Santutthi — Blog — Grace Talice Lee

I was obsessed with the highs—and there were many.

At a time when I cared about meeting celebrities and (more importantly) bragging about it on social media, it was fun to meet Bryan Cranston at the height of Breaking Bad popularity and to get scolded by John C. Reilly for taking his b-roll when he’d rather be smoking.

I also made so many fond memories from production. I’ll always remember taking home a tin of prop caviar and sharing it with my roommate off styrofoam plates. Sneaking into the luxurious W Hotel after a corporate portrait gig to skinny dip with the other assistant. Building 3D animation machines with my favorite GQ photographer during our day off, just the two of us chatting and tinkering in her Venice Beach garage.

I also got a big ol’ ego boost from cruising down Sunset Boulevard and stumbling across a billboard I’d helped light, or from turning on MTV and seeing a national commercial I’d helped pitch. But, after an initial gasp of delight, I found myself wondering, “So what?” The bragging about celebrities, the friendships that faded after picture wrap, the billboards and commercials that were seen by millions… “What’s the point? Where’s the meaning? Is this really a good use of my life?”

Meanwhile I was enduring 16-hour shoots, with weeks of day shoots alternating with weeks of night shoots, where lowly production assistants were not permitted to sit down, ever. If I wanted to rest, I had to kneel and pretend to tie my shoe. Not to mention the real pitfalls of these glamor-based industries: casual racism, daily sexual harassment, rampant drug and alcohol use, and public humiliation as socially accepted leadership strategies.

Rather, pick a livelihood where the lows are bearable and the day-to-day sustains a sense of peace.

That way, Younger Grace, even if you did win a major book deal with a million-dollar movie option, you’d return to that sense of peace when the initial glee soon wore off—instead of plummeting into the whirlpool of stress and anxiety that so many authors shudder about.

And even when you find out that the major book deal will never appear, you’ll weep for a day, and then you’ll stabilize again upon a strong foundation of contentment.

And you’ll be happy beyond what you think is even possible.

What does it mean to have “made it?”

I had my first panic attack in fifth grade, during which I hyperventilated to my mother about needing to study harder so I could earn admittance to Stanford University one day. Back then, “making it” meant attending a prestigious school almost a decade later.

Though I never enrolled at Stanford, I did attend a world-renowned undergrad program for aspiring filmmakers. And the goalposts of “making it” shifted even further into the unattainable: I would cross that finish line only if I won an Oscar, which only a handful of living cineastes might manage as the pinnacle of their long careers.

“Making it” meant prestige—and getting a lot more of it.

But then I actually entered the workforce—I interned at a major network, assisted on feature films, contributed to national ad campaigns, and joined elite initiatives in education and mental health—and quickly discovered that the managers and higher-ups in these prestige-oriented environments hardly ever seemed happy. In fact (with rare and special exceptions like Mike at HBO) they were grumpy, brooding, and sometimes downright mean.

I also noticed that, even if an advertising executive celebrated a huge contract or shiny new Clio Award—even if they high-fived and pumped their fists and treated the team to a white tablecloth lunch—they would go right back to their usual grump the very next day. That kind of happiness didn’t seem to last.

The price for attempting to “make it” appeared to be… misery.

And the ones who were trying to “make it,” never would—because the goalposts always shifted again. There’s always a bigger client, with a bigger budget. Another shelf of trophies, and a wall of plaques to match. Never, ever, ever enough.

I realized that this idea of “making it” wasn’t just hard—by its very definition, it was impossible.

But this definition changed when, a couple years ago, I finally landed in a workplace that valued well-being more than prestige. A few months settled into the job, I went home on lunch break and made a plate of toasted focaccia, salted olive oil, and two perfectly ripe plums. I ate slowly in the backyard, with my heels kicked up on the fire pit and my golden retriever lazing in the grass beside me. We basked, alone together, in the sunshine of early summer. Such simple enjoyment. Pure presence. Contentment.

And it finally dawned on me that “making it” isn’t about getting. It’s about not needing.

After letting go of my book deal dream, I received this gift of “not needing” even more deeply. For the first time since early childhood, happiness was no longer something to achieve against all odds, after some grueling years or decades. Now I know better. Happiness is my warm clean home. My wholesome job and supportive colleagues. My sweet puppy and loving partner. My own mind, which inclines every day toward stillness.

Happiness is already here.

And, more and more, it’s also everywhere I go.

“Contentment, the ultimate wealth.”
—Gotama Buddha, Dhammapada 204

How I wish I picked a career

I was obsessed with the highs—and there were many.

The highs were empty.

The day-to-day was grueling.

And the lows were intolerable.