Before I ever had lines, I had proximity. My first boyfriend's father was a television director in the 1980s, directing episodes of shows like The Love Boat, Hotel, and Fantasy Island — glossy, prime-time fantasies that filled American living rooms every week. To me, they weren't just shows. They were doorways. My boyfriend introduced me to Central Casting. I became SEG — Screen Extras Guild. Back then, that meant you were a union background artist. You were atmosphere. You were the blur behind the stars. But for a teenager obsessed with Hollywood, it felt like a backstage pass to the kingdom. I stood on soundstages where palm trees were painted on flats and champagne glasses were filled with ginger ale. I learned how to hit my marks without being seen. How to look natural while pretending not to notice the camera. How to exist in the frame without pulling focus. Extras weren't there for glamour. Most were there hoping — hoping to earn enough vouchers to become SAG, hoping someone would notice them in the background and pull them forward. Years later, those same SEG background performers were made SAG-eligible, which feels poetic now. For years, they were the invisible scaffolding of Hollywood — filling hospital corridors, restaurant scenes, airport terminals, making fantasy look populated. I wasn't chasing fame in those early days. I was learning the rhythm of a set. I was watching. I was studying. I was figuring out how the machine worked. And once you see how the machine works, you can never unsee it.