Copyright © 2026 Hayden Panettiere

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2026934887

ISBNs: 9781538773420 (hardcover), 9781538784686 (signed edition), 9781538773444 (ebook)

E3-20260417-JV-PC-COR

Grateful for every hand that lifted me,
every obstacle that strengthened me,
and every lesson that led me here.

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Note to Readers

This book encompasses my life stories as I remember them. My intention is not to drag anyone through the mud, so in an effort to protect the privacy of some individuals, I’ve changed names and identifying characteristics throughout these pages.

Prologue

It’s almost spring in New York, just a few days after we set our clocks ahead. I grew up here, but after nearly twenty years living elsewhere, I somehow forgot how the light creeps in and the ground softens, readying itself for flowers to come up. I’ve been reminded that when the trees start to blossom, winter’s grayness fades away as splashes of color fill the horizon. When the clouds rise high and blue skies break through, this part of the world doesn’t feel so heavy. Whatever happened before—when we hunkered down in the cold or sought refuge inside—doesn’t matter. Winter is practically over. It’s time to renew, regrow, and start life fresh.

I’ve come back to my hometown in Rockland County, just north of New York City, to live with my dad and stepmom for a few months. I didn’t expect to stay as long as I have, but after a few hard years, I needed to give my mind, body, and soul some rest. I’ve settled into that relaxation, but I’ve also felt awake, alive, and hungry to challenge myself again. I’ve hiked, traveled to see friends, and golfed with my dad. I love to read fantasy and science fiction, and I’ve spent entire days reading about dragons and vampires and strange beings from another dimension. I’ve taken long walks past my childhood home, remembering the little girl who did cartwheels in the backyard and the teenager who once threw a party when her parents were out, then forced all the guests to hide in a closet when they came home early. One of my childhood best friends owned peacocks, and some are still wandering through the neighborhood, scattering green and blue feathers as they pass. Dorothy was right: there is no place like home, and as winter turns to spring, I’m settling into the comfort I’m finding here.

I’m grateful for the time I’ve had with my dad. We’ve always managed to find humor in everyday moments, and as we’ve talked through my childhood memories and our family stories, we’ve laughed till our sides hurt. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t shed tears. One of the main reasons is because my dad’s house is filled with happy, smiling pictures of my little brother Jansen, who we lost on February 19, 2023. Jansen excelled at everything he put his mind to, but he was a uniquely gifted artist, and Dad’s hung his paintings on almost every wall. These reminders of my brother are so vibrant and present that I feel like he might walk into the room at any minute, talking a little too fast and a lot too loud, flashing a shit-eating, ear-to-ear grin after saying something to annoy me.

Jansen’s art may still be alive, but he’s not. While seeing his life’s work breaks my heart all over again, I’m grateful to have something of him to hold on to. Learning to live in a world where he doesn’t exist has often brought me to my knees, but he would want me to remember that death and loss are a part of life, but they allow rebirth if you let them.

Sitting with my brother’s spirit in every room of Dad’s house, I’ve come to grips with the fact that I’ve spent much of my life coping with some kind of loss, from massive traumas to small hiccups. My mom got me into acting when I was eight months old, and I haven’t stopped since. From a very young age I lost the chance to have a “normal” childhood, friends, relationships, and my privacy because instead of fighting it, I leaned into the talent I was somehow blessed with and that she helped me realize. I’ve always held myself to a high standard, and Mom never let me settle for anything less. Disappointing her was one of my biggest fears. Because of that, I sometimes don’t believe in myself as much as I’d like to. Mom and I have had our share of issues, but I’m not going to blame her for my problems. She can be tough, but she’s pushed me to be my best, and all the lessons I’ve learned along the way have made me believe that moments of good can come from self-doubt. Sometimes, life has been really hard, but through those difficult times, I’ve always made the choice to grow.

My daughter, Kaya, has lived with her dad, Wladimir Klitschko, since 2018. Not being under the same roof with her every day has been the most gut-wrenching experience of my life, and it’s hard to describe the layers of emotion—including sadness, resentment, and anger—I’ve felt because of it. But I know anger springs from hurt, depression often masks as rage, and grief is a long, complicated journey. I grieve that I’m not the mother I thought I’d be and definitely not the mother I want to be (trust me, no one should ever have to raise a child on FaceTime), and although I miss Kaya so much my heart aches, I know how blessed I am to be her mom. She is the greatest gift of my life, with all the best parts of her father and me, and, today, I believe I have the opportunity to be a different kind of parent than most. Despite it all, the bond I have with Kaya is incredibly strong.

Kaya is talented and wise beyond her years, but she didn’t ask to be born into the limelight or my chaos, and she didn’t get to choose her parents. I want her to have every choice that I didn’t, including the ability to live a private life. So out of respect for her right to normalcy, my stories of motherhood will be through my eyes only, and I’ll keep personal details of her life to a minimum. I also want to make clear that I don’t blame Wlad for any of my wrongs; I take full responsibility for my part in our relationship and my shortcomings as a mom. Wlad is one of the most courageous people I’ve ever met and a true hero in so many ways. Time and again he’s built me up when others would have knocked me down. Wlad, you are a wonderful human being and an amazing father to Kaya, and if you read this book, I hope it’s with an open heart and that strength and stoicism I’ve always teased you about.

I’ve always strived to be a positive person, but I grieve all the hours I lost to addiction, my broken relationships, and my loved ones who are no longer here. I also know I’m not alone when I say that the fact my family fell apart still stings. I’ve spent years in treatment trying to make sense of these losses, and I’ve concluded that the only thing I can change is myself and the person I want to be. If only that was easy! I’m a complex person whose thoughts can feel fractured at times, and discussing my past isn’t straightforward or easy. As my friends will tell you, I tend to talk in circles, but I always try to get back to my original point.

I never want to stop evolving and changing for the better, and I’ll forever be a work in progress, but one thing I know from my thirty-six years in the public eye is this: Life is a process that evolves day by day, year by year, and—like it or not—you are engaged in a cycle of growth until the moment you take your last breath. In any kind of growth, there may be failures, mistakes, grief, and pain. Trees lose their leaves, endure cold winters, then come back majestically the next spring. We’re meant to shed our dead skin and the parts of ourselves that don’t serve us, and sometimes it’s immensely painful. Believe me when I say, I’ve felt this pain.

There’s no easy way to share your story with the world, but the last thing I want to be is a downer. I’m an optimist to the core and refuse to be defined by my tragedies. So, I try to think of these tumultuous moments in my life not as losses, but as “lifequakes.” It’s a funny little word for a serious thing, meaning “a major life change from internal or external disruption, that precipitates personal evolution or rebirth.” A lifequake has the ability to completely derail you, but it can also be temporary and help make you stronger if you choose to let it. Life can shake you up and tear you down, but even when you’re at your worst, there’s hope, and you have an opportunity to rebuild.

In her book On Death and Dying, the legendary psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross describes the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’ve been through all these stages, sometimes fast, other times slowly, and often out of order. What Kübler-Ross doesn’t propose, though, is a sixth stage of grief described by one of my favorite authors, David Kessler. That stage is meaning, and he writes about it in his best-selling book, Finding Meaning. My traumas have offered me meaning through a sense of humor, some ridiculous stories, prioritizing my health, a deeper relationship with my parents, pets I adore, animal rights and environmental activism that gives me purpose, and now, this book. All the heartaches I’ve endured have allowed me to come to a place of empathy and understanding for everything my loved ones have come up against and—most importantly—for myself. They’ve also given me determination. I’m like Dory, the resilient little fish in Finding Nemo, who “just keeps swimming” even when she comes face-to-face with a bunch of sharks. I’m far from perfect, but my lifequakes and moments of struggle are little miracles that have helped me grow.

Thank you for coming along with me on this journey through all its ups and downs.

—Hayden Panettiere, spring 2025

PART ONE

ONE

Non Sono Francese

I’m going to let you in on a secret right here, right now, in the first chapter of this book.

Ready?

I’m not French.

My great-grandparents came to America from Italy—specifically Bari, a midsize city right at the tip of the heel. When they arrived at Ellis Island, someone there misspelled their name “Panettiere” instead of “Panettieri,” and it stuck. They made their way to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn—home to a huge population of Italian immigrants at the time—and settled into an apartment. Then they had eight kids, one of whom was my Poppa. Poppa met and married my grandma in the early 1960s, and he adopted her curly-haired toddler son. That was my dad, Alan, aka Skip.

Grandma, Poppa, and all our friends and family pronounce our last name “Pan-a-TEERY,” not “Pan-a-TEE-air,” which is the pseudo-French pronunciation my mom, Lesley, came up with after listening to people butcher my name for years. But I’m never offended. Regis Philbin even referred to me as “Hayden Planetarium.” Poppa sure cared, though. When he watched me make my first talk show appearance in the nineties and learned that I was calling myself Pan-a-TEE-air, he stood up, started waving his arms, and ranted in Italian. Poppa did that anytime he was mad. But trust me, no one was afraid of him.

After my dad graduated high school, Grandma and Poppa expected him to get a job, so he took the NYPD entrance exam and became a cop. Mom’s path was different; every member of her family went to college, including fifteen of them who graduated from Duke. Mom’s mom had Northern Italian roots, and she, Mom, my Grampy, and Mom’s older sister, Jana, lived in a small town in Indiana, where Grampy was a well-respected internist, specializing in heart conditions. But Mom was artistic and felt like a fish out of water in the middle of Indiana, and she couldn’t wait to get out and do something radical. She finished high school early, went off to college and then grad school, and set her sights on becoming a professional actor.

Mom was forced to become independent early on, so it was no surprise that she was determined to do her own thing. When she was in seventh grade, Jana developed such severe anorexia that my grandparents checked her into a hospital in Michigan. Aunt Jana stayed there over a year, and Nonna and Grampy drove five hours each way to see her on the weekends, leaving Mom on her own. With her parents so focused on Aunt Jana, Mom was lonely, but it forced her to become self-sufficient very early in life. Her fearless self-reliance took her from Indiana to Missouri for college to Seattle for grad school to LA… for Hollywood. Finally, she landed in New York City, where her acting career really took off.

Mom has a big, magnetic smile, high cheekbones, and sparkling brown eyes, and I always told her she was so beautiful that she didn’t need to wear much makeup. But to this day she never leaves the house without her coral-red lipstick on, and she reapplies it all day, every day. Her favorite color eyeshadow is purple, and her hair is naturally dark, but she used to color it honey blond, with highlights my little brother once said made her look “tie-dyed.” For a little flourish, she teased her hair up high toward the back of her head, and before acrylic nails were everywhere, Mom had them. She’s always had a great figure and watches what she eats, but once I crept downstairs in my pj’s late at night and saw Mom’s back end sticking out from the open refrigerator. I yelled “Mom!”, her backside jumped, and her head popped out from behind the door. Mom’s eyes were as wide as saucers, she had a spoon in her mouth, and she was holding an open, half-empty tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

In the early 1980s, Mom lived in Manhattan and worked temp jobs to support herself when she wasn’t acting. She booked some small film parts and did regional theater until she landed her first big role: Edy Lester Donovan, Bryan Cranston’s wife on ABC’s Loving. Their wedding, where Edy wore a white flapper dress, was the soap opera’s most-watched episode in its second season.

One day, Mom and a girlfriend walked into the subway station at Ninety-Sixth and Broadway and passed a cute, blond, curly-haired, baby-faced transit cop named Skip. Dad had his eyes on Mom, but his immature yet well-intentioned strategy was to hit on her friend to get Mom’s attention. He did, and they both ignored him. Never one to give up easily, Dad changed directions and hit on Mom the following week. Success! She gave him her number.

A few years later, Mom and Dad got married at a place called Boulderberg Manor in Tomkins Cove, New York, about forty minutes north of Manhattan.

“Cops spend ninety percent of their time dealing with assholes,” Dad once told me. “When you’re a firefighter, nobody ever treats you like that.”

Dad was no asshole, nor was he stupid, so after a few hard years as a cop in Harlem, he joined the New York City Fire Department. When he wasn’t working, Dad liked to golf in Rockland County, a wooded, suburban area a short drive north of Manhattan and across the Hudson River, so he and Mom decided to look for houses there. The area was quiet and scenic, and on its eastern side was the Palisades, a long line of steep, dramatic cliffs with incredible views of the Hudson. Rockland County has a diverse combination of service workers like Dad, artists like Mom, and families who don’t mind that a commute into the city means taking a bus or driving. There are no trains from Rockland County, making it feel both close to and far away from New York.

Crucial to my newlywed parents, where they settled was a lot more affordable than the City. In fact, it was so livable that Mom and Dad realized they could have a pretty great life there raising a family. Dad’s job made the idea even more attractive. Like most firefighters in the FDNY, he worked in twenty-four-hour shifts a few days a week, which meant he had uninterrupted stretches at home. It was a no-brainer; Mom could have her career and Dad could have his, and one of them would always be present for me and my brother.

The year was 1989. George H. W. Bush was president and the economy was good. Sitcoms like Family Ties reigned on TV, and the US was at peace. It was the perfect time to put down roots and Mom and Dad were ready to make it happen.

That’s when I entered the scene.

Mom didn’t let pregnancy slow her down. If anything, it motivated her, and she was onstage as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream right when she started to show. The play was so popular the producers extended it through Mom’s ninth month, so the costume designers altered her dress to focus on the upstairs rather than the downstairs. The producer was afraid her water might break on the stage (considering the life I’ve had, this would have been hilariously poetic) but Mom finished the run to standing ovations, wearing a dress that was bursting at the seams.

By the end of the summer of 1989, A Midsummer Night’s Dream was over, and so was Mom’s pregnancy. On August 21, after twenty-four hours of labor, I, Hayden Lesley Panettiere came into the world with light, almond-shaped eyes, a halo of strawberry blond hair, big, rosy cheeks, and creamy white skin. I also had a giant, round head, which Dad’s brother, Uncle Donny, joked was going to snap my neck if Mom and Dad weren’t careful.

Mom claims that I came out of the womb, looked at her, and said, “Thanks, but I’ve got it from here.” Mom can embellish stories, but she understands independence better than anybody, so I’ll take her word for it. She also says that everyone commented on what a bright-eyed, unusually happy baby I was, smiling and laughing when I was held or when something excited me. I’d kick and babble like I was trying to put on a show, and maybe I was. I was a tiny firecracker, popping to life as if on cue.

Soon, Mom’s friends and colleagues started telling her that if Lesley Vogel didn’t get this happy baby into modeling as quickly as she possibly could, she was missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

Mom figured what the heck. At the very least, she’d get some good baby pictures out of the whole experience. Maybe I’d even earn a little money for college. So, Mom and I hit the ground running.

