Upon my return to New York after just over 48 hours away, I was been beaming. A new person emerged. Or, a side of myself I forgot existed. She burst forth through the adult worries holding her back, in all of her 90s glory.

In touch with my inner child, I have been walking around full of hope and happiness.

Let’s go wayyyyy back. It was summer of 1999.

I was 12 years old. My family drove around in the coolest f—ing van. So retro now. It had a CD player in the back, a TV in it, and track lighting on the sides.

After a Girl Scouts meeting one day, we drove a girl home, and she pretended to completely forget where she lived so she could finish watching whatever Disney movie was playing on the VHS tape we had going in the van.

I’ve never felt cooler in my life.

But if I think about it, I also wasn’t worried about being cool.

I was living in the moment, drawn to the people I liked and doing the things I liked, which mostly consisted of: running around outside doing ANYTHING, eating pizza, watching movies, begging my mom to bring us to an amusement park. These were my favorite things then.

And it was the summer that Millennium by Backstreet Boys came out.

I had been a fan a few years before, their first album was one of my first CDs ever, fully buying into the boy band craze.

I didn’t like Backstreet Boys because I thought it made me cool to like them. I liked them because they were good at what they did (duh, especially after seeing them in Vegas) and they made me feel like if I met them, they would be nice to me. It wasn’t that I had crushes on them in a literal sense. I saved that for Elijah Wood, who I swore would be my future husband.

Loving the Backstreet Boys was synonymous with - they are here to entertain me, they are here to make me feel loved, they accept all their fans equally.

We drove around that summer of 1999, the Millennium album blasting, on our way to things both routine and on my list of my favorite things to do: grocery store excursions, where if we were good, we’d get a Kid Cuisine frozen dinner; soccer practices, amusement parks, swimming in my cousins’ pool and more.

I literally can’t remember a time we didn’t have this CD playing in the car that summer.

Recalling our BSB memories, my sister said to me (paraphrasing), “I remember the first thing Mom said about us liking them, she was like, they’re great, they’re very nonthreatening.”

Though, I will say I’ve recently come across videos of AJ dancing from back then, and my mom would have found that very, ahem, “threatening” haha.

Liking the Backstreet Boys was such an acceptable, encouraged thing for young girls.

But I don’t remember liking them to try and fit in.

I am obsessed with putting myself back in a time and space. To recapture the version of me that existed then.

Transporting myself to the best of times and trying to feel what I felt. The strange seatbelt adjuster because I was short to make me safe in the van, how it cut into my waist while we listened to BSB. The way the CD felt in my hands. Laying on my bed in my room with fresh cut lilacs from our yard, my purple swirly quilt beneath me, letting the CD play all the way through, the light from outside dancing on my light purple-colored walls (yes, I loved purple) through my blinds.

The things I worried about when I was 12 mattered so much to me then, but my adult perspective makes them less significant. But when you’re 12, you don’t have this perspective. Things like - did someone tell the boy at school that I liked him? (I needed all my crushes to be secret out of fear of rejection). Did I get a good grade on that math test? Did I practice piano enough to do well at the talent show?

My childhood feels like a period piece movie. It sort of is one in my memory. I didn’t have to stress about money and my parents never made us feel like we couldn’t have something. I was extremely lucky and got to go on vacations every now and then. We would buy summer passes to Six Flags (then it was Riverside) up in Massachusetts.

And every Backstreet Boys album during these few blissful years of low stakes stress were my soundtrack.

It was before any rejection from a friend or a potential crush. It was before strange social dynamics of friends and popularity really took over. I had confidence. I didn’t second guess things I said. I walked onto the playground and was first to line up at kickball. My parents were both alive and healthy. We saw movies on the weekend and got to have McDonald’s. I wasn’t worried about what I weighed or what I looked like or what I wore. A baggy Looney Tunes t-shirt and neon shorts? Hell yeah. No one cared or judged each other for what they wore.

I was so lucky to have this pre-teen existence.

At 10, 11, 12, anything was possible for me.

But in my late 30s, everything is still possible. We can’t let age freeze our hope for growth and newness.

I landed in Vegas with my sister and her wife extremely late at night and woke up bright and early on Saturday, immediately going to the BSB store to buy t-shirts.

The energy even in the store was incredible. Women (mostly) of all ages descended upon the experience, friendly and talkative, talking up how excited they are, or how much fun the show is. Many were repeat customers.

I was so happy I skipped down the Palazzo hallway.

We got ready that night and I wore clothing that followed the white-out suggestion for the crowd, and comfortable 90s-esque chunky sneakers. A dress and big sneakers? Comfort first, my friends! This was not a place of judgment. Glitter on my face. Bright pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow.

As I was dressing up, I felt like my 12 year old self would look at the older me in the mirror and say - you turned out so cool.

The show itself was incredible. I danced and sung to every sung. I remembered every word from everything despite only revisiting briefly before our trip. The visual elements of the show were mind-blowing. I had to grab the chair behind me as the rocket ship took off and blasted into space.

Everyone in the crowd was happy. Everyone was transported back in time. Everyone needed this.

I woke up the next morning and tried to tell my sister how much fun I had and I suddenly got choked up.

I didn’t realize how much the grind of trying to make things and hustle and achieve had gotten to me. I realized it had been a VERY long time since I’d had a vacation where I wasn’t either working throughout the entire thing remotely or running an ultra marathon. After this Vegas experience, I now phrase my ultra experiences as adventures. They are not the same as a vacation.

My body and soul needed pure celebration. I needed something not difficult. I needed something that fed me rather than took a thing from me.

That entire evening was a hug to my young self.

It was about togetherness, celebration, and fun without any caveats.

In therapy we often talk about treating yourself like you’re talking to the young version of you.

Some people even tape a photo of themselves when they were a kid to the wall.

I didn’t need her taped to the wall that weekend.

She was and is me.

It is… A LOT!

This deep work in envisioning a movie is overwhelming in the emotional energy it requires, especially because I’m doing it alone, not yet bouncing ideas with anyone as I pour over all things. It’s my own personal roadmap before opening it up to collaborators.

There’s a consistent focus, a meditative flow state when the best work pours out that will sometimes allow me to work for hours uninterrupted when my synapses are firing at their finest.

However, some days a funk seeps in.

I had one of those days last week.

I stared at my director’s bible, thrilled by what was already present, but overwhelmed with what to do next. Every idea swirled trough my head at once, begging for attention, knocking at the inside of my skull, wanting to be teased out and planned.

It was the director’s version of writer’s block.

And it wasn’t for lack of ideas. This film has been living in my head for years.

I needed to stop beating myself up for not getting a ton done.

I needed to step back.

I needed to take a breath.

These challenging experiences in writing or creative prep can be from a bit of burnout from continuous output. An emergency reset button needs to be employed to dive back in.

You need shortcuts around the thing to find your way again.

I resisted the temptation to doomscroll on Instagram and shifted my focus to other forms of art for inspiration and excitement.

But first, I asked Pudding for some words of wisdom.

After Pudding’s purrs lowered my cortisol, (yes, cats are magic), immediately picked up Running Man by Charlie Engle, a legendary ultrarunner whom I recently had the joy of connecting with over the phone for a chat. Charlie’s story is fascinating and inspirational, as he transformed from an addict to ultrarunner.

