I don’t see my work as a career. It’s something else — a kind of prayer. There are moments—on stage or while writing—when something opens. A current flows. I can almost feel it moving through me: something higher, stronger, larger than thought. It’s in those moments I recognize myself. That’s when I know I am. That’s when I come alive. The real magic happens in those moments. When presence becomes ceremony.
Some directors never saw it in me until the opening night. When there’s a real audience. That’s when the fire starts. I studied theatre. And then I studied theology.I’ve sung in churches, stood in silence on retreat, wept in rehearsal rooms.Acting, writing, painting, creating — they’re not different to me.They’re ways of opening. Of connecting. Of letting something move through me that’s not mine alone. It’s a spiritual act. And when someone else listens with me, when something in them is ready — then it happens. That thing with no name. People have cried after my readings or performances.Not because the work is sad — but because it reaches a place with no name.It’s not loud. But it stays. If it finds you, it stays with you. My writing begins with a smell. A broken toy. A sentence that won’t leave me alone.I write about longing. Memory. Childhood. Estrangement.And motherhood — in whatever form it arrives.(Right now, that form has four legs, fur, and a mind of his own.) In Russian, there’s a saying: “A talented person is talented in everything.”It’s attributed to Chekhov.People quote it with pride. I say it with a certain ache.Because being many things at once doesn’t always open doors.It confuses people. It overwhelms them.And sometimes it overwhelms me, too. I act. I write. I paint. I improvise. I teach. I cook.Not out of ambition — but because I don’t know how not to.I don’t dabble. I go deep.I’m not a niche. I’m a person. A voice. A woman who makes things.Sometimes broken. Sometimes holy. Sometimes both.