My work has always been driven by an obsession with the uncanny and with questions of identity—particularly the unsettling distance between who we believe ourselves to be and the forces that quietly shape us. Some of this comes from lived experience: moments in adulthood when the self feels fragmented, unsteady, or split from its own intentions. Like many people, I carry formative experiences from childhood whose influence reaches further than expected. Through therapy, I learned that agency begins not with erasing our history, but with integrating it—scars included.

Lily’s journey in Genesis reflects this arc. She moves from secrecy and self-harmful patterns toward a hard-won sense of authorship over her own life. The film confronts a simple but uncomfortable truth: we cannot step into our futures while framing ourselves solely through our past injuries. This is not about diminishing the weight of those injuries; it is about meeting them honestly. What happens to us is often not our fault, but how we live with and transform it becomes our responsibility.

My hope is that this emotional trajectory resonates widely. While Genesis is designed to disturb and disquiet, it is equally a story about reclaiming the self. Beneath its psychological horror lies an invitation for the audience to confront their own shadows and, in doing so, feel—if only briefly—a renewed sense of agency and possibility.