I then read a brilliant screenplay by a new friend, Zane Bhansali, excited to free myself of my own screenplay storytelling and fully dive into someone else’s voice. I took some notes for Zane in the margins, exercising my own skills by offering feedback. Congrats to Zane on being a semifinalist in the 1497 Features Lab!

I jumped on the subway on my way to a late afternoon coffee with my friend Emily and on the way there and back listened to Rachel Entrekin’s interview on The Rich Roll podcast. Highly recommend, as Rachel describes her running journey, shifting in her teens from one of self-punishment to a celebration in strength. Now just having won the Cocodona 250 outright, giving herself permission to take what she earned.

250 miles in just over 56 hours. 19 minutes of sleep the whole time.

SO INSPIRING.

We deserve things we work hard for.

After a coffee with my wonderfully talented friend, actress Emily Kratter (check out her work here) I dove into a play she recommended, “Job” by Max Wolf Friedlich…

I was going on to Emily about my former day job as a legal transcriptionist and some wild things I’d seen on police body cam footage as a part of this work…

Keeping it all confidential of course, so if my former boss reads this ;-)

Emily’s one of those friends we all have and love, whose recommendations are precise and honestly earth-shattering to where I am in the moment at every moment. I highly recommend reading “Job” and seeing it live if/when it comes to you if you have a stomach for INTENSE.

All of this in one day! A book, a screenplay, a podcast, a fulfilling conversation with a friend, and a play.

I can be hard on myself for not accomplishing tasks, as we’re in a “what have you gotten done today” society, yet I’ve learned it’s crucial to do the necessary work of being inspired and rested. It’s only when I’m in this zone that I’m free to do my best work.

It is not only our job as writers/directors to create and make decisions and be productive.

It’s our job to be ready to do them to the best of our ability.

We need to be ever-curious about the world around us. We need to develop a voice and refine it. To remain inspired and informed. To always be learning.

The list of artistic pieces I absorbed like a sponge of curiosity in one day last week are examples of different ways to pivot away from your own work, and return to it refreshed.

I can break it down into different categories of how to re-find a creative spark:

1. Inspiration through overcoming great odds in others’ stories:

   1. Charlie’s book and Rachel’s podcast interview both fit the bill here. They both overcame self-doubt and intense struggles to achieve their dreams. Sometimes hearing from others you can do the impossible is helpful to dive back into your own version of “the impossible!”

2. Learning from others / offering help

   1. Reading Zane’s screenplay was a two-fer. Reading others’ work in your chosen medium is always inspiring because it’s an opportunity to cheerlead and celebrate someone else’s accomplishment. That feels good! It’s also a chance to exercise your brain and think of how to give notes! Also feels good!

3. Change of environment / don’t be alone

   1. Get out of your own head! Find a trusted friend and call them. If they’re an artist and “get it,” even better. Talk about all things. This is a lovely chance to feel less cooped up and lonely in the hard work of continuous creative output. Lean on your friends! Also if you have a pet, give them a shout <3

4. The Unexpected!

   1. Reading the play Job was a complete departure from what I normally do, but Emily made it sound SO INTRIGUING I had to dive in. It gave me ideas for another screenplay I started working on a few months back and can’t wait to dive back into.

It’s okay to step back from your own work to recharge.

We are not machines.

We are human beings who cannot operate consistently forever.

Sometimes it’s good to step out of your own thing and into something else.

Around this time last year, I was training for the Javelina Jundred in October, 100 miles through hot, unshaded desert trails in Arizona. In the few months leading up to the race, I made going to the sauna a regular practice.

I needed to heat train so I would be able to complete the race without blacking out and face-planting into cacti. Learning how to become comfortable in an inhospitable environment would be key to my success.

Sauna training is a big thing for athletes to adapt to hot climates, so I dove in.

Almost a year later, I still make it a priority to start my day at the sauna.

The practice of sitting in discomfort is invaluable.

190 degrees for at least 10 minutes, 15, 20, and at the height of my training, 30 uninterrupted minutes transformed the way I approached being present.

And it can be applied to anything in life. Most days my attention is divided between many devices.

Right now, I’m writing this piece outside at a cafe in East Williamsburg. Cold brew next to me / new Olivia Rodrigo album playing in my noise canceling airpods / phone face up / is the shade going away and I might have to move? / what should I eat for lunch? what’s happening on Instagram / should I close one of my 23 tabs open / are any of them important? / Yes, I counted.

Being a human being in this day and age challenges our focus and attention. It rips us out of our brain and body and into all things unimportant in the moment.

Resigning oneself fully to the present no matter how deeply uncomfortable comes in stages. Here’s how I experience this process:

1. Shake it off. This is where you’re shaking off the cobwebs. Whatever you’re going through in that day, this is the emotional and physical dumping of internal and external chaos that’s necessary to meditate, relax, and to be fully in the moment. Every time your thoughts drift to this swirling mess, acknowledge the thoughts and then move back to the moment.

2. Save me. This is where you’re able to stay with your body more. This is when it starts to hurt. This is fight or flight. There’s nowhere to run, you have to accept whatever’s going on in your body. Today I literally repeated the mantra, You are safe. You are okay. And the next 5 minutes in the sauna flew by.

3. Bliss. You push through the discomfort. You do it anyway. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. There’s a specific blissful high that unlocks here. A relaxed glow, a presence. Pride. You’re doing it.

Many people have written about existing within discomfort, and what can be gained from exploring personal limits. In trying to think about what new thoughts I could add to this already crowded thought-space and the lessons I pull from this practice can be applied directly to my art.

Choosing a life as a filmmaker is choosing a life that is not comfortable. Nothing is guaranteed unless you will it to exist. Nothing is handed to you on a silver platter. Days and nights on set can be long. The emotional discomfort of pitching, outreach and managing personalities as a leader is not for the faint of heart. None of it is.

If you can sit in a 190 degree room as your heart rate climbs past 100 and push your internal dialogue towards remaining calm and staying present, you can translate this skill to a hectic filming day, where you’re trying to make the day but also needing to focus on making a great film.

Think through a moment you were satisfied and proud. What caused this feeling? It most likely stemmed from taking on a task or a goal that was scary or new in some capacity, and moving forward no matter what.

Something I recognize in my personal life is my attraction towards big, scary goals.

Folks are doing some kind of 100-mile adventure in the middle of nowhere?! Gimme, gimme! I’m drawn like a moth to the flame.

And yet, in my everyday life, sometimes I put off a difficult email or a hard conversation. I move the little task down to a “tomorrow-it’ll-get-done” thing.

I’m working on getting better about the small stuff rather than just the unwieldy goals. It’s almost as if the big goals are so terrifying that I’m left with no choice but to chunk it off into small pieces and work towards it. The stakes are too high to not train wisely for a 100-miler.

The every day tasks that are emotionally challenging even in small ways are deceptive. Every day something’s put off matters. Delaying completing easy to do things robs us of the psychological win of getting it done and the unsolved issue festers, taking up space in our mind that could be better reserved for something else.

