I didn’t set out to make over 300 videos.

I made them because I was disappearing.

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After my mother’s murder, years in court, my father’s death, the loss of close friends, and the unraveling of my career and marriage, I needed proof that I was still here. Not as an idea. Not as a diagnosis. As a body moving through time.

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So I danced.

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In backyards. While maintaining a pool I no longer had any reason to care for. In borrowed spaces. In exhaustion. In anger. In grief.

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I filmed everything myself. I layered my own photography and video to create something that felt closer to the inside of my mind—fragmented, symbolic, sometimes beautiful, sometimes not.

These videos are not performances.

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They are endurance. They are evidence.

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Evidence of survival in a world where certain kinds of suffering are acknowledged in theory, but ignored in practice. Evidence that even when I felt invisible, I was still moving.

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This collection is organized by mood rather than chronology. Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Neither did I. I stopped waiting for a better life and started finding something beautiful in the one I had.