TWO

Mornings with Michelin

In the spring of 1990, Mom strapped me into my car seat and got behind the wheel of our Volvo to drive into the city. It was before dawn, and I was only eight months old, but she and I had thirty miles to cover. I’d signed with Wilhelmina Models, and my baby pictures had caught people’s attention.

This audition—if you could call it that—was for Michelin Tires. Michelin had a long-running ad campaign that featured chubby, shirtless babies sitting inside a tire, so at the casting call Mom stripped me down to my diaper and placed me at a designated spot. My giant head bobbed like a balloon on a string, and my body began swaying back, then forth, then side to side.

“Please, don’t let her fall and hit her head on the tire,” Mom whispered to herself.

I didn’t topple over, but I also didn’t get the part. Tires and I weren’t ready for each other just yet.

At eleven months old, when my head fit my body a bit better, I auditioned for a Playskool toy train commercial. I sat straight up, smiled, and lit up like a Christmas tree when the casting director made funny faces. Mom and the director loved it, and I got the part. My first memory is watching a miniature Playskool train circle its tracks over and over and over, but that could be because the Playskool ad ran for years.

Dad claims checks arrived in the mail all the time, but baby modeling is not a job that’s going to make you rich. At best, I’d make a few hundred dollars at each shoot, and if I was lucky, I might someday receive a residual check that hovered around two figures. Fifteen percent of that went from my employer into a trust I couldn’t touch until I was eighteen. These specifications were part of the Coogan Act—named after poor Jackie Coogan, a 1920s child actor whose parents squandered his money—and it was meant to safeguard children against abuse by employers or their parents. I don’t remember much of anything about my early commercials, but I know my parents did a great job protecting me, so exploitation was never on the table. I apparently enjoyed auditions and commercial shoots and never whined or squirmed on set.

“Besides,” Mom says, “you can’t force a child to do something they’re not comfortable with. Especially Hayden.” As my godmother said, I was a “willful child.”

Once in a while Dad would take me to auditions, but his most notable contribution was the near impossible: getting parking in the City. He was stationed at a busy firehouse in Harlem, which he loved because a busy firehouse is the best firehouse. (Dad didn’t enjoy the danger, but he was passionate about saving lives.) On days off, Dad didn’t need his FDNY parking placard, so Mom used it to park next to any New York City firehouse knowing she wouldn’t get ticketed or towed. Suddenly, driving and parking in the City wasn’t torture.

One booking led to another, then another. I like to think that casting directors kept hiring me because I seemed as professional as a baby could be, but part of me thinks it was because I never cried. Crying on set means an hour of snot, drool, costume changes, and cleaning up a red, blotchy face, so a fussy baby very quickly becomes a baby without a job.

I guess I just liked people. I was comfortable around strangers because they said nice things to me and made funny faces. I was also happy, confident, and eager to please, unbothered by cold rooms and strangers’ hands and early morning wakeups. None of that made me cry.

Or, maybe, even as a baby, I could sense when people were proud of me—especially Mom.

Dad went with it partly because acting was Mom’s thing. Dad occupied his own sphere in our world: the dependable jack-of-all-trades, the scrappy extrovert who made good money at an honorable job, and the golf junkie who was always playing a few holes or watching a tournament on TV. Mom was Work, and Dad was Play, but they filled in each other’s gaps and shortcomings, at least in the first part of their marriage.

Dad’s biggest weakness was that he didn’t want to rock the boat when Mom was onto something. Dad was a softie on the inside, and Mom was a force to be reckoned with. I know Dad had arguments between his head and his heart, with his heart questioning whether it was right to have his baby girl so busy all the time, being shuttled around from one audition to another. Dad was a grounded guy, and child acting was anything but normal. But he justified it. He said to himself, “Maybe she’s smiling because she loves it. She’s not missing out on having fun because there are so many other kids at auditions. And maybe baby modeling will give her a brilliant career, and she’ll never have to worry about money.”

Besides, just before my little brother came along, Mom was completely in her groove. She juggled my schedule, spoke up for me on set, and kept the wolves at bay. With her leading the charge, there was no stopping us as we barreled toward my next gig. I kept getting callbacks, and Mom and Dad kept saying yes. I was given great opportunities, and there was no saying no to Mom’s drive. The abnormal had become entirely normal.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was standing in the living room of our house, staring through the dining room toward the kitchen. Mom and Dad were at the kitchen table, which was a good twenty feet away from me, and they were talking about Dad’s new business. Dad had just started a flooring company called J & H Wood Flooring, with the “H” for Hayden and the “J” for his business partner’s daughter. When he wasn’t in the City at the firehouse, hardwood flooring was what he did.

Some sixth sense came over me, and a light popped on in my head. “Mom!” I blurted out.

“Yes, honey?”

“You’re pregnant,” I said. No filter, no hesitation.

Mom turned to me and scoffed. “What are you talking about? I am not pregnant.”

“Yes, you are,” I answered, crossing my arms. I don’t know why I knew, but I just knew. Not long after, Mom and Dad told me I was going to be a big sister. On the night that I confronted her, Mom was indeed pregnant, but she had no idea.

THREE

Stage Fright and Howard Stern

Triaminic. Dunkin’ Donuts. Banana Nut Crunch. Jergens Ever Soft, the lotion that lasts even after you wash your hands. Hershey’s. Wendy’s, back when Dave Thomas was still alive. Nix lice prevention spray, where I played the girl who used it and didn’t get lice. My advertising jobs piled up, and I appeared in about fifty commercials by the time I was five.

Most commercial shoots were uneventful. But there was one I’ll never let myself forget.

When I was almost five, I was cast in a commercial for Chex cereal. At one of the early rehearsals, I planted myself in a chair at the set’s kitchen table, where a milk-less bowl of Chex sat on a placemat. I looked to my right and watched the dreamiest nine-year-old boy I’d ever seen approach me. He had big blue eyes, wavy hair, and a kind face that seemed to say, I don’t care if you’re only four. I think you’re amazing.

“Hi, I’m Hayden,” I said, picking up a few pieces of Chex and shoving them in my mouth.

“Nice to meet you,” he replied, sitting down. “I’m playing your brother.”

We began to read our lines, and I moved in on the Chex. They tasted delicious—even without milk—so I gobbled up a few mouthfuls. Suddenly, my wishful logic crystallized: this boy and I were here because of Chex. Chex was an incredible cereal, and we should all love it. If I showed him how dedicated I was to this job—and by extension, to Chex—he’d love me, too.

“We need to start filming,” the director said to Mom. “Can you ask her to be ready?”

“Hayden,” Mom whisper-yelled from across the room as she made a slicing motion across her neck, “stop eating the cereal right now.” Her eyes were so big and round I thought they were going to pop out of her head.

I did as I was told, but the Chex was too tempting, and I grabbed a bite. Mom and the director asked again, their patience clearly growing thin. One empty bowl of cereal later, the director politely told Mom that while they were sure I was talented, they needed to cast someone who could focus on something other than food. Or, apparently, the boy playing my brother.

Mom laughed it off at first, but then she made it clear she wasn’t pleased that she’d lost a full day to traffic, makeup, hair, and my lust for boys and Chex. If I was under her watch, it was going to be the first and last time I got fired from a job.

Soon I was auditioning for television shows. Mom had discovered Howard Stern, who started bright and early at 6:00 a.m. on 92.3 WXRK-FM, so she’d rush me into our car at least twice a week and crank up the volume. We were always running late, so we’d barrel down the Palisades Parkway through New Jersey, and I’d recite the lines she’d taught me while Howard said something unfit for children’s ears. We’d head east over the George Washington Bridge, straight into Manhattan, then zip south toward our final destination.

With so many callbacks, I had momentum as a child actor. As I transitioned from toddler to little girl, my voice grew loud and husky and my hair got longer, curlier, and messier. I started to roll my eyes when Mom bought me pink, girlie clothes, and I begged her to let me dress in pants and sweatshirts, like the tomboy I’d become. In auditions and on sets, I put on a spunky, sassy attitude. In everyone’s eyes, I was a grown-up in kid form, capable of telling it like it was about the deliciousness of Wendy’s chicken nuggets or the need to give me just the right medicine when I was sick.

I was faking that confidence during pretty much every audition. I tried as hard as I could to hide it, but when I stepped in front of producers, the director, and a casting director, my hands and voice would start to shake. Before I opened my mouth to say my lines, I was racked with nerves, convinced I’d settle on the wrong word, lose my train of thought, or forget my lines entirely. At first, the adrenaline forced me to step up to the plate, but then I’d realize I was being scrutinized and judged. My nerves motivated me, but then they turned around and paralyzed me. If I messed up, what would people think of me? What would Mom say? I knew it wouldn’t be good.

During our drives into the City, I felt like I was teetering on the edge, and Mom’s driving didn’t help. One time, she hit the guardrail on the right side of the George Washington Bridge, and our car squealed and shuttered as it scraped against the barrier’s concrete base.

“Damn it!” Mom yelled, turning down Howard Stern and swerving back into our lane. “I got distracted. Say it all again. And please, do not phone it in.”

“Don’t phone it in” was her favorite line. It was my signal to get my act together and reach the top of my game—stage fright or not.

Parents of child actors are required by law to always be on set during filming, but not during auditions. So, either Dad or Mom was always outside waiting for me. Most of the time, it was Mom. I’d say my lines, trying my best to be cute and projecting my voice the way that Mom had taught me. When the director called “cut,” I always stopped what I was doing, marched out the door, and ran straight to Mom.

“I think I did okay,” I’d say tentatively.

“Did you give a hundred and fifty percent?” she’d ask.

“I did.” But the truth was more complicated than that—and I didn’t tell Mom. My fear was so pronounced it took every ounce of strength I had to get out there and ace it. I was determined to make Mom and everyone proud, but the pressure overwhelmed me.

Then my worst nightmare happened, and I did freeze up during an audition. Just before Jansen was born, I auditioned for a Kodak ad, and as I stepped toward the masking tape “T” that marked my position, a boy appeared out of nowhere. He was about my age, and he was cute—about a thousand times more than Chex boy.

“Just say your lines to each other,” the casting director told us.

I thought I was doing this alone, I said to myself as red heat rushed to my face.

My heart stopped and my hands started shaking. Between this perfect four-year-old specimen standing across from me and the fact that I was terrified of making a mistake, I didn’t know where to start. So, I smiled and took a deep breath. The director called “action,” and the boy began reciting his lines. My tongue felt like it was coated with peanut butter, so I mumbled mine in response. He said his next few lines, this time with more confidence, and I paused, then opened my mouth. Not a single word came out. I took another deep breath, then cleared my throat. Again, nothing. I stared at the boy, and he smiled meekly, like he was both embarrassed for me and mystified that I’d frozen up. I’d been doing this whole routine since before I could walk, and this was never supposed to happen. I turned toward the casting director and her assistant. Their faces blurred, then melted together into one face with purple eyeshadow and coral-red lips.

Mom.

I stepped off my “T” and skulked toward the door, stopping at the casting director’s table before I exited. “Uh, did I get the job?” I asked, deep in denial.

“Oh, we’ll see,” she answered kindly. “Now go find your mom.”

I opened the door and walked right back to where Mom was sitting.

“How did it go?” she asked.

For a hot minute I contemplated letting my manager tell her later, then I relented. “Um, I didn’t do it.”

Mom stood up. “You didn’t do it? I drove all the way here and you just walked out? We’ll talk about it in the car. Get in your stroller.” Mom had brought along the stroller because it made hustling a four-year-old down a Manhattan street easier for a pregnant woman.

Mom pushed me out the door and onto the sidewalk, moving a little more quickly than she had on the way to the audition. My heart was pounding. Mom was a perfectionist, and she knew what I was capable of. She expected the best from me, and I hadn’t come close to delivering that. Now she was disappointed in me, and that was a fate worse than death. Mom had several levels of anger. When she was irritated, she opened her mouth ever so slightly. When she was mad, she clenched her jaw. When she was so angry that my best option was to hide under my bed, her lower jaw migrated a few centimeters forward. I looked up and back at Mom, and there was that soul-shattering underbite.

We got in the car and drove home in silence as shame overcame me. It was after 10:00 a.m., so I didn’t even have Howard Stern to distract from Mom’s anger.

FOUR

Taking Beats

Jansen Rane Panettiere came into the world on September 25, 1994. At only six pounds, he was a tiny thing, with dark peach fuzz from head to toe and a cone-shaped head. To add insult to injury, he was cross-eyed. I looked like a Gerber baby the day I was born. Jansen looked like he hadn’t quite evolved.

“This is… interesting,” Mom said a few hours after Jansen’s delivery, when she’d taken a good look at him. “Are you sure he’s mine?” Mom’s skin was smooth as silk, and even though her hair was naturally dark underneath her highlights, it had an auburn hue.

Dad was as baffled as Mom. “Look at those eyebrows,” he said. “They’re… huge.” It was like Mom and Dad had passed Jansen all the DNA I didn’t have, then thrown in a little hair just for fun.

The first time I saw Jansen in the hospital, I was skeptical at best. I thought I’d be getting a new doll, but this thing was more like a fuzzy stuffed animal—and not one of those expensive brand-name ones you get at Christmas. With Mom lying in a bed holding him, it was also clear that she and Dad were no longer mine and mine alone. We were a family of four now, and I knew that was just the way it was going to be.

Within a few days, though, all my jealousy faded away. Despite Jansen’s weird monkey features, I was fascinated by him, and I felt drawn to him in an instinctive way. I decided I’d been put on this earth to protect him, and as a responsible five-year-old, I could take care of him just fine. So, I begged Mom and Dad to let me carry him, and when Jansen was a few months old, Mom relented.

“Hold him like this,” Mom said, placing him in my arms as we stood outside near our Volvo. “Good. Now, can you walk to the car and put him in his car seat?”

Mom opened the car door and motioned for me to place him inside. I tiptoed forward, gripping him tightly in my arms.

“How do I put him in?” I asked. “Oh no, Mom, he’s slipping… !”

Thud. Jansen slid out of my arms and landed on the ground.

“Oh my God!” Mom yelled. “You dropped him!”

Jansen started to scream, and I looked at Mom, my face white as a ghost. “I’m sorry!” I yelled. “But I only did it once!”

My brother wasn’t dead, but he sure had a serious set of pipes.

In 1994, all my television auditions paid off, and I landed a role on the ABC soap opera One Life to Live, playing a young girl named Sarah Roberts.

I was going to be a soap opera actress, just like Mom. I didn’t really know what to make of soap operas except that Mom told me they were very dramatic and that only grown-ups watched them. I vaguely recalled seeing one on TV and thinking how boring it looked. It didn’t make sense that the characters dressed so nicely, with their hair and makeup done, even when they were just standing around their living rooms. Or why were the final scenes comically long, with the soundtrack’s organ stuck on the same endless note? People were always finding their long-lost twins or discovering their father wasn’t actually their dad, and their emotions were always over-the-top. It was all just weird, but now it was my world.