My friend Jacob does something called Brave Day. Shoutout to the talented Jacob Kemp here! On Brave Day he checks off all of his uncomfortable tasks and reaches out of his comfort zone. I’ve started following his lead.

Making Brave Day a regular thing slowly teaches you that what seems intimidating is doable. The first hurdle is acknowledging the fear, the second is just getting it done.

Don’t forget: Shake it off. Save me. Bliss!

Yesterday was a big Brave Day for me. I sent almost 10 emails about my feature film to folks, trying to lock some big things in place. I had scary asks in my message, but asked anyway. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

What are you doing to train yourself to exist in discomfort? What’s on your task list for your next Brave Day? And why aren’t you just doing it today?!

This is all top of mind as it’s Tribeca season here in NYC in June, and my inbox is full of networking events, get-togethers, and various invites.

And frankly, it’s overwhelming.

I feel pressure to participate, pressed for time in how to sort through what to be at or not, and the feeling of FOMO gently tapping me on the shoulder, asking me to question my priorities and schedule.

Back in the day, when I was focused on acting, I would reply YES!!!!! to each and every event.

I believe saying yes nonstop early on is important and crucial. You learn many things quickly this way.

And at the same time…

I tried so intensely to connect, throwing darts at the dartboard without much precision. People must have been able to feel that try-hard energy.

There were occasions where I’d sense the person I was talking with scanning the room, looking for someone more important to chat up.

This young actress can’t help me and has no real credits. Moving on!

But this couldn’t stop me! I had an intense enthusiasm for “making it.”

At the time, I felt deep down that I didn’t have much to offer other than talents that were quickly going to waste, instead wanting something from the other person.

Cast me! I can act! I’m good! I’ll be great to work with! I swear! Here’s my business card! Let’s keep in touch!

I would go home to dutifully catalog each person I met in a very organized spreadsheet with tabs, their business cards spread out on my desk next to my laptop.

Jonathan. Talked about baseball, big Mets fan. Also an actor.

I’d write tiny little notes about what we talked about so I could remember something about the person rather than just keep track of names, jobs and email/phone #s.

One thing I didn’t have was FOMO. I also didn’t have much time for myself.

I went beyond in-person events, and combed my web of family and friends to make new connections.

My email history reveals one attempt at getting a rep as an actor. I feel like it’s always the case of: a family member knows someone who knows someone who can MAYBE help… Classic.

Well, I emailed this guy Richard, who my uncle knew, who offered to connect me to an agent who was on my spreadsheet of people to meet or hoping to meet, Craig. And this flicker of hope Richard dangled in front of me in the form of knowing Craig convinced me it would and could happen. The Uncle —> Richard —> Craig —> working actress pipeline MIGHT ACTUALLY WORK.

It’s all about who you know, RIGHT?!

I put all my eggs in other people’s baskets if I felt a pathway.

This email from 2013 is unrecognizable to me. The entire chain between myself and Richard is so young, enthusiastic, naive.

I went for years trying to get an agent as an actor, networking in-person and remotely, trying to make moves, only to be hip-pocketed by someone who I pushed to get me in the room for auditions.

This is all to say, after about four years of aggressive networking events and auditioning and roles in indies after graduating college, I swiftly jumped behind the camera and haven’t looked back.

During these early years as a burgeoning filmmaker, I attended Sundance without a film, and without personally knowing any of the filmmakers. But something changed. I had developed a confidence in knowing I could generate ideas, I had a script, I felt like I had so much to offer. My neediness was fading.

I was invited to the IFP Party (now Gotham) because I worked freelance for them, transcribing interviews with filmmakers and actors. Which was actually a great side-hustle because I got paid to learn and listen to interviews.

I struck up some lovely conversations here, chatting with Desiree Akhavan when Appropriate Behavior was making a splash, and actress in the film, Rebecca Henderson. Rebecca and I exchanged several friendly emails, where she connected me to talented actors for my debut feature. I am so grateful to how kind she was when I was first starting out. Shoutout, Rebecca!

My boldness was growing.

Despite not having made my first feature, I felt I had something to offer. I wasn’t just in the room looking for someone to sign me or cast me as an actor. I had ideas I wanted to make that I could talk about with excitement. And this freed me to be more relaxed about that icky word, networking.

This enthusiasm for what I had to offer changed my energy.

At a Sundance brunch, I marched across the room, noticing the head of the feature programming was standing briefly by himself and struck up a conversation. We didn’t talk about my film, and I don’t remember exactly what we talked about (a noteworthy absence from my spreadsheet), but I do remember the feeling of pride in feeling comfortable in the conversation.

This boldness has served me in many capacities beyond in-person networking. I often throw myself in the deep end before I’m ready, learning how to swim as I go. It’s the best way to move forward with anything, though terrifying and uncomfortable at first.

Networking events became less about needing to be a part of someone else’s world and more about finding who could fit within my own.

I’ve learned that the most successful networking comes from throwing the connotations of that dirty word out the door, and connecting on a personal level, combined with the confidence of having something to offer as your compass. It’s about curiosity in others and trying to have fun. When you find folks in the room that you want to continue the conversation with once you leave, it’s thrilling.

I have lifelong friends from film festival networking events and can cite the conversations we’ve had that made us click. It wasn’t about filmmaking or career stuff, it was getting beneath the surface level of it all.

As I write this piece over the weekend before publishing Monday, I’m invited to several networking events today at Tribeca.

I’m going to a screening later today with a friend for our friend’s film. The networking event I was hoping to go to today will have to be skipped.

I used to feel guilty about being unable to attend these events, but now I’m strategic. Priorities! I have a script revision I want to get to my producers before I hop on a film shoot on Monday.

I've removed the pressure to be everywhere. Overextending leads to exhaustion, which leads to me not being my best self in the room.

It’s all about being open to conversations, gravitating towards people you click with, and finding flow in the room and outside of it. I’m not forcing anything anymore, I’m doing my thing and having a good time with it. What happens will happen!

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I do what I do.

Why am I a writer and filmmaker and in my main non-creative pursuit, a runner?

I’ll focus solely on the creative endeavors for this piece. Because the running is a whole other can of complicated-deeply-rooted-in-childhood worms.

Rewind way back to the 90s, to little Victoria growing up. My inclinations towards artistry was first and foremost in writing.

I dutifully kept a journal since elementary school. My first one had teddy bears on it, where I mostly wrote about hanging out with my cousins and wanting to go to amusement parks. That one day the Riverside Park was closed and we went to Old Sturbridge Village instead. That pivot of a day got a lengthy entry.

And then, “The Lion King” came out. And of course, I switched over to a Lion King notebook, leaving my teddy bear one a quarter of the way full.

I made a YouTube video 13 years ago where I read an entry from my diary.

Concurrently, I was taught piano from a very young age, three or four, and grew up quickly mastering Chopin and Beethoven, and most other kids didn’t take up instruments until much later. I had a lead start on skills in this department.

I grew up in a small-ish town with about 50 kids in each grade. Statistically, not much to compare oneself to in the grand scheme of kids across the country becoming legit prodigies.

And my life as a little pianist began to overtake all other forms of art in my life.

My father was my teacher, and sitting down at the piano every night for a lesson over the years through high school became how we bonded. Most lessons were formal learning scales, chords, arpeggios, practicing a piece I was working on.

