My journey in film began in the 1970s, when I was just a kid sitting wide-eyed in a darkened theater, watching Star Wars explode across the big screen. This was a pivotal moment in my life, one moment etched itself into my bones—I knew I wanted to work in film. But I was a child, and children don’t plan futures. I didn’t care about careers or timelines. I just knew stories mattered.

Then came adulting. Responsibilities. Detours.

In 1985, I joined the Army as both a photographer and a mechanic. I traveled the world, capturing fragments of life through a lens while keeping machines running. It was a paradox—art and engineering, memory and motion. When my service ended, I transitioned into civilian life, trading boots for keyboards. I spent years in the high-tech industry as a software tester and developer. I worked on many products, from Word, Outlook to Excel and from Transact to a Virtual Point of sale system. All fun, all necessary.

It gave me stability, a foundation. And with that security came space—space to return to the dream I’d never truly abandoned. I started slowly, enrolling in college programs, rediscovering the language of film, the architecture of story. As a director, I even created local works of art with a small international cult following.

Now, I write and direct work that speaks to the moment we’re living in—a time when memory is fragile, nature is vanishing, and grief is collective. Audiences aren’t just looking for entertainment. They’re searching for resonance. For stories that remember what we’ve lost and imagine what we might still become.

My original story is at an end. And that’s the perfect time to begin again because sometimes, the most powerful narratives don’t start with ambition. They start with a child in a theater, watching stars explode—and deciding, quietly, to follow them.