The “If Only” Dilemma

Years ago I was listening to a program hosted by Armand DeMille on WBAI when he discussed something he called the “if only” dilemma. The concept struck me immediately because it described a pattern of thinking that had quietly shaped much of my own internal narrative. The “if only” mindset works like this: happiness is always waiting just beyond the next achievement.

If only I had my dream job, I would finally feel fulfilled.

If only my show were picked up by a network, everything would fall into place.

If only I found the perfect romantic partner, my life would feel complete.

If only I won the big award, then my work would truly matter.

At first glance these thoughts seem harmless, at times even motivating. They create goals and aspirations. They push us to strive for improvement. But hidden within this pattern is a subtle trap. Each statement postpones happiness until a future condition is met. Life becomes a sequence of checkpoints that must be passed before satisfaction is allowed. The present moment becomes merely a waiting room for a future that may or may not arrive. This mindset is closely related to what some philosophers call the “myth of arrival.” The belief is that at some point — after enough accomplishments — we will reach a destination where everything finally makes sense. But experience suggests something different.

Every achievement that once seemed like the ultimate milestone eventually becomes part of the background. New goals emerge. New “if only” statements appear. The horizon moves forward just as we approach it. Meanwhile, the journey itself continues to unfold in real time. What the “if only” dilemma obscures is the value embedded within that journey. Every stage of pursuing a goal carries its own lessons, relationships, frustrations, and unexpected discoveries. Those experiences are not merely stepping stones toward the destination. They are life itself. When happiness is postponed until the outcome is secured, those moments lose their significance.

The most sobering realization is that the time spent waiting for the future cannot be recovered later. Once a year passes, it is gone permanently. Once a conversation ends, it cannot be relived in the same way again. The pursuit of ambition is not the problem. Goals can provide direction and meaning. The problem arises when the mind treats the present moment as insufficient — as something to be endured rather than experienced. Perhaps the challenge is learning to pursue outcomes without placing all emotional fulfillment on the other side of them.

Work toward the dream job, but recognize the skills you are building today. Develop the creative project, but appreciate the act of creating itself. Seek meaningful relationships, but value the life you already inhabit. The “if only” mindset promises happiness somewhere ahead. But the truth is that happiness cannot exist in a place that has not yet arrived. It can only exist where you already are.

Camouflage

I have often been told on movie sets that I am a laid-back boss. People describe me as calm, measured, and even somewhat quiet. From the outside, that may very well be how I appear. What most people do not see, however, is the internal experience that sometimes accompanies that exterior. There are moments when what appears calm is actually camouflage.

It is the practiced ability to appear composed while something far more chaotic unfolds internally. Anxiety can behave like a storm contained within a sealed room. From the outside, nothing moves. Inside, everything is spinning.

For many years I did not fully recognize this dynamic because I was so accustomed to it. When a certain level of internal tension becomes normal, it blends into the background. It becomes the climate rather than the weather. But there was a moment not long ago when enough stillness emerged for me to actually observe it. In that quiet moment I became aware of just how intense the internal experience could be. It was unsettling, almost like meeting a stranger who happened to be living inside my own head. My outward demeanor remained composed, but internally it felt as if a tornado had formed. The contrast between the two states was jarring. For a brief moment it bordered on what could have become a panic attack. Fortunately, I was able to recognize what was happening before it spiraled too far. That recognition — that small moment of awareness — may represent progress. Catching the experience early prevented it from gaining momentum.

Still, the sensation triggered memories of an earlier period in my life when depersonalization and derealization were my baseline. During those years the world often felt slightly unreal, as though I were observing my own life from a distance rather than fully inhabiting it. I often describe that feeling as being a ghost in a meat suit, watching a projection of someone else’s previously recorded life while being completely aware that what I am experiencing is happening in the present, in real time. The memory of this is quite vivid.  Reality remains intact, but the emotional connection to it becomes strangely muted or distorted. You function, you work, you interact with people, yet everything carries a faint echo of distance. I never want to return to that place. Perhaps that is why these moments of internal turbulence command my attention now. They are reminders that the mind is capable of drifting toward that territory if left completely unattended.

The irony is that the ability to camouflage these experiences has been useful in professional settings. Film production environments can be stressful, unpredictable places. Maintaining a calm presence can stabilize the atmosphere around you. When others perceive steadiness, they often respond with steadiness themselves. In that sense, the camouflage serves a purpose. But it also raises an important question: how much of our outward personality is simply a strategy for navigating the world?

Being “laid-back” may be genuine in many respects, but it may also be a form of emotional architecture — a structure built to contain storms that others cannot see. Perhaps the goal is not to eliminate the storm entirely. Human beings are complex, emotional systems. Anxiety, doubt, and fear are part of the machinery. The real progress may lie in noticing the weather early enough to keep it from becoming a natural disaster. Calmness does not always mean the absence of turbulence. Sometimes it simply means the storm has learned how to stay behind the glass.