I could feel my father’s pride in how good I was at piano.

I wanted to be good for him. But also, the feeling of my fingers flying across the keyboard felt powerful. I felt in control of this thing. I felt special.

I thought I was “The Shit,” with a capital T.

I was an outgoing child with zero self-consciousness. If I walked into a room with a piano, I would sit down at it and play for anyone who would listen. I loved feeling the room shift around my talent, conversations becoming hushed whispers as folks would slowly turn towards the 12 year old blasting through a vigorous classical third movement.

I was probably, unbeknownst to me, ostracizing myself from other kids in my grade who weren’t showing off and just wanted to do normal things.

This was not a “normal” thing. But at that age, I liked that. Again, SPECIAL!

Here’s a video of me in my elementary school talent show playing Chopin, my father standing by my side.

My way of being evolved drastically when I hit high school.

I suddenly became shy, no longer seeking to command a room with my talent, as the “cool” kids made me realize that this was in fact “extra”, (definitely not the word used then, but whatever) and that my skills should take a backseat to things kids our age actually cared about.

And then I felt bad about myself.

I got bullied for how my body looked, even by folks who were my supposed friends; ostracized for refusing to exclude kids that were deemed uncool; and quickly slotted into the category of not-”popular", while social anxiety took form.

I wanted to float through high school, unnoticed.

Art became my way to take control back and hold it close to my vest as a secret promise to myself.

I would not feel like an outcast forever. I would make these cool kids want to be me some day. My talent became my way to say to the kids making me feel bad, you may be more popular, you may be more comfortable in your skin…

But I’m better at the things that matter.

My talent was my identity. I thought it would save me.

I thought being smart and talented would ultimately being the only thing that mattered, not having a grand enough perspective to realize there’s a lot more to life.

If I worked hard enough at something, I was unstoppable, and this was my escape plan out of isolation.

My journal entries during high school became motivated not from wanting to be a good artist, but from wanting to feel some sense of power and control over others.

I’ll show you all some day. I’ll become famous.

My high school quote in my yearbook read read, It’s all about the glory.

For years, I’ve been embarrassed by this quote, which was a joke in my family, but also honestly, I’m sad to admit, not a joke.

I wanted the attention I had in my childhood back.

I wanted to reclaim the version of me that could walk into a room and sit down at a piano and play without feeling uncomfortable.

But that version of me was gone.

And in hindsight, I’m glad.

Never peak in high school, my mom always told us. Which is true to an extent. It’s nice to have life goals to work towards rather than just being well-liked.

But also, it would’ve been nice to have been popular in high school.

And I’ve since learned that people skills really do matter. Being liked is more than a popularity contest. It’s working well with others. It’s collaboration. It’s listening.

It’s more important than walking into a room and saying, Listen to my music. It’s the Vicki show! Everyone, hey! Look at me! Hey! I’m good! Your attention means I’m good!

I’m writing all of this to say, this way of thinking pushed me away from the whole point of being an artist, a writer, a filmmaker.

I wasn’t exploring my evolving artistry as a young person from the perspective of curiosity. I was exploring it purely from a sense of control and success.

I wanted straight A’s. I wanted my dad to be proud. I wanted to go to a prestigious college. Accumulating these glorious achievements would catapult me out of the darkness.

None of this worked out in the way I thought it would.

Thank goodness.

Life had to happen to me. And I had to learn how to let it.

I had to discover myself and grow. I had to fall in love with creativity. I had to hone my voice. I had to separate myself from perceived success and failure and put my head down and make things for the sake of making them.

I still have a very complicated relationship with music because it’s linked so closely to my father and wanting to be “the best.” Whatever that means.

I felt close to a prodigy, and then stopped playing, and everyone else caught up and now I’m just ordinary. It’s been a painful shedding of identity, of saying goodbye to my father, of mining whether I would’ve played piano at all if my father hadn’t made me. And as I write this, it makes me sad.

Am I just ordinary?

I need to stop worrying about that and just create.

I felt pushed to the side as a child. I felt my voice hushed.

I would approach my dad with pop music books of Backstreet Boys and things my teenage girl self wanted to learn, only to be met with, “This is cacophony, not actual music.”

I quieted the voices inside me that wanted to learn, that wanted to be curious, that wanted to have fun and be imperfect.

I went from singing songs I was coming up with out loud to singing them in the backyard to my dog because he couldn’t tell me they were bad.

It was only after my father’s stroke that I busted out Regina Spektor sheet music, and played and sang for him while he sat next to me in his wheelchair, unable to speak.

And still, I was self-conscious.

It was only after my father’s death that I became a filmmaker and hopped behind the camera, more deeply evolving my artistic voice.

For years I wanted to feel safe to be seen for who I am on my own terms.

As I write this, I’m afraid it makes my father look like a monster.

And despite my complicated childhood in this way, I love him and still feel like I’m the most similar to him of anyone in my family in the ways we express love and laugh and hold silence in corners of the house to reflect.

I would be remiss to say that this foundation of art linked to perfectionism and people pleasing hasn’t been a difficult weight to lift off my shoulders.

I couldn’t listen to classical music for years after my father passed away. It took me two years to sit at a piano again. And as the years go by, I sit at a piano less and less.

To bring it full circle, why am I doing what I’m doing in writing, in my films, in any creative endeavor?

Is it for the glory a la teenager Vicki?

Is it to show those popular kids that I’m better than them?

Is it to please my family?

The goal is to feel okay.

To feel less lonely.

To connect and move people who read what I say and add,

“I feel that as well.”

Now, as I wrap up writing it, I am a few weeks out. I got halfway through a draft of this and paused, wanting to touch on something deeper than the sheer act of moving my body across roads and trails and up mountains…

And then Rachel Entrenkin won the Cocodona 250 outright. She beat all the guys and gals, shattering the record in the process. In an interview soon after finishing, she spoke about imposter syndrome. Did she start too fast? Could she keep her lead? Could she win?!?!

And she transformed her self-doubt into a new mindset…

"WHY NOT ME?”

It’s surreal to travel extremely far by foot. Whilst in the act of running an ultra, the starting point and finish line both feel mentally out of reach. You feel adrift at sea, floating in space, looking for a life preserver to carry you home.

It’s terrifying to take risks. You begin to question, as Rachel did,

Am I capable?!

Which brings me back a few weeks ago to my latest running effort…

Badwater Salton Sea.

81 miles from Salton City to Palomar Mountain, the second tallest mountain in San Diego County. Almost 10,000 feet of total elevation gain. Through the Anza-Borrego Desert as temps begin to climb, and later as temps dip, the legs begin to burn up the switchbacks on Palomar.

The race is completed in teams of two or three to minimize car traffic of crew vehicles, so multiple runners can be served by one car. The rules state you are not allowed to be more than 10 meters away from your teammate.

Each team has a dedicated crew van leapfrogging them throughout the course, providing encouragement and nutrition, and if you’re me - Uncrustables, Gushers, DIVINE “Ensure icy slushies”, and LOTS of Pringles. I can’t remember what else I ate. Probably one gel, though I’m mostly over these at this point. I’m not a baby, gimme solids as long as my belly can tolerate!

