Hill Scene: A Narrative on my Directorial Debut

I often joke that filming my first short film was either “the best time of my life” or a “film shoot from hell,” but neither description is fully honest. The reality sits somewhere between pride and discomfort, an experience that challenged me more than anything else I’ve done.

It’s been about a year since the idea of making a film first emerged. It’s been about six months since my film company, Dashwood Films, first launched. It’s been about four months since we wrapped filming on Muscle Memory, the company’s debut piece. It’s been about one month since the film has released. And it’s been about two weeks since I’ve been able to properly breathe without the worry of Muscle Memory lingering on my shoulder. Since it’s been released, I restrict all conversations discussing the film with anyone except my co-director. We remark over and over how it’s something we should leave in the past. The final product of a film I’m so passionate about is something I don’t want my name associated to at all. The captions of the Instagram posts on the accounts “perfecttt shoot.” I know I laugh, it was far from perfect. Yet I still comment, “take me back.” The process of making this feel might have taken years off of my life. I’ve spent endless frustrations towards every single aspect, but at the end of the day, the final outcome doesn’t shame me despite how much I’m ashamed of it. Does that make sense? I like to portray to everyone that shooting this film was perfect, I think I delude myself in that to a certain degree too.

The six days of production felt like six entirely different films. On day one, I showed up in my most put-together “director” outfit, convinced everything would run flawlessly. When my co-director was “late”, I spiraled. Something so minor felt catastrophic. Only later did I realize how much I rely on structure and control, and how unfamiliar I was with things not going to plan. The day ultimately went smoothly, but my reaction exposed a side of myself I’d never acknowledged.

On day two, we filmed in a lovely local diner (shoutout Dina’s!) My co-director and I had a lovely breakfast and hot chocolate bonding session in our matching tube tops we never got to show off. Everyone listened to our direction, the takes went fast, and I figured out tricks with my new camera stabilizer that ended up being my personal standout in the final product. As the camera spun, I continued to whisper “how perfect.” How perfect everything was until day three.

Most of the day was spent dressing the set and listening to vinyl as we prepared the space. A small stain on my shirt during location scouting bothered me more than it should have—it was the first sign that my expectations were too rigid. I slowly understood that I needed to earn respect by my peers who I feel believed they knew better in a space they felt they were more familiar or experienced with. Fighting for recognition was endless, and I still feel as if I haven’t properly achieved this yet either. That tension was exhausting, and honestly, I’m still learning how to navigate it.

Day four offered the first real moment to breathe. With less than an hour of shooting, I finally had space to step back, reassess my approach, and reflect on what had already unfolded as well as what still lay ahead. It was the first time the week felt manageable, and the pause made me realize how much I had been operating on instinct rather than intention.

And finally, we approached it; HILL SCENE. For eight hours, our entire team stood at the top of the golden slopes, surrounded by a landscape that felt almost cinematic on its own. When I think back on that day, it plays in my mind like a single, quiet still from a film; the tall dry grass moving gently with the wind, the sun holding its place in the sky, and the light stretching across everything with a soft, steady glow. There was something unreachable about that setting. Walking tirelessly with aching knees to reach the top of a gentle hill felt forbidden, as if it hadn’t been done before and if someone were to know, we’d face consequences. The breath in the air exhaled of deep trust and being unguarded, with each person taking their turn to share moments of vulnerability. It feels like another life during this single day. I can only count a few days stained on my mind, but this one is a deep red mark in my list of loveliest days.

The day with the hefty trouble of following after the last was (wrap) party scene. I doubt I’ll ever be able to recount a day with more stress and chaos than this. My day began at 9am, turning my house inside out for unexpected guests and an impromptu party, both for filming and celebration, though it would never feel like a party to me. I spent the next eight hours attempting to entertain people I’d never met before, taping + un-taping decorations onto the wall, skipping songs between a 12 hour playlist, all while hustling to get film scenes without a thorough idea of what we were shooting. A last minute recast and improvised scene later, I found my one moment of stillness as the party hollowed and I lay on the floor, eating sprinkle covered chocolate cake straight from the box, with a fork and a polaroid in hand. Even then, the day ended uneasily, with the lingering fear that the shots were incomplete, that something essential had been missed. This feeling wouldn’t go away and I would have to deal with the impacts later on.

At last, there was one final day of filming, reshoot day. We returned to the diner in the early morning, where I ate my first full breakfast in days, strawberry waffles, warm and unhurried. Afterward, we went back to the second day’s location, and for a few quiet hours, time loosened. I talked with the cast without the pressure of the camera, letting the space feel human again before we began. When we began rolling again, I believe I filmed my single best shot in the entire film, the three boys walking in front a glowing sunset, creating an effortless silhouette. In that moment, something settled. For the first time, the film felt fully ours, not because everything had gone right, but because I recognized myself in the frame. The doubts that had followed me through each day of production finally quieted, replaced by a clarity I hadn’t felt before. Watching that image come together confirmed what the chaos had obscured all along, that this is the work I want to do, and that despite the uncertainty, I belong in it.

There is something about Muscle Memory that made it a particularly revealing directorial debut for me. There are many reasons to feel uneasy about it: the behind-the-scenes tension, the complications in post-production, the uneven dialogue, the rushed editing. By the time it was finished, much of what originally motivated the project no longer felt present on screen. I began the film wanting to reflect on friendships from years ago that had left a lasting imprint on me. In many ways, I was trying to retell a version of my own history, perhaps even reclaim it from people who were no longer part of my life. The final film does not do that. Instead, it settles into ambiguity, offering no clear resolution for its leads or certainty about what comes next. But where I am now, months after it has all passed, I feel more connected to its themes than I did while making it. The messiness, the lack of resolution, and everything that once felt like a failure now align with what I value most about the film. The uncertainty mirrors the experience itself: friendships that fade without closure, moments that matter deeply without ever fully explaining why, and a process that resists control no matter how carefully it is planned.

Looking back on the shoot, the panic of the first day, the quiet confidence that followed, the chaos of the wrap party, and the stillness of that final sunset, I understand that Muscle Memory was never meant to be polished or definitive. It was meant to be lived through. In making it, I learned not only how I direct, but why I do. The film belongs to a version of me who was learning to let go, to accept imperfection, and to trust that meaning can exist even when clarity does not.