I had to get up to speed fast, so I did. I learned that One Life to Live was a mainstay on ABC, and its most famous star was Erika Slezak, who played Victoria “Viki” Lord, the matriarch of the Lord family. (Erika Slezak would go on to win six Daytime Emmy Awards and remain on the show for over forty years. She is a legend.) The Lords were the rich family in town, and Sarah Roberts was one of them. In fact, her mother was Tina, Viki Lord’s sister. And while Sarah wouldn’t be in every episode, her birth had been a pivotal plot point a few seasons back because a pregnant Tina hadn’t been able to figure out who her baby’s father was, and then Viki shot one of the possible fathers in self-defense. You know, the kind of thing that happens all the time in every small town.

I was so young I wouldn’t have many lines, but Mom warned me that I’d have to memorize all my scenes before shooting so I’d know exactly when and where I had to be. That was because soap operas filmed one episode per day, not over the course of several days. Trust me, an entire hour is a lot to store in your brain.

My call time was 6:00 a.m. at ABC Studio 17 on West Sixty-Sixth Street between Columbus and Central Park West. Mom and I had to leave the house just after 5:00 a.m., and, as I sat in the back seat and Mom sped along, I committed my scenes to memory. The fact that Mom had highlighted them to activate my focus made the job a little easier.

At that age, my brain was a sponge. Every night, I could memorize more than the day before and recall them more quickly on the car ride to the set. One Life to Live became a master class in cramming—a skill most people don’t learn until college, when they stay up all night studying for finals. I learned how to cram when I was five.

Mom claims that One Life to Live was the first place she began to take my acting seriously, like it was something I could do for the rest of my life. In the middle of one of my scenes, a lead actress approached Mom as she stood at the side of the set.

“You know, your daughter can really act,” my castmate said.

Mom smiled. “You don’t have to say that to me. She’s just a kid, and, besides, I’m not that kind of stage mom.”

“No, I mean it,” she said, putting her hand lightly on Mom’s arm. “You trained as an actor, so you know what I mean. She’s five years old, and she’s taking beats.” Beats are unwritten moments in a scene when a character has the opportunity to shift the tone or the emotional direction. It’s up to an actor to find that beat, then adjust their acting accordingly.

Mom looked at me and took notice. I had absorbed all the acting directions she’d given me and was now processing my facial expressions, gestures, and lines rather than doing them by rote. I wasn’t just reacting; I was actively thinking about my character, then progressing toward the objective of the scene.

“Oh, my God,” Mom said, “you’re right.”

I didn’t know it, but that moment was my beat, when I transitioned from an actor who was a child to a child actor. The tone and emotion behind my work shifted, and I matured in everyone’s eyes. Mom saw me differently. She knew the world would treat me differently from here on out.

I loved what I was doing, but none of us fully realized how not normal it was. While most kids my age were in preschool learning the basics of reading, my mom was reading me lines. And they weren’t happy-go-lucky, Barney-the-Purple-Dinosaur lines, either; I had to learn phrases like “Mommy! Don’t leave me!” Mom signed me up for swim classes and gymnastics—I was compact and strong, so gymnastics was a natural fit for me—but even doing those “normal” activities, I suspected I was different from all the other kids in my town.

In first grade, someone finally called me out on my differences, and that acknowledgment broke my heart.

Starting in kindergarten I attended William O. Schaefer Elementary School in Tappan, which is about twenty minutes south of the house we lived in in Congers. I don’t remember exactly how the shaming started, or what words put me so firmly in the corner. I only remember the silence of the classroom as I packed up my backpack to leave for yet another audition and the whispers of someone at my table, asking, “Why does she get to skip school?” Then I recall looking over at Mrs. Rogers, my teacher, and seeing her start to frown.

“Hayden has another audition,” she said, sighing. “I guess it’s more important than whatever we’re learning in school.”

I rushed out of class, glad to get away. If I didn’t fit into the world I should fit into, maybe I was better off at this other, weird world that had taken center stage in my life. But none of it truly sat right with me. I was a child in an adult world half the time and a little grown-up in a child’s world the other half. Part of me just wanted to have friends, a place at a cafeteria table, teachers who were kind to me, and lots of fun at recess. But another part of me loved the rush I got from acting and the fact that it made Mom so proud.

When you don’t really fit in anywhere, all you want to do is fit in somewhere. But in first grade, I didn’t know where that somewhere was.

FIVE

Trigger Tears

When I was almost eight years old, I got the role of Lizzie Spaulding on CBS’s Guiding Light. I said goodbye to One Life to Live, moved down to a set nine blocks south of ABC, on West Fifty-Seventh Street, and prepared myself to become a troubled child from Springfield’s most prestigious family. Little did I know, Lizzie was about to have a rough few years under my watch: she’d get kidnapped, shoot and kill her mom’s boyfriend, develop leukemia—which was cured through a grueling bone marrow transplant—and then fake a second case of leukemia.

I was only supposed to appear in a few episodes, but Mom told me if I upped my game and learned lines as well as I’d memorized scenes, the directors might consider making me a regular character. This means you’re written into the script for almost every episode, and it hadn’t happened on One Life to Live.

“I know you’ve committed the scene to memory, so say that line with more authority,” Mom said from the front seat as she pushed the pedal to the metal. “This isn’t a kitchen sink drama.”

I cleared my throat and started all over.

“Still not there,” Mom demanded. “Try again.”

I did as I was told, all the way across two states and one mighty river.

The other reason Mom was convinced I might become a regular character was because she had taught me how to start crying at the exact moment a script called for it. She called these “trigger tears,” and to summon them up, all I had to do was imagine the most horrific thing that could happen to an eight-year-old—like my cat dying or Dad suffering an agonizing death in a blazing house—and the tears would well up. After a lot of practice, I also figured out that if I held in my tears until my body felt like it might crack and crumble, the drama doubled. Then the waterworks really got going.

The first big test of my trigger tears came when we filmed a scene in which my TV mom, Beth Raines—who was mentally unstable after a lifetime of trauma—stormed out of the house in her mink coat, walked in front of a moving car, got hit, and suffered a head injury. When Lizzie went to the hospital to see her, Beth was lying on a stretcher, blood covering her forehead.

This was my big moment. A bloody, suicidal mom in a cold, sterile place, about to be wheeled off to God knows where… that was enough to make any kid upset. But Beth Raines and Lizzie Spaulding were fictional. My pet guinea pig, Christopher Robin the Third, however, was entirely real. I conjured him up, and I pictured myself holding his soft, furry body in the palms of my hands, where it was dark, warm, and hidden, just the way he liked. Sometimes I even tucked him under my chin to make him feel extra safe and comfy. Then I thought of the adorable high-pitched squeaks he let out anytime I approached him. I adored Christopher Robin the Third. I held in my tears, and I imagined his funeral. I’d make a little headstone for him and bury him under a tree in our yard. I felt the pressure inside me building and the tears welling up. Hold it in, Hayden. Hold it in. When I felt like I was about to pop, I let loose and turned it on, just like Mom had taught me to do.

“Mommy!… Mommy!” I screamed, sobbing.

My TV dad, played by Grant Aleksander, lifted me into his arms as technicians rolled the stretcher away. Then I broke free and ran, screaming, to a window, where I peered down a hall and saw my bloody, bruised mother disappear. My chest heaved, my voice cracked, my face turned red, and honest to God tears streamed down my face.

The second the scene ended, the director turned to my mom. “What just happened?”

“That’s my girl,” answered Mom.

Later that day, the producer, Paul Rauch, approached my mom and asked if he could make Lizzie Spaulding a regular character on the show. He said they couldn’t fit me into the rest of the season’s episodes, but when the next season started up, I was in.

The trigger tears had sealed the deal.

When Lizzie was about to begin chemotherapy, she got on her knees and prayed to God that her hair wouldn’t fall out, and I cried like my cat had just died. When Lizzie shot and killed Carl Stevens, the man who threatened her mother one day with a gun, I wailed like Mom had abandoned our family—and had taken Dad with her. The tears were genuine because the emotions were genuine.

None of this was good for my developing brain. Over the past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time reading about how the brain processes stressful events. I’ve learned that my childhood catastrophizing activated my amygdala, hippocampus, hypothalamus, and prefrontal cortex, areas of the brain that are responsible for processing fear and anxiety. When I thought of something devastating, these parts of my brain sent messages throughout my body, and my heart rate rose and my stress hormones—including cortisol and adrenaline—flooded my body. I would go into an artificial fight-or-flight response every time I willed myself to cry—even though absolutely nothing had happened. Very quickly that level of disaster preparation will wear a person down.

Directors, fans, and Mom praised me endlessly for my over-the-top dramatic responses. Subconsciously, I began to associate catastrophe with adoration; people loved me because make-believe bad things happened to me. Grown-ups gave me positive attention when—as an actor—I failed, got sick, screamed and cried, killed, grieved, and suffered. Reality merged with my imagination and burrowed into my core memories, where all my shame and trauma lived. Is it any wonder why I’ve faced so many real struggles in my life? I’ve often wondered whether—unintentionally—I’ve brought on my traumas because I’m wired to think they’re good for me.

Of course, no one realized the damage that was being done to my body and spirit at the time—least of all Mom and Dad. My time on Guiding Light felt like a huge achievement, and I loved it because it was fun. Once, Lizzie Spaulding wandered through the woods in the dark and fell down a well. Her stepmom, Harley Cooper—who later became her aunt (don’t ask)—rescued her by scaling into the well, then climbing out with me on her back. I accepted that challenge with open arms. Gymnastics had made me sturdy and strong, and I flung my body into the well and clung on to Harley like we were both made of Velcro. Ever since that day, I’ve loved how physical acting can be. As far as I’m concerned, bring on all the stunts because I’ll do them in a heartbeat.

Today I see the positive emotional benefits of physicality. Experts say that one of the healthiest and most accessible ways to process trauma is to move your muscles. Exercise of any sort releases the emotional and physical discomfort created by the fight or flight response, allowing the painful memories that reside in your body to dissipate. To rephrase and reframe the words of trauma researcher and psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk, the body will no longer keep the score. While I climbed out of that well, I was releasing all my self-created bad thoughts. Just like that, my lifequakes floated away.

Not everything about my body followed my acting schedule, especially my teeth.

It’s a fact of life that kids lose their baby teeth. Fortunately, One Life to Live and Guiding Light didn’t care. Sarah Roberts and Lizzie Spaulding were children, and they matured in all the physical ways a young child does. If I returned to the set without my front teeth, that meant the tooth fairy had come to the Spaulding house. Life moved on in Springfield.

Commercials were different. A lost tooth was a lost job.

“Mom…?” I said tentatively one day when I was eight. “Bad news.” I opened my mouth to show her my right front tooth was no longer there.

“Oh no, what are we going to do?” Mom pleaded as my stomach started roiling. I’d been cast in a commercial that was shooting in two days, and Mom knew what was at stake. “Hang on, I have an idea,” Mom said, moving toward the kitchen phone. “I need to make a call.”

Two hours later, Mom announced that I should get my shoes and coat on right away because we were going to the dentist. Dr. Bob was a family friend, and while he’d never been my dentist, Mom assured me that whatever procedure he was going to do was simple.

“In a few days, you are going to have a tooth again,” Mom said with authority. “Just trust me.”

I winced. God knows what Mom had in mind.

Dr. Bob walked into the room not long after I’d situated myself in a dental chair that was much too big for me. He asked me to open my mouth, and when I did, he looked up at Mom.

“Piece of cake, Lesley. We’ll give her a flipper.”

I looked skeptically at Mom. What in the world was a flipper?

A nice dental assistant took a mold of my top teeth, and Dr. Bob explained to me and Mom that a flipper is a retainer with an acrylic “palate.” However, because a flipper doesn’t straighten anything, there are no wires. Instead, stuck to the front of the palate is an artificial tooth that fits squarely where the missing tooth used to be. When I put the flipper in my mouth, no one would know I’d lost a tooth.

Mom smiled. “It sounds perfect. But if there are no wires, how does the flipper stay in?”

Dr. Jones sat forward and pointed his rubber-gloved fingers in the direction of my mouth, a move that made me wince. “Simple. Use Fixodent. Just smear it on the pink palate and stick the flipper to the top of her mouth. Then you’re good to go.”

Fixodent. The name was familiar. It sounded a little like some kind of gross medicine. Then I remembered: I’d seen it on TV. Fixodent came in a toothpaste tube but wasn’t toothpaste. It was sticky, pink slime. In its commercial, someone would smear it on a scary-looking set of fake teeth and put the teeth in hot water to show you how well the Fixodent could hold them. Suddenly, it hit me. Fixodent was used on dentures. And only old people had dentures.

On the day of the commercial shoot, Mom and I pulled into our parking spot right outside the studio. Mom reached into her purse and removed a tube of Fixodent, followed by my flipper. She squeezed pink goo out of the tube onto the palate, then handed me the flipper, its one fake tooth extending down like a claw.

“Put it in,” Mom said.

I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer that my tongue wouldn’t touch the slime, and put the torture device into my mouth.

“Thith tastes terrible, Mom,” I pleaded.

The flipper hadn’t just given me a new tooth, it had also given me a lisp.

With each new lost tooth, I got a new flipper. Or, at least, a new tooth for the same old flipper until my mouth was too big for the acrylic palate to fit. I never got used to the taste of Fixodent; it was supposed to be minty fresh, but it tasted more like slimy metal.

This all worked just fine until one day, it didn’t.

When I was about nine, Mom and I flew to Chicago for a commercial shoot. At the time, Chicago was a major base for commercial filming, probably because producers got more bang for their buck there than on either coast. I’d lost a tooth a few weeks before, so I had my flipper packed and ready. Because I was convinced that if I wished hard enough nothing would happen, I didn’t tell Mom I had another wiggly tooth. There wasn’t any sense in worrying her.

The night before the audition, I bit into something sticky and hard, and the tooth promptly exited my mouth.

“Mom!” I yelled under my breath, terrified about her reaction. “I just lost a tooth!”

We were far away from home, with an important job in less than twenty-four hours. There was no Dr. Bob on speed dial. Nor was there any dentist Mom could strong arm for a last-minute appointment for something purely cosmetic—and completely absurd. Mom held out her hand, and I dropped the tooth into it. She ran to our hotel bathroom and returned with her makeup bag, then pulled out a tube of Fixodent.

“Open your mouth,” she insisted, and I did as I was told. Mom squeezed a dab of Fixodent onto the tooth, used a tissue to wipe my gums dry, and then popped the tooth into the gap.

A metallic taste filled my mouth, and within seconds, the baby tooth fell out.