Just under two months before the race, Emily Lyons (ultrarunner Badwater 135 3x finisher) messaged me on IG to ask if I wanted to join to make up a two-person team. I was equal parts excited and honored, until DREAD set in.

Being on Emily’s team came with pressure. I didn’t want to let her down.

I messaged back saying I was probably in, but needed to give it serious thought. 81 miles with not enough build-up of training in the desert climate and with the steep elevation gain the course required was not for the faint of heart.

I, of course, didn’t wait too long - COUNT ME IN.

WHY NOT ME?

What’s the worst thing that can happen?!?!?!

ULTRA ANXIETY.

“Ultra anxiety” was a term Emily shared with me, giving a label to my dread. Everyone felt it at some point. It would eventually go away. And return. Probably multiple times.

81 miles is daunting when you’re a few miles in. It’s still daunting when you’re 60 miles in.

“Ultra anxiety” crept in the lead-up to the race.

In Brooklyn, after my last long sauna session at 192 for 30 minutes, I got dizzy and had to sit still before continuing with my day. If I couldn’t handle that for 30 minutes, how would I do for an entire day of running in unrelenting heat and sun before sunset?

You have to voice the fear, get it out of your body, and move forward. Being afraid is a feeling, it doesn’t make any outcome real.

I arrived in California to be greeted by Emily, her husband Stu and their friend Josh. Both men would be crewing us for the full 81 miles. I was concerned that perhaps I’d feel like an outsider in this tight-knit group, however Emily and her team immediately took me in like a stray kitten looking for a home. As a bonus, even Josh’s cat Karen ended up abandoning her normal 9-5 under the bed and greeted me early at 4p with purrs.

In the days leading up to the race, it occurred to me how similar Salton Sea mimicked Badwater 135, “the world’s toughest footrace.” The pre-race event and speech, the environment, the crew element, the energy. I’ve been to Badwater 135 eight times now, and am familiar with it from my perspective as a staff member.

It was emotional to be on the other side, as a runner. I remember being slack-jawed with inspiration and shock watching runners move across temps upwards of 125 degrees, long before I’d ever considered completing a desert ultra.

Fast forward to me doing the thing. Emotions snuck up on me a few times, particularly at the start and first few miles, seeing some of my favorite staff members, including “CHP Scott” in his famous kilt, waving Emily and myself through to a pit stop early on in the race. I felt supported and at home.

QUEEN VICTORIA!!!! Scott screamed as I powered up a hill with Emily.

I could do this. I was safe. I was supported.

Emily was almost like a coach, talking us through our game plan as we were moving along the course.

If something’s going on, say it early so we can solve it. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.

She is brilliantly strategic, respectful of each race and the distance, studying how to efficiently conquer the task at-hand.

Around mile 10, a blister formed on my right big toe. I voiced it early in its bubbling journey, and we paused so more anti-chafing lube could be applied to my feet and other not-to-be-named parts of our bodies.

The lube briefly worked, until it didn’t. A few miles later, the bubble grew in size. A monster in a fun 50s B movie, except the monster was in my shoe and hell-bent on destroying my race. A blister isn’t going to destroy your race, Emily said. Ask yourself, is this a today Victoria problem or a tomorrow Victoria problem?

We agreed, it was a Victoria tomorrow problem.

Ultras are about problem-solving over and over and over and staying calm. A blister is not catastrophic. There’s a certain amount of pain that naturally comes with running these distances.

"What you resist, not only persists, but will grow in size".

Little did he know, but Carl Jung was right about the shadow parts of ourselves, and also accepting pain during ultras.

A few miles later, the blister shifted around my entire toe like a hula-hoop of pus hugging the middle knuckle and exploded between my big toe and second, miraculously never to bother me again for the final 60-ish miles of the race. (“Tomorrow Victoria” didn’t have THAT big of a mess of deflated-balloon-skin to clean up in the aftermath.)

The act of voicing a fear or anxiety to someone who is present and supportive and wants you to succeed because it equates to their own success is magical. I trusted Emily. I felt safe with our team despite the harrowing race. And because of that belief, any anxiety brewing within slowly dissipated. We did not ignore issues. We solved them together.

The first 40 miles led to a steep and hot trail section called Hell Hole Canyon. Epic name. Runners are required to have at least 1.5 liters of liquid, 1,000 calories, an emergency heat blanket, a whistle, warm clothes, headlamp, reflective vest, hat, gloves, beanie, in case they get stuck. The race staff checks your gear at the trail head before you depart.

Knowing these requirements filled me with a whopping dose of ultra anxiety, but once we hit the trail, I reveled in the change of terrain. I was desperate to get off the road, to feel something different beneath my feet, and the trail did just that. It was hard, but Emily and I were having FUN.

Get ready for our trail party!!!! She repeated excitedly as we neared Hell Hole Canyon.

Donning funny headbands like insects at a dance party, we climbed the trail section quickly, surprising our team by tearing up the infamously steep terrain and reaching the infamous “Yeti” statue in Rancheti in the daylight, a huge milestone, something Emily’s not done in her history of the race.

We popped out onto the road, where Josh excitedly shared we were in 11th place!

I was shocked. I wasn’t expecting to hover right outside top 10 for this race. Finishing was the goal. Why did Josh tell us? Were they trying to see what we were capable of?

It’s been years since I’ve felt competitive. In my 20s, I was the first female finisher at my town’s local “Chilly Chili New Year’s 5K” race. With half a mile left, a volunteer told me I was in first and I proceeded to run until my legs felt like lead. I hated that feeling, the sudden pressure of needing to achieve and hold onto a place, not knowing if someone was creeping up behind you, the burning in my lungs that comes with a zone five heart rate. I didn’t want to think about failing, falling from grace, “losing.”

I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when I rounded that final corner, revealing myself to be in the lead. Emily and I saw it in Josh’s and Stu’s as we exited the trail. We were doing something unexpected.

I quit high school track because of the overwhelming anxiety it caused me. I resent expectations associated with something I’ve embraced as a hobby.

I run because of the joy it brings me, the escape from the everyday stresses of life and work and emails and phone calls. It’s opened up my world to adventures and wonderful, inspiring people. I do not run ultras to compete.

After pushing fries into my mouth by the fistful and strapping headlamps to our heads, we were back out on the course. And somehow, we felt good.

We were excited to push. It wasn’t about competitiveness in a sense of literally getting 11th or 10th for us. It was about seeing how well we personally could do, and if we happened to have some arbitrary placing associated with that level of performance, great. If we happened to pass people, also great.

The sun set and we were on a long stretch of road, silhouetted trees looming over us, the dark, long stretches of farms and landscape on either side, the eerie sounds of coyotes howling nearby, bushes rustling with mysterious creatures as we ran. Twinkling stars above gently guided the way.

Emily and I chatted about our pace, and our safety, avoiding fast oncoming cars by jumping off the road in lieu of continuing forward. We recapped the first 40 miles leading up to the trail and how it led to our current state of awesome. We were A VIBE.

The ultra anxiety once felt fully lifted. I KNEW we would finish. Now it was just —

How long would it take?

And…

Would we continue to feel this good?

