I thought I needed a professional demo to make it in film. So I booked a shoot with an actor I'd been taking private lessons with. I was excited and looking forward to it — until I wasn't anymore.

When the opportunity arose to spend a month training in film acting in LA, I jumped at it. I had a beautiful apartment in the hills, a rental car, and no SatNav to help me find my way around. What I didn't know was that one of the teachers I met there would say something to me that I'd never forget.

I love diving deeply into an artistic approach, giving it everything I have for a while — and then gently veering off again, taking the things that speak to me with me. This is how I’ve built my own creative toolbox over the years. The disadvantage? You never quite belong to one particular group. By the time they find you, or you find them, you’re already off to another adventure.

What happens when your instinct to improvise meets a group that wants to plan everything? A story about collaboration, creative exchange, and learning to trust your own way of working.

What happens when you trust your instinct instead of following the plan? From coaching job interviews to Morning Pages, I began to discover just how much of my work is an improvisation in and of itself.

Dancing to a song about romance while my own love fell apart. A health diagnosis delivered without a second glance. A theatre too polite for my edges. Some chapters just keep taking — until a table of strangers, and a clown who wasn't afraid, gave something back.

I’ve always loved creating more than repeating. But what happens when the thing you love most about being an artist doesn’t quite fit the way you’re supposed to do things?

After the premiere came the harder part: finding an audience, and discovering that the more instinctual I became, the more some people I loved pulled away. "Your show is too individual," one programmer told me. He wasn't wrong — he just didn't mean it as a compliment.

A costume disaster reduced me to tears the night before dress rehearsal. Then a piece of advice from my teacher changed everything — and led to the moment a stranger told me exactly what I'd been chasing all along.

A sudden yes, a Buddhist retreat in Ireland, and a vision that arrived mid-meditation: a circus director trying to tame wild emotions. This is how "Circus of Emotions" began.

A flyer in the mail led me to Lecoq, then to London — and to a strange discovery: real life was where I felt forced to perform, and physical theatre was where I could finally become myself.

At 19, I froze on a stage in Vienna and swore off improvisation forever. It took a rejection, a heartbreak, and a teacher who introduced me to Grotowski to prove myself wrong.

Some people think you'd have to be a little mad — or medicated — to dance the way I do. Here's what's actually happening underneath the "madness": choices, craft, and thirty years of training you just can't see.

A dance video, a handful of nasty comments, and an unexpected thank-you. On turning 30 years of movement, instinct, and improvisation into permission — for myself, and maybe for you too.