47. Reese
Chapter 47
Reese
The Los Angeles Convention Center’s grand ballroom is all twinkling lights and strategically placed flowers.
The room is packed.
With my hands shaking so much, I’ve resorted to what can only be described as obsessive dress-smoothing. When Destiny finishes her introduction, I manage to put one foot in front of the other and walk into the spotlight.
Four. Seven. Eight.
I adjust the microphone at the podium and look out toward the sea of gorgeous people.
“Hi, everyone.” I keep my back straight. “Heavens, it’s surreal being here with all of you incredible women. Our roles in media…” The words stick in my throat like peanut butter. Come on, get it together. “They’re…they’re changing.” I force myself to take a breath so deep my ribs protest. “Actually, no—they’re not just changing, they’re exploding into something entirely new. And no, that wasn’t a line fed to me by my publicist, though, Geraldine, you can totally take credit for it.”
I wink at my agent and publicist, who are sitting in the audience, dressed in their best winter gowns. Finally, I start to feel myself be more at ease.
“Full disclosure?” I say with a laugh, “I’m really nervous. The nagging voice in my head keeps whispering, You shouldn’t be up here —which, by the way, is absolutely ridiculous, since we’re all talented women who deserve to be in this room. But sometimes I still feel like that ten-year-old girl from New Orleans, wide-eyed and believing that sound stages were made of actual stardust.
“Back then,” I say with a wistful smile, “I was so certain about who Reese Sinclair was supposed to be. Or at least, I thought I was. I wanted to be that girl. You know the one. The best. The brightest. The one whose name would make people smile and nod knowingly at dinner parties.”
The agreeable girl. The one who followed orders. The one who didn’t question things, didn’t question herself.
“Every time I tried to color outside the lines,” I continue, “I felt myself shrinking. It was subtle at first, then suddenly I was practically invisible. I didn’t know my womanhood; I was too scared to even dream about producing my own projects or having actual conversations with writers that didn’t start with, I know this might sound crazy, but…
“And I know I’m not alone in this,” I say, scanning the room. “Look around this room with me. Really look. We’ve all self-censored in one way or another.
“This year, I realized there’s no price, no amount of press, and certainly no amount of pleasing people that can make up for losing yourself. And trust me, I lost myself spectacularly in trying to become who everyone expected Reese Sinclair to be.
“But, to no one’s surprise, I quickly learned that not only was I already a leading lady but that what I really craved was to lead and eventually give myself a chance to figure out who I am when the cameras stop rolling and there isn’t a director in the room.
“So tonight, I want to leave you with this. Taking a chance on yourself is one of the bravest things you can do. It might not always be easy, and not everyone will understand your journey. Even you might doubt yourself at times. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the people worth keeping in your life will never dim your light—they’ll help you shine brighter. So be brave enough to embrace what truly matters to you, even when it feels messy or uncertain.”
The room takes a collective inhale before erupting. The standing ovation feels less like applause and more like a rebellion, hundreds of women rising up against every sweetie , good girl , and honey they’ve ever endured, every creative note that began with I’m not sure you understand , every meeting where their voices got lost in the undertow of male confidence. For a moment, we’re in every writer’s room, every production meeting, every casting call where we learned to make ourselves smaller.
“And oh, one last thing. Please forgive me for my language here, but…” I pause, standing taller and readying myself to say the one thing I’ve never said out loud: “I’m proud to be Reese fucking Sinclair.”