Time for a TMI. I had to go #2. I knew leading into this race the inevitable would happen. I’m a New Yorker, I’m not used to (gasp) GOING out in the open, but after 60 plus miles of eating while running to constantly put “food logs” on the flames of the furnace that is my running body, a different log presented itself.

I was terrified and embarrassed by the prospect of this happening as there would be no bathroom until the finish line.

But one of the many strange things about ultrarunning is that you and your team view your body in a very basic kind of way - animalistic, mechanical, a Jenga tower swaying as pieces are pulled out. There’s no room for everyday politeness or shame or discomfort.

I squatted down next to the van to hide my body from the somehow-still-busy traffic as I went #1, the inevitable second act came. And I let it, announcing to Emily and Stu far too close - I’M POOPING! They were warned. Stay away.

Josh sat in the front seat, politely allowing privacy, unknowing about my follow-up. I finished up and Josh exited the car, moving towards my creation. Briefly mortified, I outstretched my arms and exclaimed, DON’T COME THIS WAY. I POOPED.

He rolled his eyes in the hilarious way he does (I quickly learned and loved) and got back in the car without haste, saying something equally hilarious. Not making me feel bad. Not making me feel ashamed, but adding humor to a situation that is inevitable and healthy considering the circumstances.

Over probably the next 10 miles, hell, even through the finish I proudly bragged to Emily about my first roadside ultra poop. I even texted my team a screen shot of this section while editing it. They all gleefully approved.

Ultras will teach you about your own body and relationship to shame around it. What would normally humiliate me in any other environment became a source of pride. I am strong. I am safe. My body can do anything.

When feeling good, the body + mind work in concert.

When ultra anxiety hits, they are divided, separate entities at war with each other.

Body versus mind. Which will overtake the other?

Will the body overtake the mind if the mind has doubts? Will the mind overtake the body if the body has doubts?

Ultra anxiety is the tension between these two worlds until one proves victorious.

Emily and I celebrated our ultra anxiety victories. We felt like superheroes, still running intervals up to the base of the mountain, almost a day into running.

And then, Palomar Mountain presented its ominous presence.

The final 11 miles of the race are a steep climb up the second tallest mountain in San Diego. It began to get colder and colder. Where at the beginning of the race, we required ice to basically cover our bodies to keep our core body temps down, now we needed winter running gloves, a beanie and full-on warm clothes in the dead of night.

The elevation began to affect me as we climbed higher and higher. A brief moment where the world got wonky through my vision frightened me. Ultra anxiety.

At Emily’s suggestion, I sucked on a peppermint candy. A magical elixir, peppermint is such a strong flavor that it overrides other sensations in the body. It will forever now be my go-to.

Other crew vans began to pass us and park ahead, hinting that other teams were dancing around us in the darkness, creeping up.

We decided that we were running our race and would push as hard as we could no matter what. We were leaving everything we had on the table because we felt great and wanted to do ourselves justice.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

And Emily and I certainly had no shortage of joy.

We crossed the finish line just over 22 hours, proud to have given it our all with Josh and Stu, smiles still blistered across our tired and happy faces.

Ultra anxiety and anxiety in the every day robs us of a potential positive outcome, because it prepares us for the worst.

But the worst isn’t a fact. It isn’t real. So ask yourself as Rachel Entrenkin did before setting a record…

WHY NOT YOU?

Suffice to say, I was bit of a nerd.

Fast forward to college, the professor of my computer programming class (yes, my drama major required me to take a some “science” classes) pulled me aside one day.

Could we offer you a small stipend if we could photocopy your notes for another student?

Another student who was not identified was unable to take notes in class, so mine were given to them. Cha-ching! I was happy to cash in on my note-taking prowess.

A small stack of my many notebooks and journals in my apartment.

If I try to analyze myself back then, I remember an absolute need to achieve perfection in school. I had to get straight A’s. A “B” would send me into a spiral. I associated good grades with success outside of school. A great GPA meant a great life on the outside, right?!

What I didn’t know then is there is no direct correlation between a 4.0 GPA and being at the top of your field. Yes, certain skillsets translate, like a good work ethic. But others don’t necessarily.

I saw actors graduating alongside me easily landing dream roles, while I struggled to get an agent to sign me. I couldn’t figure out why.

I was trying SO. HARD.

The working hard of it all that didn’t translate. It was infuriating. I believe the vast majority of young people moving through school are conditioned to learn for the sake of a grade rather than for the sake of personal growth, self-discovery and knowledge for knowledge’s sake.

Maturing into a confident adult who knows what they want to do and why and HOW to work towards that is what matters, not an A+.

Now, I’m on the other side of the equation: teaching acting students in various capacities.

And note-taking is no longer a thing for me. My pen to paper moments are frequent, yet purely creative and personal scribblings in journals, a beautiful mess of chaotic thought-vomit, screenplay ideas, recapping life events, some sketches, and other musings. There’s little to no organization. I don’t have a detailed Notes app keeping track of things. I am desperate to shed the old version of myself, the perfectionist, the one who needs everything I write down to point towards a goal. Sometimes I just want to write babbling thoughts. There’s no longer an exam to study for. PHEW!

About a month ago I was a guest lecturer at Rider University for a class called My First Feature Film. Students watched my debut feature and then I gave a talkback. There were a few students that were writing down everything I was saying, which was for some reason confusing to me despite my past as a passionate note-taker.

Many times I emphasized there is no one way to do things. You have to make your own path as a filmmaker. I didn’t go to film school, I learned as I went and took advice that worked for me and ignored others that seemed to steer me the wrong way. Dive in before you’re ready, I encouraged the class. Your first film won’t be perfect.

And some students were writing all of that down…

I wanted to say, put down your pencils. Listen and let’s have a conversation. Pick your head up out of your notebook and let’s have a chat. What do you want to do? I don’t want to talk AT you, I want to talk WITH you. That’s how I can best help and offer advice.

Note-taking is for the books that later accumulate dust that your mother will call you about years later and say When are you finally throwing out all those notebooks? And then you open them and think to yourself, how did I ever do this calculus? This is a language I no longer speak.

My Rider lecturing stint was a warm-up for the four-week workshop I just wrapped up with the NYU Tisch Advanced Acting students at the Lee Strasberg Theatre and Film Institute (which is where I went to acting school!).

It was surreal walking through those iconic red doors for the first time since I graduated back in 2008. Geez, it has been a while…

The sensory experience of the creaking swinging doors; the old staircases that no matter how good shape I’m in will make me question my quad strength; the painted black wooden boxes used as props and tables in the studios. I adore this iconic building. It feels old school with modern touches of on-camera acting classes with full setups for playback and more.

Each class is four hours long and I put the students to work quickly, getting so invested in their work that I forgot to give them a break and barely ended on time. A big whoopsie to students who are already incredibly overworked and getting so close to the end of the semester that they can feel summer freedom coursing through their veins.

Most of what I’ve done with the Tischies has been hands-on acting exercises geared towards the experience of working on set with a film director. I’ve lectured and chatted with them a bit about my experiences and career since graduating, encouraging them to find their unique path. I am one person. What I say is not gospel, it’s only my personal way of working, and it’s continually evolving as I move through the ever-shifting world of filmmaking.

