A week out of undergrad, and I'm lucky to be alive

Sometimes, it takes flying off of your bicycle in the middle of downtown Iowa City during rush hour in front dozens o f passersby and a Chipotle to put things in perspective. Or it did at least for me.


Here's the run down of my series of unfortunate events since embarking on my post-graduate journey:


My debit card is in Urbana. I am in Iowa City.

The piece of luggage containing all of my unmentionables is in Urbana. I am in Iowa City.

I spent the bulk of the wee bit of cash I had on Walmart replacement undies, and as a result am flat broke and a state away from my funds.

I've been subsiding on a steady diet of soup, theatre coffee, and hope.


I've been out of school barely a week, and I am failing brilliantly at adulthood. Now take all that backstory, and put it atop of my shoulders as I'm picking up velocity, heading downhill in the center of town, when my chain slips, my front wheel juts right, and me and the concrete unceremoniously collide.

My last word before impact: "YOLO".

As I collected my dignity off the pavement and said some hurried "I'm fine"s to concerned onlookers, I couldnt help but hear the choir from The Color Purple just a-singin' in my head "God's trying to tell you somethin'..."

Broke. Embarrassed. Bruised. Bleeding profusely from my knee and elbow, crying underneath my sunglasses, all while in Walmart underwear, no less.

Week one as a professional actress.

I got up, I fixed the chain, and I rode, head held high as to convince the people who just watched me eat pavement that it was all an illusion by virtue of how excellent my posture was.

For a second on the ride back to my host home, I considered the possibility that all the mini catastrophes that had befallen me my first week out of undergrad as a sign that I shouldn't be doing this (cue: "God's trying to tell you somethin'...") that this acting life wasn't for me, that I should pack it in before I do anymore damage to my ego or otherwise.

I knew that voice in my head speaking those concerns to me all too well, the fearful, enemy of art voice that second guesses passions, disputes impulses, that fuels the self doubt and limits ambitions. I was thinking from a place of fear, not hope, of impatience and frustration, not of nurturing and vulnerability, not empathizing with the fact that my journey is in fact just beginning. I know I'll keep falling, hopefully only metaphorically or at least on softer surfaces, and I know my love for what I do is enough to make me want to incessantly get back up.

Keep getting up, and keep getting up, and keep getting up.