“What are we going to do?” I cried. I could tell Mom was on edge, and when Mom got a bad case of the nerves, I did too.

“Get your coat on,” Mom said after a few tense seconds. “We’re going to the hardware store.”

Half an hour later, when we’d returned to our hotel room, Mom emptied her bag and placed a small tube of superglue next to my flipper.

“Give me the tooth you lost,” she said. “And cross your fingers.”

I dutifully handed Mom the tooth and watched her squeeze a dab of superglue onto it. Then she affixed the tooth to the flipper.

“We have to wait ten seconds till it dries,” she said. “But this is going to work. I know it.”

Partly in horror and partly out of respect for the MacGyver-like skills I had no idea she possessed, I stepped back to give Mom some room. “What if it’s crooked and doesn’t fit?” I asked.

Mom smiled devilishly. “Then we try again.”

A few seconds later, Mom handed me the flipper, now containing two teeth, and I slipped it tentatively into my mouth. A little voice in my head told me that if the superglue wasn’t dry, I was going to live with this flipper for all eternity.

I closed my mouth and licked my top teeth. Then I opened my mouth and smiled.

“It fits?” Mom asked.

“Yeth, Mom,” I answered. “It fitths.”

Lisp be damned, I got the job.

SIX

Little House on the Hudson

Dad had big news.

“We’re moving! Your mother and I are building a house in another town.”

Jansen was just a baby, so I took on the role of being excited for both of us. A new house meant more room and new friends. No more feeling like the odd person out and no more scolding from my teachers. Best of all, no more harsh, judgmental Mrs. Rogers. Mom also assured me famous artists lived in our future town, which, in my mind, would make the fact that I was on TV seem completely normal.

“Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh once lived there,” she said. “And now Baryshnikov does!”

The town we’d be moving to was called Snedens Landing, and it was about ten miles south of our current house in Congers. But Snedens Landing wasn’t any old town; it was known as a “historic hamlet.” Snedens Landing had been developed as an artists’ colony in the early twentieth century, and the names of its oldest houses reflected its distinct personality. There was the Clock House (yes, there was a massive clock on the roof); the Ivy House (large and covered in ivy), the Ferry House (near the Hudson—you take a guess); and the Pirate’s Lair (no clue). Some of its one hundred houses even predated the 1800s, like the Ding Dong House, built in 1750 and formerly home to a giant bell with a really wimpy name. In addition to Mikhail Baryshnikov, Bill Murray lived in Snedens Landing, as did Jon Voight’s French ex-wife, who’d moved there with her two children after the divorce. Mom said one of the kids was named Angie. In Snedens Landing, Halloween was the event of the year, with trick-or-treaters running up and down the streets, knocking on the doors of pointy-roofed wooden houses that looked like they might belong to witches. The acre of land Dad was building on was right in front of a small, historic church called Palisades Presbyterian, and there was a swim club less than a mile or so away where I could join the swim team.

The only issue we faced was that the house wasn’t ready yet. Until it was, we’d live in a small guest cottage on the construction site.

“Guest cottage” is a generous term. The building was more like a metal box.

I might have been a tomboy up for most challenges, but this shack made the cabin in Little House on the Prairie look like Buckingham Palace. The place was just weird. The entrance led directly into the kitchen and the living room, and when you walked through them you found yourself in the bathroom. Yes, the bathroom was right smack in the middle of the house, surrounded by all the other rooms. I don’t remember any of the bedrooms, but that’s probably because the bathroom loomed so large in my mind. It was always a little drafty, but Dad assured us we would be fine. In fact, a cool house was a good house because we didn’t have air-conditioning. No big deal. We’d only be there a few months until we could move into the house of our dreams.

A few months passed. Fall turned to winter. And just after 1995 became 1996, a historic blizzard hit.

On January 6, 1996, an arctic high-pressure system formed somewhere north of New York City, and over the course of a few days, the entire Northeast became a dumping ground for snow. Construction on our new house ground to a halt as big, white drifts piled up in our driveway and yard. Six-year-old me normally would have begged Mom to let me bundle me up in my snowsuit and run outside to play, but I couldn’t get out the door; the wind was blowing the snow sideways, blocking all the exits to our house.

Then things got much, much worse.

“Skip!!!” Mom yelled as the sun dipped in the sky one afternoon. “The heat’s off. We have no heat.” She was holding Jansen, and his little teeth were chattering.

Dad was the consummate handyman and was always fixing something around the house, but his skills extended to flooring and fires, not extreme cold and snowdrifts. Or maybe he just hadn’t faced that kind of challenge.

“We must have run out of propane,” he said. “And there is not a damn person in this county who can drive on those roads to get propane. Not me, not anyone.”

Mom’s face was white, and for once, she was speechless.

“So, grab all the blankets you can,” Dad said assertively. “We’re going to hunker down tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get propane if it kills me. And it just might kill me.”

That night, Mom bundled me and Jansen into our snowsuits, hats, and wool mittens. She placed us in the middle of the bed, and then she and Dad climbed in on either side and wrapped their arms around us. Then Jansen started to cry.

“It’s okay, Jansen. We’re going to make it,” I said.

All night long, we clung to each other under blankets, desperate for any bit of heat our bodies could produce. Mom whispered words of encouragement while Dad tried to make it seem like a grand adventure. Dad was great at that. Every time we drove to see Mom’s parents in Indiana, he took the middle seat out of the beat-up burgundy van he used for his flooring company and made a fort. Then he plugged a TV and VCR into the cigarette lighter so I could curl up in blankets and watch movies on VHS tapes the whole drive.

“We’re just a family sitting in our igloo,” Dad said in a singsong voice. “We’ve spent all day outside in the freezing cold, and now it’s time to go to bed. Let’s sleep a couple of hours, and then I’ll go out and gather berries.”

By sunrise, we weren’t suffering from frostbite, but none of us had slept a wink.

Dad extracted himself from the bundle of blankets and my arms, walked to the window, and opened it. A pile of snow fell inside the shack, and Dad stuck his head out, then turned to us and smiled.

“It stopped. I’ll be back with propane soon.”

Dad was an even bigger hero to me after that. When the house was finally move-in ready, I created a space in the corner of my room and placed a framed picture of him on a side table. He was surrounded by his firefighter friends, young and smiling, with that baby face that had won Mom over. Looking at it, I could almost smell the smoke that clung to his clothes after twenty-four hours at work. He was wearing his suit and helmet, just like all the other guys in the photo. A lot of those same faces would be gone forever on a sunny September morning a few years later.

I didn’t realize how hard it must have been for Mom, with me idolizing Dad. He got to walk in and be the hero, while she was the stickler and the one who put her foot down when Dad said, “Go talk to your mother.” But that was just their dynamic. It was what Jansen and I knew, and for a long time, it worked.

I adored our new house. It looked a lot like an old home, but not one of those witchy ones with a funny name. It had a gabled roof, dormer windows, and two wooden fireplaces with mosaic tiling, all of which made it look like it was part of a fairy tale. Thanks to Dad’s business, we got the best floors possible: hardwood throughout, with parquet in some rooms. Jansen’s floors had a light blue tint, and since Mom was still determined to make me a girlie girl, she asked Dad to make my floors lavender with white borders. Then she hung shades in the windows that had angels on them. I didn’t argue because it was not a fight I was going to win.

It was a lovely house, the kind of place that held promise and that four people with a desire to love, grow, work, and be a family could settle in and flourish. Mom and Dad had put their hearts and souls into it, as well as their life savings. It was four thousand three hundred square feet, after all. I didn’t fully grasp it at the time, but they’d done this for me and Jansen. They wanted us to feel rooted in a comfortable, protected place. This house was that and then some. I immediately set off into the woods, imagining that I was on an adventure and that no one would ever find me. I stayed there half the day, happily. Our property had become my secret hideaway.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I began to feel truly safe, secure, and at home. There was an unstated understanding in Snedens Landing that it was okay to be a little artistic or unconventional; like the Ding Dong House, we were all impressive, but just the tiniest bit weird. I started to make friends who didn’t raise their eyebrows at me or question the validity of what I did. If I dug below the surface, I discovered that their hobbies and lives and families were different, just like mine. It was a breath of fresh air, and I loved exploring and taking it all in.

One of my first friends was a girl named Madison who lived nearby. Her dad was a doctor, and they owned a huge property I could ride my bike to. If you headed down their driveway and through the woods behind their house, you’d stumble onto the small farm Madison’s family kept, with two donkeys named Jackpot and Maggie May, goats, and a beady-eyed, nocturnal creature called a sugar glider. Closer to the house was an enclosure with chickens and a very mean turkey who I soon learned to respect rather than fear. Madison and I created a game called “Get in the Cage,” where we’d lock ourselves in the enclosure and scream when the turkey ran after us. On the outside of the enclosure roamed their peacocks; they were gorgeous, but they really got around the neighborhood. After a playdate at Madison’s, I’d return to my bike, and without fail, it would be covered in peacock poop.

Inside the house, Madison’s mom—who soon became a second mother to me—kept chinchillas, a monkey, and a macaw who lived on a perch in Madison’s mom’s reading room. “You and all of my kids hate the macaw,” Madison’s mom used to say, “but I love him.” Then, there were their dogs. They had more dogs than the Humane Society.

Madison’s house was heaven to me, not just because her parents were so kind and because I loved when her mom called me “her kid,” but because animals were very quickly becoming my favorite things in life.

People ask me all the time if I would have chosen acting if it hadn’t been something I fell into as a child. Honestly, I’m not sure; acting has been part of the fiber of my being for so long that it might as well be imprinted on my DNA. Acting is what I’ve trained myself in and what my body and mind have always directed me to do. It’s like favoring a certain hand or speaking your native language; you can’t pinpoint how those practices became so natural, but they are, undoubtedly, part of your foundation. So, I suppose I could have decided to become an actor, but I know I would have chosen to work with animals. Animals give me perspective, making my role on this planet seem minuscule in the face of all they do and how well they survive and adapt. Animals give love without expecting something in return and show joy without embarrassment or shame. Jackpot, Maggie May, the dogs, and those peacocks didn’t recoil into their stage fright; they expressed their needs, never worrying about letting others down.

One day Madison and I were playing in her backyard when a boy a little younger than us came out of the big house that backed up to hers. Madison nodded her head when she saw him.

“That’s Caleb,” she said to me. “If you’re nice to him, I bet he’ll let you play with the puppies his dog just had.”

“Puppies?!” This was music to my ears.

Madison nodded, and I motioned to her to walk up to Caleb to ask him about these puppies. Right then an older man came out of the house and walked toward us. He had dark, droopy eyes and hair that stood up and out in all directions. I figured he’d just woken up from a nap.

“Caleb!” the man called. “Did you ask Madison and her friend about seeing the puppies?” He looked toward Madison. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Madison answered. “This is my friend, Hayden.”

“Hi Hayden,” he responded.

I could have sworn I’d seen this man somewhere before, but I couldn’t place his face or remember his name. I realized that the more polite I was to him, though, the longer he’d probably let me play with his puppies. So, I smiled sweetly and cleared my throat.

“I think I know you. Do you work with my dad?”

“I don’t know,” he replied flatly. “What does your dad do?”

“He owns a flooring company. He’s also a firefighter.”

The man smiled and nodded his head. “Maybe,” he said quietly. Then he turned and motioned for us to follow him.

As I walked toward his house, I suddenly realized that I’d told Mom I would be home within the hour. It was almost dinnertime, and she and Dad expected me to help out. I could risk getting in trouble to play with the puppies, or I could do the right thing and start to head back. The choice was agonizing.

I thought, my heart aching, I need to go home.

I grabbed Madison’s arm. “I’m going to ride my bike back now. I told Mom I’d be back for dinner. By the way, who is this guy?”

Madison turned to me, laughed, and rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Hayden. It’s Bill Murray. Some kind of actor you are.”

Bill Murray might have been my first accidental celebrity sighting, but he wasn’t my last.

“Hayden, can you go down the street and give our new neighbors this plant?” Mom yelled up the stairs to me a year or so after we’d moved into our house.

“Sure, where?” I asked, my reluctance to meet new people now a thing of the past.

Mom told me which house after I walked into the kitchen, then handed me a potted plant. “Take your brother. Hold his hand when you cross the street, please.”

Jansen was a deeply sensitive child and often had night terrors, so he still slept with Mom and Dad. Every time they left us with a babysitter so they could go out, he clung to Mom’s leg, then cried for an hour after she’d pried him off. Dad said it was enough to make him never want to take Mom out again. So, as I reached for the potted plant with one hand, I grabbed Jansen’s chubby hand with the other. We walked down the street and soon noticed a dozen or so cars in our new neighbor’s driveway, spilling out onto the street. As we reached the door, I dropped Jansen’s hand.

“Go ahead, knock,” I said, pushing my brother toward the door. Everyone loved Jansen, mostly because of how sweet and gentle he was. With his sandy brown hair and thick, dark eyebrows, he had shed his peach fuzz and was starting to look like a proper little man. Personally, I was just happy he was wearing clothes. Jansen spent every single minute he was home either buck naked or wearing his Spider-Man tighty-whities.

Jansen knocked, and I heard a woman’s voice answer. “Who is it?”

I took over. “It’s your neighbors from up the street.”

The door opened, and a petite, pregnant woman with a perfect button nose and wide, heavily lidded eyes opened the door. I gasped. Wearing a stylish sweater and chunky boots, she was a million times more exotic than anyone I’d met in Rockland County. Her dark hair and pouty lips made her seem otherworldly. As a matter of fact, she looked exactly like a beautiful elf.

“Hello!” she said cheerily in an accent I couldn’t place. “It’s so nice to meet you. What is your name?”

I smiled and extended the plant toward her. “My name is Hayden Panettiere.” I pointed to Jansen. “And this is my little brother, Jansen. We live up the street, and my parents wanted me to bring you this plant as a housewarming gift.”

The Elf Lady smiled and took the plant from my hands. “Well, nice to meet you, Hayden and Jansen.” There was that unfamiliar accent again. “My name is Björk.”

Even though I was in the City almost daily, I was pretty sheltered, especially when it came to avant-garde Icelandic pop stars/artists/actors. But I’d watched the Oscars, and I remembered Björk. She was the woman who wore a feathered swan dress on Oscar night, with the swan’s long neck wrapped around her body and extending down her chest. This woman was bold, exotic, and art in its purest form. Most famous New York and Hollywood people I’d met had expensive clothes, gleaming white teeth, and an air of authority, but Björk was a celebrity on a vastly different level. She was Iceland meets Saturn meets Middle Earth.

“Come on in,” Björk said, seeming perfectly normal and not at all like a mythical being. “We’re having a party. My son is around here somewhere if you want to meet him. He’s not much older than you.”

