikes for a closer look, a round eyeball slipped under the black surface of the water, leaving not a ripple behind. We named the eyeball “Wilhelmina.”

The search for alligators re-introduced a childlike giddiness in our everyday life. One afternoon, for example, I went on a bike ride to clear my head after a few hours of writing. It was a hot day, so I thought about cutting my ride short. But when I caught sight of the pond by Hole 9 just a little further down, I couldn’t resist checking. A little fella, maybe four feet long, was lounging in a patch of duckweed. I checked for my phone, but hadn’t brought it. Heart racing, I cycled home and summoned Harry. His bike was broken so he would have to take my bike, but he wouldn’t know the location unless I showed him. No matter! I sprinted behind him yelling directions. Our neighbor Richard was watering his lawn when we zipped by. “Gator at Hole 9!” I called over my shoulder. “Ah, he must be sunbathing!” he shouted back. It felt like a scene from Stranger Things, kids cycling and screaming like mad because of the neighborhood monster.

At the neighborhood Halloween gathering that October, I learned two things: All people over the age of 60 are excellent storytellers and that I had been making a grave mistake letting our dog Ripley run off-leash by the ponds. I had always believed the local alligators to be docile and scared of humans. Not according to our neighbor John. He energetically relayed a story about a gator two neighborhoods over that dragged a full-grown golden retriever beneath the water. The dog was never seen again. More stories poured out about how the gators move between ponds via the connecting waterways at night, and we received several warnings not to walk our dog anywhere near bodies of water in the dark.

Richard then shared more about the gator that likes to sunbathe on the banks of Hole 9, just behind his house. One day, the gator decided it wanted a change of scenery. Richard watched as it slowly moseyed across the street and clubhouse parking lot, through the golf cart turnstile, all the way to the pond by Hole 1. Several golfers and staff stood back to let him pass. See, that was the impression I had of Wilhelmina and co., that if you respect them, they won’t hurt anybody.

Catch and Release

Harry and I were on our sunset bike ride approaching Hole 16. We often find our friend Terry and his golden retriever Zoey there, playing fetch behind their house. Instead of his usual smile and wave, Terry slowly walked onto the bike path in front of us and pulled his phone out like a sword. It felt very dramatic and uncharacteristic. “I have something to show you,” he said in a grave voice. “A six and a half foot alligator was found in the garage next door and Barbara is having a conniption fit. She wants it dead.”

It turns out that our very own Wilhelmina, the eyeball we had spotted at Hole 15, was the trespasser, and that she is actually a “he.” Unable to singlehandedly manage Willy, as we now call him, the sheriff recruited a wildlife officer for assistance. Here’s how the officer wrangled Willy:

He lassoed the loop of his snare pole around Willy’s neck and Willy reflexively clamped onto the pole. The officer then taped Willy’s mouth shut and put a towel over his eyes, which apparently makes alligators more docile. After scanning Willy with a remote control-looking device and learning that he had never been caught before, the officer followed protocol by microchipping poor Willy and then slicing off one of his keratin scales, which will be sent to a research facility in Raleigh. Throughout all of the poking and prodding, sweet Willy remained calm.

Willy was so good, in fact, that the officer claimed him to be “the alligator you want in your pond.” Poor Willy was probably sunbathing, got hot, and crawled onto the shaded garage cement to cool off. And as soon as the officer approached him, Willy withdrew rather than snapped, a sign that he is not aggressive toward humans. Here’s the officer explaining why Willy is a model alligator citizen:

That brings us back to Barb. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear Terry mention her at the end of that video. Oh, Barb. To be fair, our fellow neighbor Barbara’s reaction of fear and disgust at an alligator crawling into someone’s garage is warranted and quite normal. But one of the tradeoffs of moving to an unfamiliar ecosystem is that we have to respect whose home it was first. This feels especially true in the case of dear Willy, who never hurt anyone and just wanted to cool off! Mr. Wildlife Officer recognized the goodness in Willy and made sure he made it back to his pond-home at Hole 15. But first, he had to place Willy tail-first at the edge of the water, since an alligator will not turn its back on someone it perceives to be a threat:

And then, the officer had to remove the noose of the snare pole from Willy’s neck:

Be free, Willy! You really are a “class act alligator.” Godspeed!

Back to Boring Hole 10

You know what, I prefer living by Hole 10 even though we don’t have any scenic waterways or ponds; we live far enough away from alligator habitats to not worry about garage trespassers, but close enough that we are regaled with Willy drama. The Willy drama did teach us that, unlike the gator two neighborhoods over that dragged the golden retriever underwater, our alligators are civilized. Even so, I won’t be letting Ripley off-leash anywhere but our boring Hole 10.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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My husband Harry and I temporarily reside in a retirement community just north of Myrtle Beach, SC. Our house—his parents’ future retirement spot— sits just off the fairway of hole 10 on a surgically maintained golf course. Every morning feels like Groundhog Day: I roll up the blinds to find a handful of identical-looking men in their 60s dressed in khaki shorts and polos golfing outside my window. Harry, our dog Ripley, and I walk our street, which circumambulates an island of pine trees that has a gazebo straight out of Gilmore Girls plopped in the center. After, we go to our separate corners of the house to work, Harry on coding and me on writing or auditions. In the evenings, we lift weights to the tune of an online cheerful workout instructor, then let the dog romp around the vacated golf course. Every now and then we like to break up our routine in Pleasantville with a roadtrip, and this time we went to Louisville to see Harry’s old college buddies.