I am trying to be the teacher and mentor that I wish I could’ve heard when I went to school.

High school teaches us to be perfect and college kids aren’t far out of that way of thinking. To get an A on an exam, to know all the answers, to achieve. This is absolutely toxic in the world of art.

Mistakes in art can make it better. There is no such thing as a mistake, it is instead a pivot, a different choice.

Perfectionism is crippling when you’re trying to be open and receptive to a note or seeing your work from a new perspective. Perfectionism is a prison that prevents risk and freedom.

Some of the students have told me they are recovering perfectionists. They got into NYU because they worked hard to get there, of course. And now I’m encouraging them to relax. To break free of what was expected of them. To be their brave, weird selves. To walk into a room and unapologetically be you. Throw out the script that you’ve been given by society and improvise your way through, being receptive to everything.

Last week I taught a one-night audition seminar at One on One Studios in Manhattan with 16 students. I began by inviting them to chat about their WHY. Why are they actors? What was the spark that made them want to perform? I encouraged them to know each other, to connect. I told them I was learning from them as much as they were from me.

One on One was a studio I spent years at, where you pay a fee to audition for casting directors, agents, writer/directors. I remember a class I had there, where writer/director Daniel Schechter opened, asking us actors, Who here is making your own work?

I raised my hand, looking around the room. There were a few of us! I connected with multi-hyphenate Katy Wright-Mead after the class, excited to see someone else diving behind the camera and creating their own work. She’s gone on to write Sometimes I Think About Dying with Daisy Ridley and we’ve kept in touch. Which I highly recommend and you should watch immediately on MUBI HERE.

As the students got in front of the room during my teaching stint at One on One, I could see some nerves from them, and really felt it immediately. I remember when I was in their position. I was terrified. I wanted to be perfect.

But there is no perfect. Throw the book out the window and just be you. Be weird. Surprise me.

I was told this all the time, but didn’t quite understand it, unable to translate it into action. And now that I’m NOT acting, I fully get it.

I want to feel you as a human in the room with me. I want you alive and unpredictable and vulnerable, not afraid, not focused on what it should be or what you think I want.

I’m very new to teaching acting in any capacity, but I am beginning to realize my role in front of students and mentees. I am not the teacher who teaches craft in a literal way, that’s for the long-time teachers who have studied craft longer than my four-year degree. I bring my own set of skills as a working filmmaker to the room.

My role in this capacity is someone who helps students learn how to work with directors, to be brave, and fearless, and to blossom into the artists that provide a life full of meaning.

I am trying to practice what I preach and apply it to myself as a filmmaker:

Let go of the pressure to do it perfectly.

And as you let go, grab onto your WHY.

Why do you want to be an artist?

And what will come will come.

Yet, something in it felt off despite how well-written it felt. My gut was alerting me.

I asked my boyfriend Tom to give it a read, to get his insight into if there was anything I should leave out. He looked up when done, took a pause, and I knew his answer before he said it. “Share this after you make your movie. Maybe not at all.”

David Lynch spoke very little about his work. When asked about the why or the process or the meaning behind his arguably elusive work, he referred back to his movies saying, “The film is the thing.”

“People want you to change it into words,” he goes on to say.

Sure, the script is made up of many words. And my movie doesn’t exist yet in reality yet on a screen in any form, but it does exist fully in my head.

Despite Lynch being a hero of mine, I’m not like David Lynch in many respects. I mean, who is? The man was one-of-a-kind. Yes, I love coffee (a damn fine one) and a slice of pie as he did; however, unlike David, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve a bit too much at times when it comes to my “why” and the specifics of what I’m hoping to achieve.

The post I deleted was perhaps far too open in certain respects, and more inviting of conversations that could influence my vision, perhaps without benefit. The risk outweighed the possible reward.

Unabashed openness at such a pivotal point in filmmaking, before a film is even filmed, while it still lives in my head invites conversation, criticism, the good, the bad and everything in-between.

At this precious point in developing this film, I need to protect my vision to see it through. My closest collaborators are alongside me in the creative trenches, and if you tallied up the hours of conversations we’ve had and the hours of trust we’ve built…

Well, it’d be A LOT.

Lynch was certainly onto something in his mysterious handling of the audience members’ desire to understand and converse with the artist.

If the film is the thing, the conversation is not a literal in-depth conversation. With this in mind, there is no conversation to be had between myself as artist and audience member if what I make is clouded by others’ thoughts, opinions, and more. It becomes a muddled mess. Too many cooks in the kitchen, as they say.

A pure vision directly from a filmmaker’s brain into the audience member’s heart and soul is what makes cinema beautiful, in my opinion. I’m a believer in auteur theory, defined as “an artist with a distinctive approach, usually a film director whose filmmaking control is so unbounded and personal that the director is likened to the ‘author’ of the film, thus manifesting the director’s unique style or thematic focus.”

Greta Gerwig on set of “Lady Bird”.

Simultaneously, I agree that film a collaborative process, with many folks adding crucial ideas and elements to its creation. Yet it is the writer/director/auteur who sifts through these outside ideas to see how they line up with their vision. They steer the ship. They say yes, or no, but thank you.

I am grateful that my collaborators honor my vision. They challenge me in justifying decisions, they push me to clarify, all while respecting my process and command of story. They suggest things and we bounce off of each other. My film is not made in a silo. Shoutout to the best producers in “the biz”!

If you’re an artist like myself that makes highly personal work, how can you maintain the clarity of your vision if an essential part of your process is openness?

A filmmaker friend and I often talk about how challenges in filmmaking mimic challenges one has in any relationship - friendship, romantic, coworker, anything. The problems that exist in these dynamics will pop up in your work. One thing tends to bleed into the other; life is one big watercolor painting and we’re just trying to make it pretty, after all.

If one is a people pleaser, everyone will take, take, take until there’s nothing left of the film that made it yours in the first place.

If one is avoidant, momentum can be stalled in avoiding issues amongst other things.

If one is anxious, this quality can potentially push away folks on your team and beyond, displaying a lack of confidence and lack of respect for others’ time.

If one is…

Well, you get the point. I’ll leave it there.

And now, for some vulnerability, some openness, some thoughtful, yet protective, and hopefully still at the end of the day helpful personal journey kinda stuff for you all to read…

On location filming a scene from “ULTRA”. Photo by Romeo Santiago.

The development process of “ULTRA” has illuminated many areas of growth in my own life. I’ve been working on this film for years, with a very early first draft dated in 2017 (it’s an ultramarathon after all, not a sprint), and I’ve of course grown an incredible amount as a human since my initial lightbulb moment for this film.

It’s fantastic to talk about how our work evolves as we grow older and wiser, accumulating knowledge and refining our skills; however, it’s equally crucial, in my opinion, to highlight how the ways in which we operate as human beings either pushes us forward or stagnates our work over time.

How are we continually pushing ourselves to improve our craft AND the inter and intrapersonal skills that will make us even more captivating storytellers?

February was a month of growth. I was forced to assess boundaries when it came to my film’s development, and, separate from that, boundaries outside my art. The Victoria at the start of my journey with this film would’ve handled these separate situations differently than the Victoria now, being the recovering people pleaser that I am.