Jansen and I looked inside, and I pulled him in with me. I didn’t care if this party was extraterrestrial. I liked people, and I liked parties even more.

Most of the people inside were about my parents’ age, but they were about as different from my parents as you could get. When Mom got dressed up to go out, she put on her long mink coat and changed her lipstick color. Right in front of me stood a woman wearing one long, dangling earring that was shaped like a hand. Dad’s idea of daring was wearing a suit without a tie, but next to Hand Earring was a man whose face sported half of a beard.

I looked down at Jansen, and he stared up at me. His eyes were bugging out of his head. My overprotective impulses kicked in, and I decided it was time to take him home.

“We better get back,” I said to Björk, wondering what her last name was because “Mrs. Björk” didn’t sound right. “Mom’s going to be worried we haven’t come home.”

Björk smiled sweetly. “Should I call her? Because you’re welcome to stay. And your mom can come, too.”

“No, no, no,” I protested, even though a big part of me wanted to stay, if only to find out what was up with that guy’s half beard. “But it was so nice to meet you.”

“You are very welcome,” she answered. “I hope you come back.”

I smiled and grabbed Jansen’s hand. My little brother had been dead silent the entire time, but then he finally opened his mouth as we walked out the door.

“Welcome to Snedens Landing!” he yelled. “I hope you like your plant!”

SEVEN

Girls

Every time Mom and I went to the mall to look for school clothes or an outfit for an audition, I headed straight to the boys’ section. Jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps were my style, and I bristled at dresses, tights, or fancy shoes. Mom never went with it, and without fail we left with bags exploding with pink. Mom then laid out my clothes every night, and I dutifully put them on the next morning. I did this until around middle school, when I broke down and told Mom that while I valued her help, I really, truly could dress myself.

Before auditions, Mom insisted that dressing the part would get me the part, and if I leaned more into my feminine side, I’d get the part instead of all the other girls. She was mostly right; I worked in an industry that styled my hair with hot rollers, costumed me in dresses, and never failed to cast me as a sweet, spunky little lady. Deep down I knew that’s not who I wanted to be. I wasn’t the stereotypical girl child my mom laid out on the bed every night. If I wanted to dress in boys’ clothes, what was wrong with that?

I also had another secret: while I didn’t want to act or dress like a girl, I sure as heck wanted to spend a lot of time with them. And not just as friends.

I can’t remember when the feelings started, but I think it must have been around kindergarten. While my friends developed crushes on boys and spent hours at lunch and recess obsessing over what boy had noticed them, I was oblivious. Aside from the nine-year-old Chex actor who’d cost me a job and the cute Kodak boy who sent my nervous system into overdrive, girls were much more my speed. There was something soft and approachable about them; girls were what I’d now call sensual, but at the time I couldn’t put a name to it. Girls made sense to me, and I related to the energy they radiated. Their hands were smooth, and their hair smelled like Herbal Essences. I liked how delicate their cheekbones and lips were. Girls made me feel warm and welcome… and also a little bit turned on.

The first time I experimented with a girl was when I was about eight or nine. I had a friend over, and as we played pretend and talked about our favorite shows and books, I decided to tell her my secret. I wasn’t all that embarrassed; my feelings about girls felt natural, and I was curious if she felt the same. This was also the late-1990s—a time when same-sex relationships had begun to move from the fringes and the forbidden into an issue you saw on television. Buffy’s best friend, Willow, had come out as bisexual, and Will and Grace had just premiered on NBC. Dawson’s Creek was about to show a gay kiss on television. I hadn’t quite absorbed any of this cultural shift, but it was out there, and perhaps I sensed that my feelings weren’t taboo. Besides, I didn’t assign myself to any category; I was just Hayden, and I thought girls were great.

“Well, that’s okay,” my friend said after I told her. Then her eyes lit up. “Do you want to…?” Her gaze moved down toward her pants, and while I wasn’t exactly sure where she was going, I figured it was harmless. We could play a little game of trust.

Tale as old as time. Kids experiment, and they always have.

My friend scooted toward me and motioned for me to put my hand on her belly. I hesitated, then placed it right above her jeans. I took a deep breath, then scooted it lower, then lower.

“That tickles!” my friend squealed. I looked at her to make sure she was okay, and she nodded. I wiggled my fingers and slid my hand right down toward her underwear.

I couldn’t really tell what my hand landed on, but none of it felt like a big deal; what made up her body was exactly what made up mine. But at the same time, I sensed that I’d unlocked some mystery. I’d discovered a girl’s body, and it felt perfectly natural.

Just then I heard a noise. I looked up, and I saw the doorknob turn.

“Hayden, are you in here?” a voice called out. It was Dad. Oh my God, it was Dad.

My friend jerked to the side and scooted back away from the door, but as she moved, I got dragged along with her. My arm was stuck in her jeans, trapped under the waistband. I pulled as hard as I could to get my hand out, but between the squirming and the vise grip of her pants, I was hopelessly stuck.

“Dad! Don’t come in!” I screamed. “Do NOT come in!”

It was too late. My eyes darted to the door, and there was Dad, frozen in shock. Heat flooded my face, and I stared at him, then at my friend, then toward my poor, trapped hand, then back to Dad, who had started to tiptoe backward out of the room.

“I am so sorry,” Dad whispered, his shock turning into laughter. “So sorry. I am getting out of here right now.”

The door closed quietly, and just like that, Dad was gone.

As far as I know, Dad never told Mom the ridiculous scene he walked into. Mom didn’t discriminate against anyone, but adding this to my refusal to act feminine would shake her up too much. I didn’t want anything to disturb the world she’d help build and cultivate for me. In fact, I didn’t want anything to disturb my parents, period.

I’ve also never told the public I’ve been with women. And I say “been with women” because I haven’t fallen in love or had anything beyond sexual relationships with any, though I suppose that could happen someday. But I have been attracted to women just as long as I’ve been attracted to men.

At a certain point in my career, actors began sharing their sexual exploits and preferences far more publicly than they had in the past, and I didn’t want people to think I was hitching my wagon to a fad. Although, because sexual feelings are fluid—and they always have been—I know it wasn’t a trend at all. I also think it’s healthy and cathartic for stars to be honest with themselves and the public, and I don’t look down on anyone who’s been open about who they are or who they sleep with. In fact, I celebrate it; if you want to live your truth out loud, do it.

It’s just never been my time to discuss this—until now, when I have the confidence and trust in who I am. Years ago I worried about sharing something that would invite harsh judgment or unwanted opinions, but now, I just need to live my truth. This is me. I can’t be transparent about my life if I’m not honest about my experiences, so I hope my revelation and some of the stories I’ll tell in this book make a difference to someone out there. For the sake of your mental health, your relationships with others, and your path forward in life, it’s so important to be comfortable with who you are—no matter who you’re attracted to or where your hands end up.

EIGHT

Seven Freckles and Five Band-Aids

I don’t think Mom or I really knew what to expect when I landed the role of Princess Dot in A Bug’s Life, Pixar’s second film after Toy Story. We thought it would be a different kind of challenge than I was used to, but we certainly didn’t believe it would be a two-year odyssey that would stretch my acting chops in brand-new directions.

When I was cast, I was seven. By the time A Bug’s Life hit the theaters, I was nine.

One thing became clear to me the minute I stepped into Pixar’s recording studio. I was Princess Dot. I had seven freckles on my nose, and she did, too. Princess Dot was spunky, and spunky was my trademark. This was all by design; Dot might have been animated, but I was the person who’d show her all her moves. First, the animators matched Dot’s vocalization to the way my mouth shifted and changed. Then the reverse happened: during the parts when Dot’s mouth didn’t quite fit the dialogue, I had to go back and rerecord, molding my words with her mouth’s movements.

It was like playing the mirror game with an animated insect.

Almost immediately I discovered how difficult and tedious voice work could be. While I was used to filming an entire scene—often over the course of many takes—I recorded Dot’s dialogue line by line, always doing multiple takes of each line. In tone and pitch, each line had to be consistent. I did this slowly and methodically over the course of many months. With Dot, I also had to create a range of expressions using only my voice. No facial expressions to relay fear or anticipation and no movements to show excitement or boredom. Just the exaggerated sounds of a child who’d learned how to read the year before. My voice came alive in ways I didn’t dream it could—even with my most basic lines—but I had to will that to happen. I wasn’t simply reading a script. I was voice acting, and it was arguably the hardest work I’d ever done.

Standing behind a mic in a cold, quiet recording studio, I was keenly aware that I’d be acting all alone. In every commercial and on both soap operas, I’d been able to play off my fellow actors to find my character or make a line hit exactly the way it was intended to. Dot was by herself, searching in the dark as she tried to nail all the right notes. The directors were nothing but kind to me, but every day I felt like I was trying to show them what I was capable of, proving myself with every enunciation, nuance, exclamation, and stressed syllable. Words mattered in a way they’d never mattered before. Words were pretty much all I had in that chilly, silent room.

There’s such beauty in voice work, but it’s not for the faint of heart. Think about it: if you took the dialogue out of a live action film and put it into an animated film, that movie would be unbelievably dull. Voice actors make a film come alive with only one part of their bodies, and you better hope that body part doesn’t change over the two years it takes you to record the script. (I was seven, so even though I had a few years before full-blown puberty, I still had to make my pitch higher toward the end of recording.) But I loved Dot and voicing her made me dive right into my creativity and imagination. As Princess Dot, I could be curious, silly, noisy, and over-the-top. Don’t get me wrong: voice work was hard, but it was also a much-needed exercise in keeping me on my toes and stretching me to dig for emotion.

When we wrapped up the project, someone in the crew approached me with a present.

“Is this for me?” I asked.

“It sure is,” he said.

I tore apart the wrapping paper and ripped open the box. When I looked down to see whatever was inside, I started to laugh.

“It’s Dot!” I yelled. “There she is!”

The crew had given me the original, handmade clay model of Dot. From that day on, I vowed never to kill a bug again.

Not long after A Bug’s Life premiered, my agent at the time gave Mom a call.

“I’ve got something huge that’s right up Hayden’s alley. She is made for it.”

My agent was both wrong and right.

Jerry Bruckheimer—yes, the Jerry Bruckheimer, the Top Gun super producer—had plans to make a film called Remember the Titans, about a newly integrated Virginia football team that recruits a Black head coach to replace the long-standing white coach. It was set in 1971, when racism was boiling over in the newly desegregated South. Based on a true story, Denzel Washington had been cast as the Black coach, Herman Boone, while Will Patton played Bill Yoast, the white coach who was about to lose his job.

Bill’s daughter was a feisty tomboy named Sheryl. She was the spiritual, comical center of the film, who helped bridge the town and team’s racial tensions through humor, heart, and determination. While the true drama of the film centered on dismantling systemic racism, Sheryl’s worldview was simple: she believed football was one of society’s great levelers. She didn’t understand or subscribe to racist beliefs; she just saw a game that she and everyone else rallied around. As far as she was concerned, let the best team win, whatever their players looked like.

My then-agent set out to get me an audition, and it didn’t go well.

“She’s not right for the film,” the casting director said to her. “I’ve seen her tapes, and she’s the JonBenet Ramsey type.” JonBenet’s tragic death had happened about four years before, yet she was still the poster child for child beauty queens. “She even looks like JonBenet with that curly hair,” she continued. “Regardless, I’ve seen Hayden act, and she’s no tomboy.”

They didn’t know me, and my agent wasn’t having it. She called the casting director again and again, determined to get me that audition. Finally, she wore her down. The casting director said yes. Mom booked us a flight to LA, and I began reading the script.

Two days before our trip, I headed to our swim club because school was out and so was the sun. Mom brought along what she considered her new magic bullet in the war we waged with my blond hair’s dark roots: Sun In. Mom had even been spraying Jansen’s hair, which—added to the awful mullet she liked him to have—made him look like he belonged in a 1980s boy band. But not me. Sun In held the power to bleach my roots in no time flat; we just had to be prepared for them to be a slightly different shade than the rest of my hair.

With my hair smelling like lemons, chlorine, and dirty dishwater, I let my head bake in the sun for the recommended half an hour. Then I dashed off to the water slide. I loved that water slide. I climbed up the ladder, sat down, and grabbed the slide’s sides to rocket my body twelve feet down to the cold water.

Splash.

I closed my eyes tight, telling myself that with just a little bit of effort I could swim to the bottom. I certainly had enough air in my lungs. I flipped over, kicked, and kicked again. My ears started to ache as my chest became tight. Suddenly, I felt my knuckles scrape against the hard, grainy concrete at the bottom. The flesh on my fingers ripped open, and I shot back up, wincing in pain.

“Mom, Mom!” I yelled when I got to the surface. “I’m bleeding!”

The first thing I thought of was that they’d probably have to clear the pool because of all the blood. My second thought was about my Remember the Titans audition. How was I supposed to audition for a major Hollywood picture with bloody, shredded knuckles? This was a tragedy. A cataclysmic tragedy.

“What happened?!” Mom asked, jogging toward me.

I started sobbing. “I hit the bottom. It hurts. And I have an audition, a big one. What have I done?”

I climbed out of the pool, and Mom looked me up and down. Clearly, her Mama Bear instincts had kicked in because she wrapped a towel around me and pulled me close. “Look, honey,” she said, “it’s not that bad. Nothing a few Band-Aids can’t fix. And as for the audition, I think I have a plan.”

If this involves superglue, I’m out, I said to myself.

An hour later my bandaged fingers and I walked into Sears with Mom and headed straight for the children’s clothing section. Unlike previous trips, we made a beeline for the boys’ area, where Mom handed me some boys’ jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.

“Here, this will fit,” Mom said, holding the sweatshirt up to me. “They want tomboy, we’ll give them a tomboy who’s not afraid to get a little bloody. You dress the part, you get the part.”

Two days later, I boarded a plane to Los Angeles with my hair in braids, a brand-new haul of boys’ clothes, and five Band-Aids wrapped around my fingers. We even put a little gauze under them to make my injuries look worse. That afternoon, I walked into the casting room wearing an outfit that made me feel, at long last, like me. I was Hayden, the tomboy, and when I opened my mouth, I slipped into the character of Sheryl. My hands shook less than normal, and my voice barely cracked. Gazing out toward the director, I had the confidence to channel a feisty football-loving preteen caught between the racism of her town and the fearlessness of a coach who wanted to break that down. I didn’t freeze up. I turned it on and let it loose.

Mom later claimed that the casting director threw open the door after my audition, walked into the waiting room, and fell to her knees.

“I am so sorry! Get Hayden’s agent on the phone and tell her what a fool I was to question her! Hayden Panettiere has the role!”

I remember none of this, but Mom—who leans into the drama—swears it’s true. I was about to take on the biggest role of my life, and it was about to change everything.