Driving through the Southeast overwhelmed me with a paradox of feelings. I saw flags of patriotism, banners of protest; a veneration for history and tradition, a yearning for change; astonishing wilderness, diversity in people; and a singular, unifying beauty.

We passed through several quaint towns with church steeples and mom and pop shops that nearly resembled those of New England, if not for the abandoned buildings and the occasional billboard commanding us to turn to Jesus in times of hardship. Much of the land was undeveloped, with hectares of forest and stream seemingly untouched. In some ways, the breathing space and access to nature made the south more attractive. In another way, it brought awareness to how the lived experiences of people in the region must differ from other parts of the country.

As an Amerasian, liberal woman, I admit to having turned my nose up at southern culture, especially over the last ten years. My impression of it was widespread prejudice thinly veiled by a veneer of hospitality and comfort food. Our 24 hours on the highways and backroads connecting Myrtle Beach, Charleston, Atlanta, Nashville, Louisville, and Asheville painted a more nuanced picture. The economic pain I have witnessed living in expensive cities across the nation seems to have had a tenfold effect on parts of the south.

My husband and I recently decided to press pause on our emigration efforts, and I felt motivated to lean into and appreciate the charm of our current region. I wanted to take my therapist’s advice and try to view things through a more holistic lens of curiosity, understanding, and compassion. Along the way there were also plenty of triggering reminders of our country’s shortcomings and political turmoil, but in this post I felt like sharing the positive impressions each locale left on me.

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Charleston

The nature in South Carolina was alluring yet fear-striking. We visited the steep shores of Isle of Palms Beach, the marshy nature reserve at Magnolia Plantation, and biked 6 miles along the West Ashley Greenway, which cuts through the tamer landscape of suburban Charleston.

Swaying, Spanish moss and a warm climate cultivated a desire in me to slow down and drink a cold lemonade. Magnolia Plantation, for instance, had several inviting benches under the shade of mossy trees and overlooking ponds covered in spring green algae. While photographing a trio of turtles sunbathing on a rock, I noticed a thin trail of black water slicing through the algae; a baby alligator was cruising across the pond. The history of the plantation, too, added an eerie atmosphere to the strikingly beautiful scenery.

Charleston also offered delicious seafood and wonderful access to well-maintained, off-leash spots for dogs. Though the famous Rainbow Row of pastel houses was eye-catching, my favorite landmark was Ravenel Bridge. Each time we drove over it, I felt like we were driving up, up, into the sky.

Atlanta

Atlanta surprised me in its diversity on every level: The variety of food at Ponce City Market, the mix of Latin, Black, and Asian cultures, and that it is both more urban than I expected (it has more skyscrapers than downtown Los Angeles!) and greener (our hotel, situated in Poncey-Highland, was walking distance from two, sprawling parks totaling 389 acres).

Harry and I were tickled to receive what surely qualifies as southern hospitality when our server and the manager at Tiny Lou’s added three appetizers to our meal, on the house: cornbread pudding topped with an ice cream scoop-sized ball of truffle butter, air fried Brussel sprouts with cranberry and tzatziki sauce, and their locally famous deviled eggs.

Nashville

The atmosphere of East Nashville is a far cry from the stereotype of bachelorette party pedal taverns. Instead of the anticipated “Country Las Vegas”, we were greeted with chill, hipster vibes, a 960-acre expanse of riverfront greenery at Shelby Bottoms Nature preserve, and an incredible array of food options, from casual coffee shops to upscale Appalachian fine dining. East Nashville has all the amenities of urban living coupled with family-friendly neighborhoods (I’ve never seen so many tree swings and tricycles per capita), and I couldn’t help but fantasize about living there.

Louisville

Louisville felt about as rural as an urban area can be. Which is to say, the nature was beautiful. The highways, which felt more like country roads several lanes wide, took us past whiskey distilleries, rolling cattle and horse pastures, and sliced through walls of gray, limestone bedrock. Similar to Atlanta and Nashville, there were several, sprawling green parks in the city proper.

My favorite spot, however, was on the outskirts of the city at Harrods Creek Park. I was able to let Ripley explore 2 miles of trail, off-leash! What struck me was how the Kentucky terrain resembled that of my hometown in Northern Virginia, yet felt much purer; the creek water was clear green and the trail, though clearly marked, was narrow and seemed less intrusive to the surrounding wildflowers and grasses.