When something feels wrong in your gut, trust it. That’s the only instinct we have as an artist.

The thing that matters in creating is maintaining the WHY, and the HOW, that when smashed together make your vision for the film.

If you find yourself overly justifying any of these things to anyone, ask yourself deep down why the need to justify.

Is it because you yourself deep down doubt it’s the right choice?

Is it because you’re not on the same page as the other person, and they see the film differently?

Does this matter?

What is it?

The answers to these questions will be revealed if you have a deep understanding of your own project, a firm confidence in your vision, and a confident sense of self.

It is possible to both protect your highly personal film baby AND allow meaningful conversation. You just have to be wise and constantly in tune with yourself throughout the journey.

Which brings me to the title of this piece…

When a film is being made on set, no one can interrupt the process. Just as in development, this process is equally precious.

If someone tries to interrupt, you can easily call “Quiet on set!” and resume your creative work.

If you’re so inclined to follow along with my writing, I’m planning on writing about the intersection of endurance in all things (filmmaking + running + life), process and advice and stories.

This first entry is about a surprise community and joy I found in a wonderful running event last month called, “The Burrito League”.

Life feels hard in New York City right now. The streets are blanketed with a white layer of salt and what can only be described as “cold crust”, the street corners are treacherous, icy dirt-mountains and slush ←→ black ice death traps and more.

I’m one of those people that looks to the weeks ahead, noting the sunset and sunrise times, looking up average temperatures with the knowledge that in just a month, we’ll have sunsets after 7p and more moderate temperatures.

As Sam said to Frodo in Return of the King, “It’ll be spring soon, and the orchards will be in blossom.” For those of you that know me, I find any excuse to quote LOTR. The below image from the film could be interpreted my physical self (Sam) carrying my emotional self (Frodo) through winter.

Okay, enough LOTR for now… Despite the cold, I think back to the entire month of January (my least favorite month) and have an incredible memory in the great outdoors despite how brutal it is.

I joined runners in Central Park along a 0.3 mile loop on the Upper West Side to partake in something called “The Burrito League”.

I’m heavily involved in the ultrarunning community, having run a whole bunch of ultras, staffing Badwater 135 for seven years, and I’m additionally in development on my long-time-in-the-making film about Badwater 135 to star Shailene Woodley. (Info on that here).

Running is something I live and breathe and think about constantly.

Burrito League came about this year after ultrarunner, Aravaipa, and Cocodona 250 founder Jamil Coury noticed that this year that Chipotle was not continuing a Strava collab in which runners could compete for free burritos. Dismayed by the absence of this fun challenge over the month, Jamil decided to found The Burrito League. It quickly took off with 115 segments and over 17,000 runners worldwide.

I, of course, heard about this immediately through Mount to Coast (Official Badwater sponsor, and Burrito League partner) and marked my calendar for an entire day of running for later in January when I would be in town and able to make the most of it.

“Burrito League began as a way to bring local runners together through collective effort,” says Jamil, emphasizing what to me became the reason my day on the segment was so impactful.

January 24th I woke early before many people in my neighborhood, ate my first of four Uncrustables of the day and a banana, and made it to Central Park at right around 7a on the dot. The sun was just rising the sky was a mix of pink and orange, absolutely stunning.

I set out towards the course a few blocks away, more Uncrustables, gels and supplies for the day in my pack, not knowing if anyone would be there during sub-zero temps as the sun was just starting to make its appearance. There were two people out that early. I met Shen and Eileen and the laps flew by. These were not your average runners. Incredibly accomplished, Shen is currently training for the multi-day ultramarathon, the Marathon Des Sables, and Eileen had been on the course since 5am, consistently accumulating lap after lap. She ended up placing third in the women’s division.

The first 10 miles flew by while I chatted with Shen and Eileen, until I slowed and decided to start walking the uphill portion of the course. Yes, New York had a hill with icy patches, just to add a bit of a twist.

I caught up with Lin Zhuo of Mount to Coast and we chatted about all things running and my film, and how much I was loving Mount to Coast’s H1s, which I was wearing that day. Lin designed the course, proudly noting the elevation challenges, which personally, I was all about.

Most other runners decided to store their gear in a pile to the side of the course, but I’m a paranoid New Yorker and would rather just run with all my gear. Good training for strength in carrying supplies, I figured.

With any ultra day of running, tiny problems began to accumulate, but I reframed them as new distractions to solve rather than run-ending issues. I began to lose feeling in my fingers. I should’ve worn two pairs of gloves. My wool buff began to freeze solid against my face and kept falling down, exposing more skin than I wanted. The outside of my thighs were strangely beginning to feel uncomfortably cold despite two pairs of winter running tights. My water had frozen solid in my flask and the electrolyte drink was still drinkable, but I had to unscrew the lid, because that, too, had frozen. Drinking a slushy drink on an already sub-zero day did not feel good. But whatever, another challenge to add texture.

I shared some miles with Ben T., a fellow film lover and Tribeca programmer. Randi Zuckerberg, ultrarunning legend, showed up after a full training run in Central Park, and we chatted a bit. Rachel Mann got my attention out of the corner of my eye as I was struggling later in the day, “What’s your name?” “Victoria.” “Do you know Saro?” Turns out Rachel and I have collaborated with the same filmmaker on numerous occasions. Saro Varjabedian was the cinematographer on my first feature film, Gold Star. The miles began to fly away again as Rachel and I chatted along with new pal Devan, who commuted into town from New Jersey.

I took a few bathroom breaks, trying to defrost as much of my body as possible in the nearest Central Park public bathroom, re-filling electrolyte powder into my frozen flask, and holding my gloves under the blow dryer. I checked in briefly with family and friends on my break, my mom extremely concerned with my day-long effort in subzero temps, quoting back to her one of her favorite sayings, “There’s no bad weather, only bad clothes.”

Later in the day I had a lovely time jogging with Roland, who without knowing it, kept me running long after I wanted to stop, talking about his running adventures and self-supported FKT journeys. Shoutout to Roland, who ended up logging something around 650 miles and placing second for the month.

I didn’t know how long I was going to be out on the course that day. In my head, I had the secret goal of 50 miles depending on how I was feeling and making sure not to get injured. There was no finish line; just an endless loop that kept you out there because of the community.

As the sun began setting, I decided to throw in the towel at around 42 miles.

I didn’t achieve the 50 miles I set out to do, but I got something even better. You know that old screenwriting saying (also Rolling Stones lyrics), the protagonist doesn’t end up getting what they want, but gets what they need in the end.

I left the Central Park segment with new friends, memories and a beautiful experience.

That evening, as I defrosted and annihilated pizza and Reese’s cups, I reflected on what the Burrito League meant to me and what it reinforced about ultras.

I’m drawn to ultras mainly because of the community. The feeling of experiencing something monumental and impossible together. Picking up your head as you’re running and acknowledging the person next to you, sharing the experience, helping each other. The people I shared miles with are tenacious and humble, open and vulnerable, generous and adventurous. I hope to cross paths with them all again soon.

The nature of the incredibly small segment kept us all on the same tiny loop, overlapping and bonding and having a wild time together.