NINE

Remember the Titans

I couldn’t contain my excitement as I headed down to Georgia to film Remember the Titans. This was a high priority Walt Disney film with an Oscar-winning star and a producer known for creating action-packed blockbusters. The script was brilliant, the crew was seasoned, and the director, Boaz Yakin, was poised to become one of Hollywood’s most bankable directors. It was also my first big live action film, and it was a great film. I still get chills when I watch it.

During our first cast meeting, though, all I could do was stare at the young, muscular guys who were portraying the infamous Titans’ football team.

“Wow,” I said, turning to Mom, “if this is who I’m working with, put me in, Coach.”

What I don’t think I or anyone else realized was that, at ten years old, I’d been a working actor longer than most of the people in the film. I might have been motivated by nerves, but I could hold my own when I had to, and I worked hard at my job. Plus, I was brimming over with excitement about meeting so many new people. I’d read the script dozens of times, and as far as I was concerned, I wasn’t stretching one inch to become Sheryl Yoast.

Denzel Washington was expected to carry the film, which was no surprise. He’d been nominated for an Academy Award several times and had won as Best Supporting Actor in 1992 for Glory, and all of us at that cast meeting felt more than honored to be working with him. Mom’s number one job on any set was to protect me and make sure people respected my work, so as soon as she got a chance, she walked over to him to introduce me. I might not have anywhere close to the billing he did, but we had plenty of scenes together, and she wanted him to think of me as something other than just some kid.

“Mr. Washington,” Mom said, “this is my daughter, Hayden. She’s playing Sheryl Yoast.”

Denzel was seated with his head down. He took his time to look up.

“It’s nice to meet you, Hayden,” he said with that serious, gravelly voice of his. “I look forward to working with you.”

The conversation stopped there. This was a big surprise because if anyone could keep a conversation going, it was me and Mom.

When we walked away, I could tell something wasn’t sitting right with Mom.

“I guess I feel bad for disturbing him,” she said. “He looked like he was deep in whatever method or process he’s going through to prepare for his role. And Herman Boone’s not an easy character. This film is about racism, and that’s a very intense, sensitive subject.”

As filming started, Denzel’s manner didn’t change one bit. I don’t know if it was his credentials or his personality, but he carried himself with a certain austerity that forced me to take him seriously—not that I didn’t do that already. He occupied his own intense space because that’s how he created his character, and everyone knew to respect it.

One of our biggest scenes together involved Denzel as Herman Boone coming to the Yoast house hoping to talk to my dad, Bill. Boone had just taken my dad’s head coaching job, so Sheryl was no fan of his. When the script called for Sheryl to open the door, my plan was to stare daggers at Denzel and growl, “What do you want?” like some young, ferocious creature protecting her den and everyone in it. Sheryl was fiercely loyal to her dad—something I could relate to—and she had no time for Herman Boone.

The cameras started rolling, and the director called “Action!”

Knock, knock.

I reached for the doorknob, clenching my jaw and narrowing my eyes as I readied myself to say my big, mean line…

… and as I opened the door, there stood Denzel with his mouth open and his tongue sticking out.

“Cut!” the director called.

Denzel did this same routine at least five times, and each time the grip on my professionalism slipped farther away.

We were fast friends from there on out. There were footballs scattered everywhere around the set, and between takes Denzel and I tossed a football back and forth like I was one of his kids. Sometimes the handsome football players joined in, and that made the game even more fun.

The entire cast and crew—and especially Will Patton, who is one of the kindest, most soulful people I’ve ever met—treated me like an equal the entire movie. I was far and away the youngest on set, but I felt like I was one of them. I could communicate with them, even without words or a football, because they were working actors just like me. They understood how hard it is to balance an all-consuming job with the rest of your life, and they were exhausted—yet exhilarated—at the end of each day, just like I was.

Mom was treated as an equal, too, which can be unusual on a set. We’ve all heard rumors about stage moms. But during the scene where Sheryl visits Gerry, a football player who suffered partial paralysis after a car crash, Boaz Yakin let Mom stand by him and coach me. He even listened to her opinions about the best take.

“She should probably be crying in this scene,” Mom said to Boaz.

Boaz frowned. “I’m not sure about that,” he answered.

Mom shook her head. “No, she should be. Trust me. This is the take you want.”

Guess which take made the final cut?

When an actor gets older, people begin to have expectations about what and how much they can deliver. With each TV show, commercial, or film, those expectations become higher, and you have to meet them even when it seems impossible. If you don’t, you get terrible reviews or get passed over for the next job. During Remember the Titans, everyone’s expectations for me were low because I was a kid, so they were in awe when I delivered, and I was forgiven when I messed up. I hadn’t found myself in that sweet spot before, and I haven’t again. I also related to Sheryl so much that she made me feel powerful, and that confidence made her character come alive. As Sheryl, I was strong and authentic, and on Remember the Titans I was the happiest I’d ever felt as an actor. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would in a heartbeat.

TEN

Panic

After A Bug’s Life and Remember the Titans, I was on Hollywood’s radar, and auditions for major movies and TV shows started to roll in. I was so busy that I had to leave Guiding Light behind, and I said goodbye to Lizzie Spaulding in the fall of 2000. It was bittersweet; the cast had become like a family to me, but after cancer, child abuse, involuntary manslaughter, and a handful of alleged felonies that were never prosecuted, I was eager for a part that didn’t involve illness, jail, or death.

Hollywood had other plans. Except for, say, Macaulay Culkin, most twelve-year-olds in 2000 didn’t call the shots in their movie careers, and I was no exception. Auditions came my way, and I went after them. Then a huge script landed: a major motion picture with an A-list director and a meaty part for a scrappy, tough-as-nails preteen who wasn’t afraid to get physical. Mom knew I was perfect for it. All I had to do was send in an audition video of me collapsing on the floor, writhing, moaning, and gasping during a thirty-second full-body seizure.

This audition was going to make my Guiding Light chemotherapy scenes seem like a walk in the park.

“I know this is not the lighthearted comedy you want, but this movie will make your career,” my agent said. “If they cast you, you’ll be costarring with Nicole Kidman. Let me repeat that: NICOLE KIDMAN.”

Nicole Kidman was fresh off filming Moulin Rouge! and fresh out of her marriage to Tom Cruise, and she was one of the most talented, bankable actresses in the world. Moulin Rouge! hadn’t even been released, but she was already seen as a sophisticated, coolly emotional, regal presence in whatever film she signed on to. She could sing, she could dance, she was gorgeous, and no matter what role she took on, she made it her own.

She was also one of my favorite actors in the world.

I figured lighthearted parts could wait. So while Mom filmed, I threw myself to the floor, seized up, curled my toes, and writhed in agony for thirty seconds straight. Then Mom packed up the tape and shipped it off to my agent.

The film was Panic Room, and it was the brainchild of David Fincher, who was coming off the blockbuster success of the psychological thrillers Seven and Fight Club. He’d filmed Fight Club in around two hundred different locations, and it had exhausted him so much that he wanted his next movie to be the opposite. He needed predictable, tight, and claustrophobic. On one stage in Los Angeles, Panic Room would tell the story of a single mother and her daughter, who escape into their Upper West Side brownstone’s panic room when three men invade their home.

It was an amazing premise. I just needed to learn what a panic room was.

“It’s a secret room in your house that’s closed off from the outside, with no windows,” Dad said. “You go in there to hide during a home invasion or, I don’t know, a zombie apocalypse. Of course, if there’s a fire, you’re dead.”

The part really was perfect for me. Not only did Nicole Kidman have long, curly hair like me, but I’d be playing another tough-yet-emotional part. The film was nonstop intensity, and because of my work on soaps, I’d learned how to dial up tension and play off other characters. On Guiding Light, every drama pivoted among several different characters, their energy shifting in relation to one another. I’ve been told that even when I’m not acting, I have a palpable energy; when I’m up, it’s like the sun has come out from behind the clouds. When I’m down, everything feels dark. As an actor, Nicole Kidman is much the same. I thought we were a match made in movie heaven.

David Fincher had liked my work in Remember the Titans. If I got the part, I’d play a diabetic preteen named Sarah. Nicole Kidman would play her mother, Meg, who was recently divorced and looking for a fresh start in her new home. When three men invade the house looking for the $3 million they know is hidden under the floorboards, Meg and Sarah retreat into the panic room. They think they’re safe but soon discover that the room doesn’t have a working phone. Worse, Sarah doesn’t have her insulin. That’s where the seizure I put on tape came in.

The producers and David Fincher loved my audition. When my agent called me to say I got the part of Sarah, I felt like my chest might explode with happiness.

Before filming started, Mom and I packed up and moved to Manhattan Beach—just south of LA—where the set was located. Mom rented a Chrysler Sebring convertible, which she did every time we went to LA, and we drove south along the ocean with the top down. I met Nicole Kidman, who was delightful and even taller than I thought she’d be. (Though—truth be told—I’m five foot two on a good day. To me, everyone is tall.) Nicole and I began camera tests, and I went into costume fittings and hair and makeup trials to create a look for my character. I even made plans for playdates with Nicole’s children, Isabella and Connor, who are three and five years younger than me. I prayed that Nicole and I would fall into our roles as if we’d been born to play mother and daughter. The script was intense, and the acting was physical, and with every line and every scene I committed to memory, I felt more and more exhilarated.

This went on for two glorious, jam-packed weeks until, one afternoon, Nicole hurt herself on set. No one—least of all me—knew what was going on.

Mom got a call that night from the film’s assistant director.

“Nicole Kidman injured her knee, Lesley,” she said. “Please tell Hayden that I am so sorry, but Nicole’s pulling out of the film.”

I didn’t hear a word of the conversation, but from the set of Mom’s jaw, I could tell things weren’t good.

“Apparently, Nicole injured herself while she was filming Moulin Rouge!,” the assistant director continued. “And yesterday she aggravated that same injury. It’s a hairline fracture, meaning she needs to be off her feet.”

“What happens now?” Mom asked.

“We’re trying to decide whether to stop filming and wait for her or hire someone else. It’s up to the studio now, with Nicole’s blessing.”

Mom hung up the phone and told me everything. My heart was crushed.

The waiting game began the next morning and continued for a few tense days. Soon, the studio announced it was looking for other actors to replace Nicole, but they weren’t optimistic. All the big leading ladies were tied up in other projects, although there was a possibility that Angelina Jolie might be free. I thought it would be amazing if two girls from Snedens Landing ended up in the same film. Maybe they could even replace Dwight Yoakam with Bill Murray (in the role of one of the three home invaders) so we could have a proper Rockland County reunion.

Mom and I flew home so I could go back to school, but we understood I might have to return at a moment’s notice. I was uneasy every morning when I woke up. Like most children, I liked a solid routine, and not knowing which coast I’d be on the next day was disconcerting. I also knew this role was a gift, and I was chomping at the bit to play it. It really felt like my entire future hinged on this film.

Then we got the call. Jodie Foster would be replacing Nicole Kidman in the part of Meg.

I was overjoyed—even as happy as I’d been about Nicole Kidman. Jodie Foster was one of my favorite actors, and I could relate to her because she’d been working since she was a kid, just like me. People had said we looked like each other because both of us were small and strong. She brought a quiet force that balanced out my ability to convey big, hard emotions. I told myself it was a great match, and I couldn’t wait to play her daughter.

Mom and I were supposed to fly back to Los Angeles as soon as possible so we could start filming. I was ready, more than ready. But the next morning, Mom woke me up with some news.

“Honey, I have something to tell you about the movie. The producers want to move on to someone else. They’re just not sure you look enough like Jodie Foster.”

I was speechless. I did look like Jodie Foster. Not just that, but I’d earned this part. How could anyone take that away from me?

“They’re going with an actor named Kristen Stewart. I’m so sorry.”

In later years, some media reported that I dropped out of the film before Nicole did—and even before filming began. It was the other way around. Once Nicole was gone, I was out, too. I never got an explanation as to why, and at the time, I accepted it, even though I was incredibly sad. I told myself that parts are like trains, and there will always be another one coming down the tracks. I tried to convince myself that this was meant to be—even though it tore me up.

Years later, my former manager told me the real reason why I was dropped from the film. The director spoke to Mom about cutting my hair so I would look more like Jodie Foster, who’s always rocked a great bob. Mom said no. It was a deal-breaker.

Panic Room went on to gross $197 million worldwide.

ELEVEN

Never Forget

Every December starting when I was two, Mom dressed me (and later Jansen) in the nicest clothes we had and bundled us up in our coats for a trip into the City. Manhattan during the holidays is pure magic, with lights strung on the tops and sides of buildings, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree spreading its branches over what feels like an entire block, and animated shop windows pulling you into a fantastical imaginary world.

I looked forward to these trips all year. The chill and expectation in the air and the crowds of excited people filling up the City made it feel like time had stopped and all was at peace. I had nothing to worry about and nothing better to do than to soak it all in and enjoy the time with my family. Walking around Manhattan, I didn’t have to act older than my years. I was just a silly kid at Christmas.

But there was nowhere else that made me feel as free and innocent as Dad’s firehouse. That’s where we always headed right before or after we played tourist.

Dad’s last firehouse, where he was a lieutenant for five years, was Engine 4/Tower Ladder 15 in the Financial District. Situated in a nondescript five-story building on South Street, with the FDNY’s trademark red garage doors, the company is a block from the East River and less than half a mile south of Wall Street. As the southernmost firehouse in Manhattan, it serves block after block of skyscrapers filled with office workers, as well as the helipad, piers, boats, and ferry terminal that line its stretch of the East River. It was and is a huge operation, and until 2000, I considered it my second home.

Each time Jansen and I walked inside, one of Dad’s colleagues would scoop us up in a bear hug, then let us run to the fire engines and climb inside. When we got out, we’d grab plates and fill them up with whatever the firefighters had cooked that night. One of the guys always dressed up as Santa when kids came to visit at Christmas, and he’d pass out gifts and candy to all of us.

The last Christmas we visited was in 2000 because Dad had decided to retire in January 2001. It wasn’t an easy choice. Dad wasn’t one of those guys who’d been counting the days till he got his pension. He loved his job and his colleagues, and even though he saved the lives of countless people, young and old, I don’t think he ever felt like his life was in danger. At least, I didn’t. Kids have a hard time wrapping their brains around what true danger is; I feared auditions and the thought of losing sight of Mom in the grocery store more than I worried about Dad.

After twenty years on the job, though, it was time for Dad to hang up his suit and gear for the last time. Now he could focus on golf, his flooring business, and taking me and Jansen to auditions, shoots, and premieres.

Because he’d been a firefighter for so long and a social butterfly for even longer, Dad knew everyone. Even after his retirement, the invitations for parties and picnics kept coming. On Labor Day weekend, just before Jansen and I started school, Dad got an invitation to a picnic from the South Street Seaport crew.

