In other words, it is not your job to judge yourself. Your only business is continuing to keep your creative channel open to possibility.

This idea, beyond the exact quote, feels quite simple. And to some species, such as dogs, horses, and almost any other animal, doesn’t even exist. Even the thought of a dog walking past a mirror on its walk and examining its hair, height, or face makes me laugh.

And, perhaps if we went a couple years back, minus the constant pings, notifications, swipes, and apps, self-judgement may have been less prominent; or at least reduced.

The issue isn’t so simple; we aren’t just barraged with filtered selfies, social media vacation photos, or everyone’s partners and fianceés on Valentine’s Day; through today’s influx of media and technology, we are silently being told “look at me”, “look at what I’m doing”, and most importantly, “look at what I have that you don’t.”

The constant comparison applies to jobs, appearances, dating, art, and the general idea of success. I could easily diverge into an entire article about the beauty industry and the ways corporations prey on comparison and judgment, but it would take too much time.

Even though the glass half-full or half-empty metaphor is old, it’s still relevant. But if you’re like me and are in your late twenties, it’s no wonder it’s a strange time to look at what everyone else is doing and think to yourself, “have I done enough?”

We’re a generation who grew up (luckily) in the last technology-free era, moving through childhood before the iPhone 3GS came out. Since then, we’ve grown through the years at the same rate that social media and Artificial Intelligence has. Our generation went from celebrating listening to Taylor Swift on an iPod Nano to graduating college on Zoom during a full fledged global pandemic. What a bizarre experience, to say the least.

Here’s a thought which I’ve been thinking about: when was the first time, or age, you actually remember judging yourself? The first glimpse into a negative self-thought, image, or voice?

Because as much as self-judgement and comparison is habitual, deflecting and teaching ourselves to move past the thoughts is a practice—a hard one.

When I think back to everything I was taught in the foundational years of elementary, middle and high school, I remember academic classes such as Cold War history and Precalculus. Was there a life skills class? Yes, however the “life” lessons were narrowed down to sewing a button, the downsides of alcoholism, and learning how to cook a balanced meal.

The life skill I really needed back then, especially as an emerging artist and young woman, was the skill of dismantling self-judgement. How do you acknowledge a self-negative thought? How do you proceed when your mind starts to fill with voices that put you down?

Now, I need to preface that after recently turning 28, I am not writing this to share that I’m a self-proclaimed, magical self-positive thinker. While that would be amazing, I grew up in the arts, and still live in some of the most demanding, judgmental industries: dance and acting.

However, in 2023, I read something that changed my life. Don Miguel Ruiz wrote a book titled “The Four Agreements,” which I came across at a time when I was not nearly as confident or secure in who I was. The book is assembled by four chapters, each one labeled as its own agreement.

The second agreement stood out the most, and has shaped my mindset to this day. “Don’t take anything personally,” says the title. The principle proceeds to teach how to achieve freedom from self-suffering—that nothing others do or say is because of you, and that your opinion is nothing except a point of view. The opinion or thought you have is also not necessarily true.

Think of the last time you were sick. Usually, you begin to feel the first couple symptoms, and eat immunity boosting foods or medicine. You may also prioritize sleep way more, to fight the bug off from the start. Now imagine beginning to get sick, but doing nothing to fight it. If you don’t change any of your habits and proceed per usual: either with a late night, night out, drinking, or packed schedule, you will suffer much more later on.

Ruiz’s teachings approach the mindset similar to being sick—other people’s opinions, including your own negative self opinions, are viewed as poison. However, instead of popping a Zicam or Airborne, the practice of letting go, of approval and outside opinions, is your brain’s immunity to the poison.

Without going down a rabbit hole about his book, this teaching forever altered not only my way of thinking, but how I approach scenarios. Every time fear or judgement creeps back in, as it always does, I think to myself: let them tell you “no” first. In other words, don’t shut myself down before even trying.

So, the next time you’re in the mirror, seizing a brand new opportunity, going on a first date, or having an arguably bad day doom-scrolling on Instagram, remember to release yourself of the mental poison, one breath at a time.

