My parents are, and always have been, extraordinary people. They separated before I even turned one, yet somehow, I never once felt like I came from a “broken home.” Instead, I grew up feeling like I had two soft places to land, two sanctuaries of unwavering support. My dad was always simply there, raising me alongside my mom—maybe because, fifty years and counting, they are still, wonderfully, fiercely lifelong hippies.

I don’t remember ever being disciplined the “normal” way. There was no yelling, no grounding, and no arbitrary punishments. Just quiet guidance, gentle, probing questions, and a love that felt incredibly steady even when I, the small, chaotic child, was decidedly not steady.

The Audition Trail and the Safety Net

I decided I wanted to be an actor when I was five years old, a notion most parents would dismiss with a gentle, pragmatic warning about “realistic dreams.” My parents did the opposite. They jumped right in. They drove me hundreds of miles to countless auditions, paid for every obscure acting class, and sat patiently through a steady stream of brutal rejections.

My mom was my permission slip for self-care. She would always say, “You don’t owe anyone anything. Stop whenever you want.” She gave me the freedom to fail.

And my dad? He was my solid, unmoving safety net after every soul-crushing “no,” always catching me before I hit the cold, hard ground of disappointment.

I vividly remember one afternoon when I was twelve, breaking down in frustrated, hopeless tears after yet another rejection for a school play. Dad knelt down beside me, looked me right in the eyes—his own eyes crinkling at the corners—and said with quiet, absolute certainty: “One day, you will get the role. I have no doubt in my mind.” And somehow, impossibly, I believed him.

The Garage of Guidance

I wasn’t a top student. I was small, restless, constantly making jokes, and almost always in some kind of trouble. School felt like an impenetrable jungle, and I definitely didn’t come with a map. But my parents never once looked at me like I was failing. To them, I wasn’t failing; I was simply becoming.

My grandmother once told me a sweet story: when I was only three, Dad already called me an actor—even if I never pursued the career—because I’d block the TV and instinctively reenact scenes with shocking, accurate emotion and movement. He saw the performer in me before I knew what the word meant.

I got lucky. My parents are still hippies. Dad still has his long, silvering hair and beard, still wearing tie-dye like it’s a uniform of love and authenticity. And to this very day, I don’t take a serious role without asking for his opinion first.

His garage, which should be filled with tools and lawnmowers, is instead meticulously organized with shelves full of scripts—highlighted, annotated, and sorted. He reads every single script that comes across my agent’s desk and only gives me the ones truly worth my time and soul. He is, quietly, my most essential, unfiltered counsel.

Some people inherit wealth. Some inherit houses or land.

I inherited belief—two incredible parents who saw my future, who believed in my chaotic, restless spirit, and who gave me the unconditional permission to be exactly who I am, long before I ever believed in myself.

And honestly? That inheritance has been worth everything.