Childhood, Modeling, and Body Image

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From a very young age, I was placed into modeling — not from intrinsic desire, but as an extension of my father’s ambitions as a fashion photographer. Campaigns for brands like United Colors of Benetton and The Children's Place became part of childhood.

On paper, it might seem glamorous. In reality, it tethered my sense of worth to appearance before I understood identity. Childhood modeling introduced me early to the experience of being evaluated visually. Cameras, casting calls, and external feedback shaped awareness of posture, symmetry, and expression. On the surface, it appeared glamorous. Beneath it, a subtle recalibration of self-perception was occurring.

Praise centered on looks. Feedback centered on weight. Subtle commentary about image seeped into self-perception. Disordered eating patterns followed. Validation felt conditional. When value is externally appraised, even casually, identity can begin to hinge on appearance. For a child, this dynamic is complex. Praise for aesthetics reinforces behavior. Rejection, even neutral rejection, imprints. As I matured, that early conditioning intersected with bodybuilding and artistic self-presentation. The body became both project and product. Improvement felt empowering, yet the pursuit carried echoes of earlier validation structures. Body image is rarely static. It shifts with mood, environment, and comparison. Today’s media environment intensifies scrutiny. Even disciplined training can blur into obsession if motivation is not examined. Particularly, the social media landscape often reactivates those early imprints. The constant comparison. The curated aesthetic. The implication that visibility equals value.

In the late 2000s and early 2010s, there appeared to be a shift toward inclusivity in fashion — broader representation, body positivity, disruption of narrow ideals. It felt like relief. Lately, the pendulum seems to swing backward toward hyper-curated physiques and filtered perfection.

Over time, I reframed physical development as internal architecture rather than external approval. Strength became functional, aesthetic, and psychological. The mirror shifted from judge to tool. Modeling taught me awareness of composition—how light falls on skin, how posture alters perception. But it also taught me how easily identity can be outsourced. What I am still untangling is this: how to pursue physical development without reactivating childhood distortions. How to build strength without conflating it with worth. The challenge has been reclaiming ownership. Training for health, not applause. Presenting images as expression, not audition. The body is form. It is not value. That distinction requires ongoing reinforcement.

Do the Sins of the Father Follow the Son?

There is a particular kind of inheritance that has nothing to do with money, property, or even genetics. It is reputational. It travels ahead of you into rooms you have never entered. It attaches itself to your name before you have spoken a word. For much of my early adult life, I carried that inheritance.

My father was many things: a talented photographer, charismatic and perceptive behind a camera. He was also a con man, a criminal, and a violent sociopath. The duality was not abstract — it was lived. I experienced the physical and psychological abuse firsthand. Then came neglect. Then abandonment. The arc moved from volatility to absence, which in its own way was equally destabilizing.

What complicated this further was that I did not merely survive him privately. I traveled publicly with his name. In certain circles, particularly those adjacent to photography and creative industries, his reputation preceded me. There were people he had wronged financially. Others he had betrayed personally. Some who had been manipulated or intimidated. And more than once, I was treated not as an autonomous individual, but as an extension of him — a proxy against whom grievances could be projected.

There is something uniquely disorienting about being held responsible for transgressions you neither committed nor condoned. Especially when you were also a victim of the same person. The question emerges: Do the sins of the father follow the son everywhere?

At first, it felt as though they did. I moved defensively. I over-explained. I distanced myself almost compulsively from anything that might resemble him — stylistically, temperamentally, professionally. I feared replication, both in the eyes of others and within myself. But time introduced nuance.

I began to recognize that while reputations can travel, character is demonstrated. Repeatedly. Quietly. Over years. Integrity is not inherited; it is practiced. And over time, patterns speak louder than lineage.

There is also a deeper psychological reckoning: the fear of becoming what harmed you. Children of volatile parents often live with a hypervigilant awareness of their own behavior. I examined my anger. My ambition. My ego. Was any of it a seed of him?

Therapy helped untangle that fear. Traits are not destiny. Temperament is not fate. Consciousness interrupts repetition. What I eventually understood is this: stigma may follow, but it does not define. The burden is real, but it is not permanent. Distance is created through consistency; through transparency; through living differently. There are still moments when the association surfaces. When someone asks, carefully, “Are you related to…?” And I answer honestly. I no longer flinch.

I cannot erase his history. I cannot rewrite the damage he caused others or me. But I can refuse to carry his guilt as my own. The sins of the father may cast a shadow. But a shadow is not substance. It only persists when you stand in a certain light.

Move, and it shifts.