I can guarantee this practice won’t take effect overnight. But if you don’t start now, it never will. This isn’t about following one of those cliché quotes, like “Be Yourself.” It’s a reminder to begin freeing yourself from the mental cage you have your own key to.

The first film set I ever stepped onto was a big one: Amazon TV’s knockout series The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

I had emailed and submitted to the casting office several times, eager to work my way onto a film set in any capacity. So when I finally got an inquiry to work as background in an auction scene for Season 4, I was ecstatic.

There was just one catch.

“Must be OK with a 1960s haircut with hair above the shoulders” the booking email read.

After a lot of deliberation— and, admittedly a few tears— I found myself sitting in the hair department salon at Steiner Studios after my fitting, watching a stylist cut nine inches off my hair. She gathered it in a ponytail, slamming my hair on the desk right infront of me just to rub it in.

At the time, I told myself it was worth it, and I had a wonderful time on set. However, lesson learned: no amount of money is worth changing your look if you’re not ready for it, or if the role isn’t meaningful enough for your career to justify it. Because I didn’t know that then, I proceeded, styling a new, incredibly short bobcut for the first time in my life. But that wasn’t the only lesson I learned the hard way. Here are ten things I wish I had known before working in film and television.

1. Don’t let them cut your hair.
It sounds simple—and even a little funny—but I genuinely wish someone had told me it wouldn’t be worth it. Over two years later, I finally got my hair back to its previous length, but the waiting game in between was brutal.

As a dancer and fit model, my long red hair is a defining part of my look and something I rely on for headshots and bookings.

2. Respond immediately.
When it comes to booking, it usually boils down to three things: timing, availability, and look.

The times I’ve responded right away—even when I wasn’t completely sure I could make it—are the times I’ve been booked fastest.

This applies across submissions, casting platforms, and general inquiries. If you wait, someone else won’t. You snooze, you lose.

3. Be professional.
It sounds simple and implied, but you’d be surprised how many people come across as loud or overly eager on set.

In highly sensitive or NDA-heavy productions, especially those with world-famous principals, maintaining professionalism and staying calm and collected will serve you and everyone around you.

4. Be prepared for the day to range from 7 to 16 hours

On a film set there is no fixed “standard” day—besides the non-union or union rate that typically covers the first eight hours. After that, overtime kicks in—but depending on production needs, turnaround times, delays, or transportation, the day can shift dramatically.

With that level of unpredictability, having no fixed expectations is often the best mindset.

I always come prepared for the long haul: portable chargers, hydration, snacks, and comfortable shoes make a real difference when the day runs longer than planned.

5. Learn the language.
On a film set, phrases like “checking the gate,” “martini,” “turning around,” and “on the day” are used constantly.

At first, I had no idea what any of them meant. I remember just trying to follow along and piece things together based on what the production assistant was telling me.

Over time, you start to pick it up—but learning the language early makes everything less overwhelming and helps you move more confidently on set.

6. Don’t ask unnecessary questions.
If you have a real question, of course ask a PA—but be mindful that the crew has a thousand moving parts they’re managing at any given time.

In general, when it comes to placing yourself in a scene or figuring out where you belong, try to observe first before interrupting. A lot of direction will come naturally if you pay attention to what’s happening around you.

There were times I wasn’t given explicit direction, so I’d assign myself a simple “1” or a basic placement in the scene and adjust only when I was told otherwise.

7. Be kind and cordial to the director.
If you’re working directly with the director or DP, a short, respectful introduction is usually all that’s needed, along with attentiveness to their needs and the rhythm of the set.

There’s a balance between being present and available, but also not getting in the way of the work happening around you.

On Relay, while working as Lily James’ stand-in, I learned a lot about that balance—how to stay engaged and professional without ever becoming a disruption in a fast-moving environment.

8. You can be a real human on set without being desperate.
It’s possible to be warm, present, and genuinely yourself on set without overcompensating or trying too hard to be noticed.

