Six years ago, Takashi and I got married.
It still feels strange saying that out loud because in many ways, it feels like yesterday. In other ways, it feels like we've lived several lifetimes together.
This anniversary wasn't about expensive gifts or extravagant plans. We escaped to Sedona for a day—our little "woo woo" place. The red rocks, the quiet, the slower pace... somehow it always reminds us to breathe.
Life has been incredibly full.
Between building Phoenix Eye Films, making feature films on almost impossible budgets, moving countries, working late-night jobs, chasing dreams that don't come with guarantees, receiving an ADHD diagnosis this year, and simply trying to become better humans... it's easy to forget to stop.
To simply be.
As we walked around Sedona and later visited Lowell Observatory, I found myself thinking about perspective.
Percival Lowell spent his life searching the skies, convinced there were greater mysteries waiting to be discovered. Whether he was right or wrong almost doesn't matter. What mattered was his curiosity. His willingness to dedicate his life to something bigger than himself.
Maybe that's what storytelling is too.
Every place we've travelled. Every hardship we've survived. Every job we've worked. Every person we've met. Every disappointment. Every victory. They all become part of the stories we're capable of telling.
The older I get, the less I believe success is measured by how fast you arrive somewhere.
I think it's measured by who you become while getting there.
Marriage has taught me that.
People often celebrate the highlights—weddings, anniversaries, holidays—but the real relationship is built in the ordinary moments.
The airport pickups.
The long drives.
The cheap motel rooms.
The nights where you're both exhausted but still find something to laugh about.
The moments when one person carries the other because life feels heavier than usual.
That's where love quietly grows.
I'm grateful because Takashi has never expected me to become someone else.
He's seen the ambitious version of me.
The overwhelmed version.
The woman trying to understand why her brain worked differently.
The version of me chasing dreams that often made absolutely no financial sense.
And somehow... he stayed.
Not because life has been easy.
Because we've decided that we're on the same team.
That feels increasingly rare in today's world.
I also realised something during this trip.
So much of my life has been about proving I belong.
As an Asian Australian.
As a woman in action films.
As an independent filmmaker.
As someone making movies outside the traditional system.
As someone recently discovering I have ADHD.
For so many years, I felt like I had to earn my place.
Now, at 41, I don't think I need permission anymore.
I just need to keep creating.
Keep learning.
Keep loving the people who choose to walk beside me.
And keep building communities where other people feel like they belong too.
Because that's become the bigger mission.
Not just making films.
Making people feel seen.
As we head into another year together, I honestly don't know what life will look like.
Maybe One Black Night becomes our biggest project yet.
Maybe another unexpected opportunity appears.
Maybe we'll fail spectacularly at something and have to reinvent ourselves all over again.
Who knows?
But if the last six years have taught me anything, it's this:
Life moves incredibly fast.
Dreams take longer than we expect.
People come and go.
But the people who stay beside you while you're still becoming the person you're meant to be...
They're priceless.
Happy 6th anniversary, Takashi.
Thanks for choosing this wonderfully strange adventure with me.
Here's to whatever story comes next.
