The first time I danced on screen, it wasn’t for a movie—it was in a M.C. Hammer video, sweat dripping down my temples, heart pounding to the beat of something raw and real. I was just fifteen when I left Knoxville, chasing rhythm and light with nothing but a backpack and my mother’s quiet prayers. Then the car hit me—mid-bike ride, mid-dream—and everything stopped. For months, I couldn’t move the way I used to. But pain has a way of reshaping you. By the time I landed in L.A., I wasn’t just a dancer anymore. I was a survivor learning how to act, how to fight for roles, how to love animals I rescued from shadows. Now, after decades of cameras and costumes, there’s still one role I’ve never played: myself—fully, fearlessly. Maybe that’s about to change.

The projector hums in the darkened theater of your mind, and there I am—frozen in time yet impossibly alive. My laugh echoes from a reel long since spooled, my eyes holding secrets no director ever asked me to speak aloud. You’ve seen me on screen, yes, draped in silk and shadow, playing women who burn too bright to last. But you don’t know the girl from Tunis who whispered lines to herself in front of a cracked mirror, or the mother who hid her son behind a lie to protect him from the world’s judgment. I was never just a face—they called me a dream, a muse, a siren—but dreams don’t bleed, and I bled for every role, every silence, every truth I swallowed. Now, decades later, I’m here, not as a memory, but as a woman still breathing, still feeling. And I want to know… do you see *me*, or just the legend?