“Wear clothes you can get dirty in,” Mom said. “Apparently there’s going to be volleyball.”

We drank too much soda and played volleyball for hours, then ran around with the children of firefighters I’d known my entire life. When we went home, we were covered in dirt and sweat, exhausted, and stuffed with junk food. The day was as magical as the summer afternoons I sometimes spent in Brooklyn with Grandma and Poppa, before they retired to Pennsylvania, when Dad and Uncle Donny would open the hydrants so the kids could splash and cool off.

A week after the picnic, I sat in Mr. Piscatelli’s sixth-grade math class at South Orangetown Middle School and heard the principal’s voice come over the intercom.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said between breaths. “But there is a small fire in the World Trade Center right now. If anyone here has a parent that works in Manhattan, please come into the office now.”

About half the class stood up.

What the heck is going on? I thought as my classmates filed out the door. It had taken me a second to realize that the World Trade Center was what I’d always called the Twin Towers, but once I got it, I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was. A small fire was no match for those huge skyscrapers. Besides, Dad’s firehouse was right near there, and if anyone could handle an emergency, it was those guys.

A few minutes later, the school loudspeaker crackled to life again. “Attention please,” our assistant principal said. “Attention. We will be dismissing school early. Please get your things and wait until your parents come to pick you up. We’re calling them now. Repeat. School is dismissed.”

My breathing stopped and my heart sank. I didn’t know what was happening, but if school was closing suddenly, it had to be bad. Very, very bad.

After we were dismissed, the rumors started to swirl. Some people assumed it must be a bombing, like what happened in 1993. Others believed it was a fire, sort of like our principal had said, but much bigger. I realize now the teachers knew every bit of what was going on that morning, but they didn’t say anything. I’m sure they didn’t want to scare us. They could leave that job to our parents, who were parked out front or streaming inside.

“Dad!” I yelled as I saw my dad’s car pull up. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes, but let’s get you home first,” he answered as I got inside. “Your mom went to get Jansen, but they should be home soon, too.”

Then he pulled me into a big, bone-crushing hug, and part of me realized it was to comfort him as much as me.

When Dad and I got home, the TV was on, and for the first time, I saw the planes fly into the World Trade Center, one after the other. Dad didn’t cry. I don’t think his brain was able to process that much trauma all at once.

There’s nothing more noteworthy or important about my experience of 9/11 than a lot of people’s. I just want to honor my dad’s friends, the fourteen firefighters—including one captain—who rushed to the Twin Towers immediately after the first plane hit and died at Ground Zero. I’d played volleyball with them, eaten the chili they made, and climbed on their laps when they were dressed as Santa Claus. Dad’s last firehouse was less than a ten-minute drive from the World Trade Center, so it was one of the first companies on the scene.

I decided to write about September 11 because that day serves as a defining moment for my generation. It was the first time our eyes opened to politics and world events and the first time many of us truly felt vulnerable. It was the first time we’d been old enough to understand that our country was entering into a war and the only time we’d experienced that degree of loss in only a few hours.

That day changed our relationship with our parents, too. I never saw my dad cry, but I’m sure he did eventually, after the shock and sadness had settled into his bones. Or maybe it was after he went down to Ground Zero a day or so later and began to dig through the rubble, searching for the bodies of his friends. One of my favorite pictures of him was taken there; he’s wearing a hard hat, resting his head on a shovel, and standing on a pile of debris.

The world felt different, like all hope had dimmed, and the blue skies I’d gazed into that morning just didn’t seem as calm. But I was proud of Dad. He’d lived through death, which is the hardest part of living, and now he was showing me how to do it with grace. It was the toughest job of his life. He’d been in the business of saving lives, but at Ground Zero, there was no one left to save.

For my generation, 9/11 was the first time in a lot of our lives that we had to figure out how to comfort our parents and calm our teachers. We said to them, “We’re okay. We’re not going to fall apart on you. We can handle this.” 9/11 taught us the true meaning of resilience, breaking us but making us tougher because we simply couldn’t fall apart. We had to be strong. And when I remember that Labor Day picnic, playing volleyball, or the many Christmases climbing onto the company fire truck, I try to be as brave as those firefighters and first responders were. I will never, ever forget them.

TWELVE

Hayden in the Middle

Mom and I were back in LA driving away from the airport and down the freeway in our Sebring convertible. It was pilot season, and we were headed to the Oakwood Apartments, a short-term furnished rental chain that almost every actor in LA cycles through at one point or another. That evening, we planned to shower, go out to eat, and get ready for my early morning audition.

I was up for a small role in Malcolm in the Middle, and Mom assured me she had a surefire plan to get me the part.

I was twelve years old, and while I knew I needed my mom, I wasn’t sure I wanted her. I definitely didn’t need whatever crazy plan Mom had cooked up. She and I spent so much time together, so deeply enmeshed in each other’s lives, that we’d started grating on each other. I hated when Mom whispered about other actors during auditions, positive that they could hear her compare them to me. I hated when Mom went to industry parties and got tipsy on the merlot she loved. Recently, Mom had also made me late for a scene during the filming of Raising Helen because she had to go to the bathroom, and it had rattled one of my older costars.

“You have to be on time if you want to succeed in this business,” she said to me, frowning.

She had a point, but I wanted to scream that it was Mom’s bladder—not me—that had been less than professional. Instead, I swallowed my pride and decided not to throw Mom under the bus.

On Malcolm in the Middle, I was up for the part of Jessica, Malcolm’s neighbor and babysitter. Jessica was a disheveled, awkward nerd whose brains were such a match to Malcolm’s genius that he fell for her, hard. The producers insisted that Jessica should be anything but blond, but somehow my agent had gotten me the audition anyway. Now it was up to me to secure the role. Or, if you asked Mom, it was up to her.

“Now Hayden,” Mom said emphatically on the way to my audition. “I need you to do something when you meet the director. I know it’s going to sound completely bizarre, but hear me out.”

I rolled my eyes in a typical preteen fashion. “Sure, Mom.”

“The episode’s director is Bryan Cranston. You know that Bryan played my husband on Loving, right?”

“Of course,” I answered. I also knew that Bryan Cranston played Malcolm’s affectionate but useless father on the show.

“So when you finish your lines, I need you to tell Bryan that your mom wants to say hello to him.”

My stomach sank. This was crazy. “Mom,” I pleaded. “I can’t do that. No actor calls their mom into an audition. It’s embarrassing, and they’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”

Mom laughed. “No, they’re going to think I’m the crazy one. And I’m okay with that.”

I sighed. When Mom was onto something, arguing was useless.

I gave it my all during the audition, right in front of Bryan, the producers, the casting director, and everyone else in the room. The stage fright was there—it always was—but I told myself that no matter how they believed Jessica was supposed to look, I was capable of playing her. Who cares if I was blond? If the directors wanted Jessica to be a nerdy girl next door, I’d give them that.

“Thank you so much,” the casting director said when I finished reading my lines. “We’ll get back to you soon.”

I nodded my head. Then I straightened up, stood tall, and looked at Bryan. “Mr. Cranston, my mother is outside, and she would like to say hello.”

You could have heard a pin drop in that room. I cleared my throat. “Hi, Mr. Cranston. My mother would like to see you. Please.”

Bryan screwed up his face, and I could visualize the thoughts processing in his head.

“So, you said your mother wants to see me?” he asked, half smiling. He was clearly too nice to tell a kid to keep dreaming, or he was such a good actor that he could fake a smile with the best of them. I think it was a little bit of both.

I smiled, also faking it. “Yes. She’s outside.”

“Absolutely,” Bryan said, the actor in him shining through again. “Let’s go meet your mom.”

He pushed his chair back and began to walk toward the door, and the casting director shot up and ran to his side, like he was playing bodyguard. Bryan opened the door cautiously, then poked his head out.

There stood Mom, her coral lipstick framing her huge smile.

“BRYAN CRANSTON!” she shouted as she ran toward him with her arms out. “It’s Lesley Vogel! Your wife on Loving!”

Bryan backed up for a moment, then held his stomach and doubled over in laughter as Mom pulled him into a hug.

“Your daughter scared me to death,” he finally said. “I thought I was going to be attacked by an out-of-control stage mom.”

“Isn’t she good?” Mom asked, beaming.

“She is,” he answered. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Mom blushed. “So, what do you think? Did she get the part?”

Bryan paused. “You know, Lesley,” he said. “Hayden is so wrong for this role, but we’re going to make this work. We can put a wig and some nerdy glasses on her, and we’ll have our Jessica.”

Mom started clapping, and I did, too. I had to give it to her. My mom might have been embarrassing and ruthless, but she was a force of nature when it came to me.

Well, I thought, sometimes doing something crazy really does pay off.

THIRTEEN

Africa

“Oh look, she’s back,” the girl in my eighth-grade class said after giving me a heaping plate of what Mom called the hairy eyeball. I’d returned to school after filming an episode of Malcolm in the Middle, and—once again—I was the odd person out in the cafeteria.

“Hi,” I answered. “Yeah, I got back last night. I’m exhausted. Now if only I could find a place to sit so I can eat.”

My classmate was part of a group that for some intangible reason rose to the top of the middle school social hierarchy. She wasn’t really a friend, but I knew her well enough to want to sit at her table. Plus, beggars can’t be choosers when you’re in the lunchroom. I was hungry and needed to eat.

“You can sit with us,” she said, then scanned the table to look at the rest of her group. “In fact, I’ll get your chair for you.” The other friends scooted a little closer together, and my classmate left and returned holding a chair.

“Thank you,” I answered as she pulled it out and motioned for me to sit. I put my tray down and did as she instructed.

Thud.

She’d pulled my chair out from under me, and I landed on the dirty floor as the girls began to laugh.

Starting in middle school, the warm embrace I’d felt from people my age in Snedens Landing faded. In its place came bullying. Every few months, someone passed me a note in the hall or class, and I opened it, hoping it was gossip or an invitation to a sleepover. It almost never was. Most of the time, the note read something like, “You’re not better than anyone else here,” or “Your acting sucks.” These words always stung me, but I never threw the notes away. Instead, I slipped them into my backpack, and when I got home, I put them in a binder under my bed. At times, I pulled out the binder to look at them, letting them serve as a constant reminder to feel shame. These notes fed that seed of insecurity I’d carried since I was born. They held the fear that gave me stage fright. Later, they embodied the anxiety that made me drink.

People were nice to me one-on-one, when they didn’t have to pretend or act out for someone else. When they weren’t part of a group, people could form their own opinions or decide to take a chance. Otherwise, I was miserable at school. Everywhere I turned, no one seemed to want me.

Dad assumed I was unhappy because of acting, so one day he pulled me aside and leveled with me.

“Look, Hayden,” he said, “I think we need to take a break. How about you just stay home and be a kid for a while? Your mother and I don’t care about acting. We care about you.”

I burst out in tears, but not for the reason Dad expected.

“Daddy, I love what I do,” I said, sobbing. “I don’t want to quit.” What I didn’t tell him was that—to me—quitting was failure. Acting was where I got praise. Acting was where I got love.

Dad looked shocked. He thought he was riding in to save his daughter from all the craziness, but the craziness was saving me from feeling alone. It was school I hated, not acting. I loved my family, my job, and the few friends—like Madison—who made me feel safe. But as far as school was concerned, I just wanted to run far, far, away.

In eighth grade, I got my wish. Far, far away was South Africa.

Racing Stripes is a family movie about a zebra accidentally left behind in Kentucky when the circus leaves town. After being rescued by a horse trainer, he moves to a farm next to a track, and—believing he’s a horse—begins to dream about racing. Stripes gets his big chance when the trainer’s daughter, Channing, climbs on his back and takes him to the track. When she signs up to race him, everyone thinks she’s lost her mind, but she knows Stripes is as fast as any horse. Spoiler alert: he is…

I was up for the role of Channing, and the audition was just about as strange as what I’d had to do for Panic Room. Instead of falling on the floor and faking a seizure, though, the casting director told me to saddle up and ride a horse as best I could. Heath Harris, the film’s Australian zebra trainer, planned to judge me against the other girls auditioning for the part of Channing. Naturally, I assumed that the best rider would win the role.

I liked horses well enough and knew the basics of how to handle them, but I was a dreadful rider that day. In the middle of my audition, I fell off my horse right onto my butt. Determined not to quit, I dusted myself off and climbed back on.

Heath Harris decided to turn my lemons into his lemonade. “Now that’s a girl I can teach!” he said. He and the directors conferred with each other, and I got the part.

Racing Stripes was live action, but most of its actors planned to work from a sound studio, serving as the animals’ voices. My castmate on Malcolm in the Middle, Frankie Muniz, was cast as Stripes, and Jansen got the part of Young Stripes. Jansen had been building up his résumé as a voice actor after securing the role of Periwinkle, a tabby cat, on Blue’s Clues, and his scratchy, hugely animated voice was perfect as a sad little zebra who’s rescued in the pouring rain. Jansen may have been driving me nuts at home—he’d just gotten a drum set, and he banged on those drums all day and all night—but his voice was heartbreakingly adorable. Anyone would fall in love with him, even if they had to endure his bad drumming.

Filming was near a town called Nottingham Road in the KwaZulu-Natal province in eastern South Africa, and it was expected to last five months or more. Because Jansen was in school in New York, Mom and Dad decided that they’d switch out shifts on set with me. Mom would be there first, then Dad would fly in halfway through the film schedule while Mom flew out. The issue, of course, was middle school. This was years before the pandemic, when remote school became routine, so anytime I was filming I depended on on-set tutors and teachers who had to remember to email my assignments on time. The tutors were fine, but the teachers often forgot. I shouldn’t have been surprised; one of my middle school teachers, Mrs. Marino, had started referring to me as the “Big Cheese.” I wasn’t sure she liked me enough to get me my work on time.

Mom and Dad finally had enough, and before we left, they pulled me aside.

“Your dad and I have been talking, and we’ve decided that you’re going to be homeschooled. No more late assignments, no more missing school, and no more getting bullied.”

After the shock passed, I smiled. “Yes, Mom. Yes, that’s great. Thank you.”

My school days were done, and when I got to South Africa, I met the mandated requirement for homeschooling exclusively through a tutor. With middle school, lunchroom seats, and the Big Cheese in the back seat, I could focus on acting.

Racing Stripes was a dream come true for an animal lover like me. With the help of Heath, I worked with four baby zebras and eight adults. One zebra was named Daisy, and she was a maniac. Then there was Sam, who’d appeared in Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls. He was a friendly guy and always well-behaved. Everyone assured me there was no way he’d give me any trouble. Remember that: Sam was supposed to be no trouble at all.

