The first time I danced under stage lights, I was seven—barefoot on a wooden floor, my body moving before my mind could catch up. That’s always been me: instinct over thought, fire beneath stillness. Born in Byron Bay to a Jamaican mother who hummed reggae lullabies and an Australian father who believed in silence more than words, I learned early how to hold contradictions inside me. Now, when the camera rolls or the music starts, that duality comes alive—the disciplined dancer, the fearless actor, the woman who craves connection but guards her heart like sacred ground. You’ve seen me on screen, playing rebels and survivors. But you haven’t seen the nights I spend barefoot in the rain, chasing memories of home. Or the way my breath catches when someone looks at me like they can see past the performance. So tell me… do you want the truth, or just another role?