The instructor told me, "You're making soup; you're in an argument with your wife. Do the scene while you're making soup. You're cooking dinner. You're not trying to argue. You're trying to survive the night. Make the soup while you're fighting. It's Grandma's secret recipe."

I do the scene and get my feedback. I'm pleased with myself; I actually did it. The scene felt alive. So I sat back down while my classmates did their scenes.

As I reflect on my scene, I think about that soup and think, "Well, what family eats soup for dinner?" I was trying to make a joke. Then I stopped, and I realized I don't have a secret soup recipe. I don't have a secret recipe for anything. I don't have any knowledge, any tangible trinkets, anything that's been passed down to me. I have nothing to show or to pass down to others.

Then, as my classmates did their scenes, I silently panicked. They could probably see it on my face if they were paying attention, but they might not have, because they were doing their scene. I'm realizing I'm reaching a certain level of grief. I don't say it out loud, but in my head, I stare into the void in class and tell myself, "I have nothing." I thought about how I don't have any secret recipes passed down to me that I could pass on to those who come after me.

I thought about where I am in life, in my early thirties. Yes, a Thirties Life Crisis; everyone goes through it, but I think about how I'm not where I want to be in my thirties. I'm in an acting class, not really booking anything, getting auditions, but not booking them.

Yes, I'm doing movies. Yes, I'm doing plays, but I don't even live in Los Angeles. I think it's ironic that I'm an actor in my thirties taking acting classes—by the way, I think I'm the oldest person in the class—but I'm not where I wanna be in that field. Then I think about all the nights—every night. I think about how I haven't written a song in almost ten years.

Then I think about how I am divorced in a timeline where I never thought I'd be divorced. Then I'm thinking about what happens next. I think about getting older and how, as I do, everyone around me gets older. I'm gonna be forced to watch people go to the next life. I think about how everything in my life so far wasn't what I planned—none of it. I'm thinking about how this is, in many ways, the exact opposite of what I planned.

I'm thinking about how chaotic everything is and how I can't seem to get it together. Then I compare, doom-scroll, and see a successful podcaster post a video that's getting all these views, retweets, reposts, and likes. I see the BET Awards, and everybody my age is either being invited, performing, or getting awards. I see my peers showcase their commercials, movies, and lifestyle.

I think about where I am now and how I have nothing because I've lost everything, including time. As I silently panic and try to snap myself out of it, I do these affirmations whenever I get in a deep, deep panic, almost like I'm hyperventilating. But then, in a split second, I stop and realize that having nothing and losing everything—or, at the bare minimum, having nothing to pass on, like a secret recipe—means I have the responsibility to make the secret recipe.

I have the responsibility, the opportunity, and the duty to start. The whole panic moment came because I realized, while thinking about some soup recipe, that I had nothing to pass down because my life is so derailed from where I thought it would be. I thought that by now, I would have something to pass down, even if I didỊit have a family yet. In some ways, I thought I'd have a family by now, even if I didn't. I thought that I would have something to pass down, including a recipe.

I realized that the opportunity is there; the door is there. All I have to do is create the recipe. I can pass that down. I can be the start of turning nothing into something.