From Star Wars to Sanity - Finding My Way Out of the Dark Side
When I tell people that back in 2003 I worked on what was supposed to be the final Star Wars film, Revenge of the Sith, I usually get the same few questions. “Did you meet George Lucas?” (Yes—if literally bumping into him and Spielberg on my way out of an elevator counts.) “Did you work at The Ranch?” (I worked at one of the ranches, Big Rock, but had weekly errands to Skywalker.) And “Did you love working there?” (It had its fun moments, but honestly, not really.) Not everything is as it seems.
It was always my dream to work in show business. As a kid, I wanted to be an actress and would write to all my favorite stars using the agent addresses printed on the back of Teen Beat and Bop magazines. I was over the moon when Punky Brewster herself—Soleil Moon Frye—sent me an autographed photo, which I proudly pinned to my bulletin board. At home, I’d sing and dance to everything from Annie to Madonna’s “Material Girl,” imagining I was on stage with everyone watching in awe.
When I turned 13, my mom signed me up for acting classes in downtown San Francisco at a studio called Kids on Camera. The first time I saw myself on screen—and got some brutally honest feedback from my classmates—I went home and cried. My self-esteem took a serious hit. But being the resilient kid I was, I didn’t give up on my dream entirely. I just shifted it. Instead of being in front of the camera, I decided I wanted to work behind it. Five years later, I packed up my car and headed to Los Angeles to enroll in USC’s elite film school.
I was never a particularly gifted filmmaker, but I loved being in the heart of the television and film world. After graduation, as I drove through the Malibu hills—fresh-faced, 21, and on my way to my very first interview—I remember thinking, Wow, I’ve really made it. Little did I know I was about to be grilled for an hour by none other than Steven Seagal, later dubbed “the biggest jerk in Hollywood” by the press. I went back to my car and cried. Was this what Hollywood was really like? And was I tough enough to survive it?
I decided to trust my gut and accept an unpaid internship at Artisan Entertainment, which soon turned into a full-time job. I had an amazing manager, but after a couple of years, the shine of Los Angeles and the industry began to fade. Two years later, I was back in my car, heading north.
I wasn’t ready to give up on the industry entirely, which led me to a stint at Lucasfilm. But my skin never got quite thick enough to handle the tempers, the chaos, and the constant pressure of such a high-stakes, competitive environment. So what did I do next? I jumped straight from Lucasfilm to the tech giant Google—out of the frying pan and into the fire.
My first few years at Google were incredible—I honestly thought I’d won the lottery. This was back in 2006, when the snack rooms looked like 7-Elevens and the company literally shut down Disneyland so everyone could party together. I traveled the world and had unforgettable experiences. But as Google grew, so did my stress. I was working nonstop—nights, weekends, you name it. My mom used to joke that my laptop had become a permanent body part.
On top of everything, my family was going through a crisis. I tried opening up to my managers and HR, but no one really heard me—or knew how to help. After nearly a decade as a top performer, I started pushing back on my workload and was soon placed on a performance plan. Being a Type A perfectionist, I tried to hold it together, but despite my dad’s advice to “never let them see you cry at work,” I broke down in the office and eventually took a mental health leave.
Not many people were talking about mental health back in 2016 when I had my breakdown. It wasn’t until I started opening up to my coworkers that I realized they were also under immense stress—and didn’t know how to seek support at work.
During my mental health leave, I did a lot of soul-searching. My doctor diagnosed me with high blood pressure and warned that if I kept pushing myself this hard, I could have a heart attack in my early 30s. I thought I could power through anxiety, but my heart? I could literally die because of my job. That was the moment I knew: it was time to leave the company.
Leaving was both liberating and terrifying. So much of my identity had been tied up in my career. My mother, a middle school teacher, had students who treated me like a celebrity whenever I visited. But the thrill was always fleeting—if only they knew what was really happening behind the scenes, beyond the glamorous veneer.
I’m incredibly grateful for the experiences my career gave me—they make for unforgettable dinner party stories, for sure. But without them, I don’t think I would have discovered my true passion: working in mental health and supporting others through difficult times.
Since leaving the corporate world in 2022, I’ve heard countless stories of anxiety, depression, and burnout. My advice is this: even when things feel dark, you will get through it. Life is full of endless possibilities, and eventually, you will find your light.
One of my favorite artists, Leonard Cohen, said it beautifully:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
— Anthem, from The Future (1992)