Asheville

Though the surrounding areas are still struggling post-Hurricane Helene, I was relieved to find that Asheville, at least, seemed mostly recovered. Asheville, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, has sloping streets and views of layered hills, in various shades of green and blue, from all over the city. It’s picturesque, but I often found myself disoriented about my location because of the hilliness.

We spent most of our time relaxing, as it was the tail end of our trip and we were tired, with the exception of an outing to the North Carolina Arboretum. The $25/car entrance fee almost deterred us, but it was worth it in the end for the experience. The grounds offered well-maintained trails through rugged terrain as well as tidy, artfully landscaped gardens.

Asheville ended up being the perfect place to celebrate the end of our trip because of the incredible food. Our favorite noms were dinner at Chai Pani, a locally famous Indian joint that offers unique recipes you won’t often find in the States, and Jargon, a more formal dinner spot with incredibly friendly staff. Our final meal of the trip was a hefty haul of pastries from Owl Bakery, notable not only for their divine goodies, but for being tip-less! Meaning, they charge upfront what they need in order to fairly pay their staff. It was a gastronomically and emotionally satisfying way to end our trip as we headed back to Pleasantville.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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I received a rejection letter from the University of Auckland addressed to “Elandra.” My name is Emi. The letter detailed how several applicants for the Masters of Creative Writing did not submit the correct writing sample, the implication being that Elandra was one of those students. Double checking that I had, in fact, submitted the correct writing sample, I felt pity for poor Elandra, and pretty great about my own prospects. A light flashed at the end of a year-and-a-half long tunnel; my pending acceptance was the key that would finally enable me to emigrate from our god-forsaken country. Several phone and email exchanges later, the University of Auckland firmly piled me next to Elandra. There, there.

I suppose that’s what I get for applying to a university for the primary reason of fleeing my country.

It’s not that I don’t like the States. I love it, in fact. I have traveled to all but eleven and have found that, despite the bipolarity of politics and the vastness of land and diversity of people, every corner of the country is unified by a singular beauty. The history of our country, as complex and disturbing as it is, wears over time with a kind of patina. It is because of the ostensible use a leather bag has endured that its patina shines in an attractive way. And it is because of the evolution chaos of elements—the said differences in landscape, people, and opinions,—that our cultural “patina” has such beautiful dimensionality to it.

That’s all great, but…I don’t want to live here anymore. Plain and simple. I want to watch from afar—preferably across an ocean—as our country “figures it out.” Maybe 20 years down the road we’ll all look back and refer to this time as a necessary and incredible growing phase, like the Women’s Suffrage or Civil Rights movements. We’ll be better for it and I can move back after the dust has settled. Except, it doesn’t seem like it will play out that way. The rejection from University of Auckland was the nail in the coffin. It was my last resort.

Three years ago, I would never have anticipated I’d apply to school again. I earned a Bachelor’s degree in Public Policy from the University of Virginia and, after a quarter-life-crisis, pivoted to entertainment via a Master’s degree from Carnegie Mellon University. I felt settled in my preferred field of filmmaking, writing, and general creativity. And besides, I was educated out. What would another degree benefit me besides a steep price tag?

My husband Harry and I set off across the country in search of a place we could call Home: Northern Virginia, Pittsburgh, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, coastal Maine. Loving each locale (except Pittsburgh—sorry, Pittsburgh) but never feeling just right, and given the charged political climate, we turned our sights abroad. Though I have lived twice in Japan and loved it both times, the language barrier deters Harry from working there. Eventually, we chose New Zealand. Its political and literal climates suit our lifestyle. In the meantime, we set up camp in a beach house retirement community on the border of North and South Carolina (another topic for another day).

It was after a year of Harry, a software developer, struggling to find visa-granting work in New Zealand that I decided to apply to the University of Auckland. I felt confident. Out of 12 university applications in the past, I had only been rejected from one. Fast-forward to the Elandra nonsense and the finality of learning that I had, in fact, been rejected from the University of Auckland writing program. Besides the slight ego bruise and the bewilderment of being mis-named in the rejection letter, I felt we had finally reached a dead end. We will not be moving to New Zealand.

I now find myself in a rut. I was unsuccessful at writing my way out of the country, but I still have hope that I can write my way out of misery. That’s why I’m here. It’s a tricky spot, trying to be creative while in the midst of a depressing political spiral. I don’t write for commiseration—though a little commiseration bonding never hurt anyone. Mostly, I’d like to find hope and beauty and acceptance in the present moment.

As someone who suffers from OCD—and not in the cute “I like to keep my pencils straight” kind of way, but in which I obsessively panic-spiral into emotional dis-regulation oblivion—I find myself violently vacillating between furious rejection of my circumstances, to trusting that there is always peace and creativity to be found in any situation. I hope, through this blog, I can accomplish two things:

1. Maintain a steady flow of creativity through self-expression.

2. Create / find community.

In the process, I plan to share some observations I’ve made in past and future travels, updates on my hunt for Home, and other goings-on in my life. If anyone—even just one person—is reading this: Thank you for joining me. I am glad you are here.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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