I got my first feature role on Saturday Night Live, playing “Lucia” in the

Black Lotus sketch alongside Heidi Gardner. Being the only non–SNL cast member in the scene, I remember wanting to have fun and laugh with everyone, but also being careful not to push too far or come across as over the top.

Film sets move fast, but you learn quickly that it’s not just about knowing what to do—it’s about knowing how to be.

These were the lessons I had to learn the hard way. I imagine there are still many more ahead.

I ran into a friend in a subway station just a day ago. We caught up quickly—how are you, what’s new—and he said, almost casually, that the dance industry is “ghetto” and that there’s nothing going on right now. I laughed, nodded, and hugged him goodbye. But later, I kept thinking about it.

Because, honestly, he’s right. The dance industry feels increasingly empty—lacking structure, opportunity, and momentum. Dancers who take “exposure” opportunities are essentially in permanent unpaid internships that rarely lead to jobs at the company. Since when did it become normal to pay to dance, pay to audition, and pay nearly $30 for a single class? And when did it become acceptable to downplay verbal abuse because dance has no HR system?

Most dancers grow up in one of two environments: being told to choose a “real” career, or being supported—even when no one really understands what a life in dance means. For the dancers who choose to enter the industry anyway, there’s a tough pill to swallow.

I’ve always believed that dancers own a quiet, special superpower- resilience, discipline, and the instinct to keep showing up, even to their own detriment. That same superpower—the relentless pushing of their bodies, the fear of being replaced, and the inability to say “no”—is exactly what the industry relies on.

Last year, I choreographed a piece for a commercial dance showcase at 3 Dollar Bill in Brooklyn and limited my cast to five dancers because I was told I’d have to pay per dancer just to include them. I swallowed the fee and enjoyed the show, but afterward I couldn’t help wondering: does an opportunity like this actually lead anywhere for my career—or am I just paying to show my work?

The reality of the dance industry is tough to face: low wages, toxicity, social media overload, and concrete walls that feel impossible to break through. Open auditions and steady dance work have dwindled, and many second companies folded after the pandemic. Meanwhile, most dancers are trying to build careers in two of the most expensive cities in the world—New York City and Los Angeles. In both cities, especially New York, the dance field feels increasingly limited. Even being signed with an agency—something many dancers don’t have—doesn’t guarantee work.

I recently opened an email from my agency saying that a major pop star, Troye Sivan, was hiring dancers for a music video—for $175 before agency commission. Working in TV and film, I know how long set days can be; some can reach 16 hours. If I break it down, assuming an eight-hour shoot and a 20% agency commission, that comes out to roughly $17.50 an hour—for a major pop star. That’s comparable to what I made working the front desk at Equinox.

What really stuck with me is that so many dancers would still do it. There is never a shortage of submissions, because we want the work so badly that even little or no pay rarely stops us. I once received a “stipend” for a dance job that was a ten-dollar bill in an envelope—barely enough to cover a Subway ride and a Starbucks iced latte.

So why do we keep doing it, and how do we sustain ourselves before we eventually cut ties or walk away? The system works because freelance dancers keep saying yes. We stay in the industry by surviving off side hustles like Pilates instruction, barista shifts, or arts administration. Even with long hours and constantly running around the city, we’re still expected to show up like dance is our only focus. Creativity becomes secondary to survival.

Freelance is a word people often romanticize. The idea of being your own boss sounds amazing, but in reality, freelancing means never fully resting or feeling secure in where you’ve made it. The first thing I do most mornings is submit to castings on my phone. It’s a constant cycle of no’s, being type casted, and sending headshots and dance reels into the void. Every time I’ve achieved a notable career moment or been on TV, people ask me excitedly, “What’s next for you?” And I never really have an answer.

So what’s next— for me, for dancers, for the dance industry as a whole? I’m not entirely sure because I’m still in it. But I dream of a safer, more honest industry—one where dancers aren’t exploited or asked to work for free, or for “exposure.”

For now, I’ll keep dancing, but I hope for a world where dance isn’t just seen as a “real career,” but is treated as one—supported, sustainable, and respected.