For my first session with the zebras, I showed up in shorts and flip-flops, thinking I’d be getting a tutorial from Heath and not actually riding. Apparently, I had missed the memo.

“You are not getting on a zebra wearing flip-flops,” Heath said sternly.

I showed up the next day—on time and properly attired—ready to ride.

These zebras were not at all like domesticated horses. They were wild animals who’d come from various corners of Southern Africa, including from the Kalahari Desert, and they bucked, reared up, and sometimes tried to bite me. Zebras are also remarkably slow and don’t walk in a straight line, so when I rode them I had to force them back to the center. Their mouths are also tough as nails, so they weren’t fazed when the reins pulled their bits. I had to use all my strength and weight anytime I wanted them to move.

I loved the four babies, but the babies didn’t love me—at least at first. Two of them, Zoe and Columbia, were so obsessed with one of the trainers, Andrew, that they followed him everywhere. Andrew advised me to stick with them because the point was to bond with me, but Zoe and Columbia had other ideas. Every time I stood next to Andrew, Zoe ran between us, shifted her backside toward me, and kicked me hard. Then she turned around with her head toward me, lowered it, and charged me. I felt like I was back home, getting chased by Madison’s turkey—but a thousand times worse. Also, did I mention that baby zebras love to bite? I spent half the day wiping zebra spit off my arms.

I did most of my own stunts, and one day I had to film a scene riding Sam. Sam was usually a sweetheart, but apparently, he’d sent two of my stunt doubles to the hospital the day before. Go figure. Trusting that he’d always be the angel I knew him to be, I mounted him without a worry in the world. At first, things went fine. But when I approached what we called the “mounting pads,” which were the elevated platforms that helped us mount and dismount, Sam bucked—at the exact moment I tried to hop off him. My foot was caught in the stirrup, so my body swung up into the air, then came down hard on the ground. I felt an excruciating pain shoot through my back.

“Are you okay?” Heath yelled, running toward me.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I stammered.

It was a total lie. I was injured, in pain, and screwed. As my body twisted through the air above Sam’s back, I’d done some calculations in my head and realized I was in the middle of nowhere, far away from a hospital. The closest thing to civilization I’d seen was a seedy restaurant called Porky’s Bar and Grill, and I can assure you there were no competent doctors eating there. Going to the hospital would also take me away from filming for who knows how long, and the last thing I wanted to do was inconvenience anyone or slow down production. So, I kept my mouth shut and endured the pain in my back and neck. Over twenty years later, these injuries still bother me.

Even with my back injury, zebra bites, and more bumps and bruises than I could count, my six months in South Africa were glorious. Nottingham Road was surrounded by green, rolling hills, cattle ranches, and sheep farms, and each day I’d walk outside grateful to be alive and have the opportunity to be in such a beautiful place. When I wasn’t filming, I had the chance to travel to Cape Town and Johannesburg and even go on safari. Seeing South Africa’s animals roaming free in their vast, natural habitat blew my mind. These were creatures I’d only ever seen at the Bronx Zoo. In a huge surprise, I was also invited to be an ambassador for the International Union for Conservation of Nature (ICUN)’s Red List of Threatened Species. The ICUN is an international organization that promotes nature conservation, particularly the tens of thousands of animals that are close to extinction. For the first time in my life, I realized that even a kid could help others. Maybe my classmates didn’t want me around, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have value. I could help others. It was a revelation, and I vowed then and there to do everything in my power to help animals in need—even the ones who kick, buck, and bite.

As my plane departed South Africa and rose into the sky, I looked down at the ground below, and my eyes filled with tears. I thought of Zoe, Daisy, Columbia, and the biting baby zebras, as well as all the beautiful animals whose lives were threatened by mankind. I thanked the people of South Africa for making me feel so at home, and I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to come back. South Africa was half a world away from New York, so I knew it would be a long time, if ever.

Then I thought ahead to school, and I knew there was no building for me to return to anymore. As soon as I landed, I was officially a career girl whose school life would mold itself around acting.

Dad was sitting next to me, and he must have read my mind.

“You ready for this?” he asked. “Homeschooling and everything?”

“I am,” I answered, smiling and sitting back in my seat.

I’ve spent over half my life in LA, and that means I’ve lived through a lot of earthquakes. At the end of an earthquake, the nausea-inducing shaking and unsteadiness dissipate, the strange rumblings quiet down, and your emotions feel suspended. You don’t know whether to brace for an aftershock or be happy you’ve survived. It’s an eerie sense of calm, the kind you may not be able to trust. After I felt my first LA earthquake, I learned to pause in that moment of calm and be aware. I was still standing, still alive. I was prepared for whatever came next because I stood on a solid foundation. I might have been afraid, but I was ready.

Deciding to leave school felt much the same. I knew leaving school was going to push me out onto my own, where I’d have to forge my way and work within my personal expectations. Something established and known was breaking, and it was up to me to prepare for whatever lay ahead. On the long plane ride back to New York, I stopped and checked my feelings: I was still the same person with the same needs. But Mom and Dad had my back, and I could do this. Maybe there would be aftershocks, but I wouldn’t let fear stand in the way. It was a new day built on new moments, and I sensed that my life would be better from there on out.

PART TWO

FOURTEEN

A Family Divided

I was sixteen years old, and Mom and I were in Florida, staying with her sister. Aunt Jana was long over her eating disorder, and she’d gone from destroying her body to cherishing it. First, she’d become a personal trainer and now she was a massage therapist, and in her spare time she was a bodybuilder. In her own words, Jana was an old hippie, and her house was like a hobbit house, with candles, dried flowers, and warm, earthy tones. Outside she had a gorgeous garden full of tropical plants, with a fairy garden nestled under some of them. Aunt Jana was the Country Mouse to Mom’s City Mouse, and her childhood trauma had led her to become an excellent listener. I didn’t get to spend much time with Aunt Jana, so I loved visiting her, and this trip had been a restorative and relaxing break from a busy year.

Cue Mom, who ran from relaxation like it was about to bite her. As I sat reading a book, she stormed into my aunt’s living room, yelling out her name. Mom was white as a ghost, out of breath, and waving her arms as she barreled into the kitchen.

“Jana! Oh, my God! This is a catastrophe! Oh my God, I think I need to sit down.”

“Sit, sit,” Aunt Jana said calmly. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Mom plopped unsteadily onto a barstool and closed her eyes, then burst into tears. “Oh my God,” she cried. “It’s Skip! I was just on the phone with him, and he told me he’s been having an affair. I don’t know what to do. An affair!”

I put down my book, sat back in my chair, and felt my stomach turn. Dad cheated on Mom, I thought. How could he do such a thing?

In one instant, every belief I held about marriage, family, and love flew out the window. Along with it went every ounce of respect I had for Dad. The Dad I thought I knew wasn’t selfish. That Dad used to come home exhausted after a twenty-four-hour shift, scoop up me and Jansen, and toss us on the bed. When we bounced back, we’d scream “One more time!” and he’d pick us up and start the game all over again. That Dad was the consummate handyman who could fix anything broken around the house—without being asked. That Dad worked two jobs to put a roof over his children’s heads. Now, suddenly the Dad I thought I knew had been replaced by a man who’d done something that might tear his family apart.

I was distraught. But as Mom cried in Aunt Jana’s arms, I knew Dad’s news had hit her harder than me.

In retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. The truth was that my parents had been drifting apart for years, but it was a slow-burn crisis, and I was oblivious to the fact that things were about to reach a boiling point. My acting schedule forced them apart for weeks at a time, and when they were home together, they settled into routines that didn’t include each other. Mom had wound down her acting career, but she sometimes taught acting lessons and was always shuttling me and Jansen from one place to another while Dad worked or played golf. Mom brought her phone to the dinner table every night anticipating some urgent call, while Dad cherished dinnertime as a place where he bonded with us and told stories. I can’t tell you how many times I heard him complain, “C’mon, Lesley, can’t we have one dinner when you aren’t working?” Then he’d frown when Mom stood up and poured herself a glass of merlot, or—more recently—the vodka and sodas she liked at cocktail hour. Our family had always been feisty, but there was an edge to Mom and Dad’s arguments now. Home felt crowded as Mom and Dad fought each other, then retreated into their own worlds. To anyone other than me or Jansen, it was plain as day that their connection had fizzled out.

Then there was 9/11. Dad didn’t talk about it much, but I knew that day had scarred him. The fact that he lived when dozens of his friends died caused a void that no one—including Mom—could fill. I’m sure Dad’s quiet pain alienated her, especially because she embraced her emotions every chance she got.

“Oh, Hayden,” Mom said as swiveled her barstool toward the living room, “I didn’t realize you were there. I guess you heard everything I said.”

I nodded my head. “I did, Mom, and I don’t know what to say. But I think I need to go for a walk.”

Aunt Jana looked at me sympathetically, then put her arm around Mom again as I walked outside into a world that had suddenly been turned on its head.

Mom and I stayed in Florida for a few more days, and I was so relieved to have Aunt Jana around so I wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces of my mother alone. But the fear about what would happen when we went home was pure torture. So was everything Mom told me she’d learned about Dad’s affair.

“This woman—whoever she is—has two kids,” Mom said. “When I get home, I’m going to remind your father that the whole time he was prancing around with that woman, he had two children as well.”

“Uh-huh,” I answered, gritting my teeth. Mom had been talking about Dad nonstop, and when she wasn’t, she was walking around the house, trying to stay busy but clearly feeling miserable. I had all the sympathy in the world for Mom, but this negative energy was beginning to wear me down.

“And the affair went on for six months,” Mom added. “He says it’s over now, but six months is not a one-night stand. It’s a full-on relationship.”

I edged toward the door, wondering if I could slip out, shrink, and hide in Aunt Jana’s fairy garden. I didn’t want to hurt or avoid Mom—I wanted to be there for her as much as she needed—but I was exhausted. The sheer volume of information, questions, and second-guessing that was running through my brain was drowning me. I didn’t know what this other woman looked like, where she worked, or how she and Dad met. I kept visualizing what her children might look like or where she and Dad conducted their business. God, how disgusting, I thought, trying to blot out the idea of my dad in bed with someone else. I wondered what Jansen and I were doing while Dad was off with her, and then it hit me that Dad might have been lying to us when he said he was playing golf. I’d never known Dad to lie, but then again, I’d never known him to cheat on Mom, either.

I reached for the screen door handle to make my exit, but then I decided to ask the one question that ate at me more than all the others.

“Mom, why did he tell you?”

“We were arguing on the phone,” she answered, wiping away tears. “I don’t even remember what the fight was about, but I said something, and then your father just blurted out this news. It was all in the heat of the moment.”

“Why did he do that?” I asked.

Mom frowned. “Your father told me he didn’t think I’d care.”

That’s when it hit me. Mom and Dad were on opposite planets in terms of their emotional connection. Dad thought Mom didn’t love him, while Mom thought Dad loved her without question. Yet neither of them communicated this. I’d always thought of my parents’ marriage as a constant, the solid foundation that held me up through everything, but that had all been an illusion. I’d always felt safe with them together, but the reality was, I wasn’t.

The next day, Mom and I packed up to head back to New York. It was time to face reality, and that meant facing Dad. Mom told me he’d most likely move out as soon as we got back, and the two of them would decide later what they wanted to do about their marriage.

“I’m just not sure what I want, Hayden,” Mom told me as we settled into our seats on the airplane. “Everything’s changed. I don’t know where to go from here.”

“You’ll be okay, Mom,” I answered. “I’m sure of it.”

Mom sighed. “I know I will be. But what about you and Jansen? What if this woman asks your father to spend Christmas with her and her children, and she invites you and your brother over?” Mom shifted in her seat and turned to look me in the eyes. “Would you spend Christmas with your father and that woman?”

Where’s Aunt Jana’s fairy garden when I need it? I thought. Then I sunk into my seat, closed my eyes, and willed my mother to stop projecting her agony onto me.

The flight to New York was only about three hours, but they were the longest three hours of my life. I always hated being in tight spaces with Mom when she was angry, and there’s almost no place more cramped and claustrophobic than an airplane. Mom’s lower jaw was fixed into the underbite that sent my blood pressure through the roof, and I worried she might blow up at any second.

With each passing mile, I also became more resentful of Dad. I realized that his affair wasn’t just a betrayal of Mom or a massive disruption of the peace and safety Jansen and I needed at home. It was also a betrayal of me. Without Aunt Jana present, I was Mom’s therapist and shoulder to cry on. When I got mad at her and begged her to stop saying ugly things about Dad, she got even angrier, and I became her emotional punching bag. I didn’t blame her; when you’re hurt, your urge is to fight, flee, or freeze. Mom was choosing to fight. But when her lower jaw began to tremble, I could see her pain, and I knew, intuitively, that her rage was masking her heartbreak. Mom needed someone to vent to, and there I was, the mature older child who’d spent her youth navigating the adult world. Like it or not, I’d spent my whole life preparing for this.

But, man, it was painful. I didn’t want to be Mom’s support system or emotional garbage dump. I just wanted to be her child. Whenever we made it home, I didn’t know if my own needs would fall to the wayside, or if I’d ever have anyone to talk to about my pain. So, I stared out the window, wishing it would all go away. If I didn’t pay attention to what had happened over the last few days, maybe that meant it wasn’t real.

FIFTEEN

A Hero Is Born

It took me months to want to hug Dad again. And for all that time, his affair was the elephant in whatever room we shared. But when he finally said he wanted to rip off the Band-Aid and talk about it with me, we turned a corner. I didn’t quite forgive him, but I let him back in.

But the truth was that if it hadn’t been for Heroes, my parents probably would have split up for good. Not long after Mom and I returned home, I got a call that sent my family off on the road to second chances.

“This is one of the best scripts I’ve read in years,” one of the important people on my team said. “It’s got action and drama and those stunts you love to do. The cheerleader character is made for you. This is your big chance.”

I promised to read the script, but I couldn’t help wondering what the deal was with me and cheerleaders. I’d just finished filming Bring It On: All or Nothing, where I’d played—you guessed it—a cheerleader. I didn’t want to be typecast, but I trusted my team. If they said this was a perfect part for me, I had to audition.

I didn’t know it, but they also had it on good authority that I was one of the top choices for the role they’d described.

My team had learned about Heroes after getting a call from a veteran casting executive who had cast me in a show whose pilot was never picked up. He kept tabs on my career, though. When NBC teed up Heroes and started searching for actors to play Claire Bennet, a Texas cheerleader with miraculous self-healing powers, this same casting executive happened to work at NBC. He picked up the phone, called the producers, and said, “For the part of Claire, you’ve got to meet Hayden Panettiere.”

One call led to another, and I hopped on a flight to LA.

I really wanted this part, and I walked into my audition so focused it was like I had tunnel vision. If there was anybody else in the room waiting for their audition, I didn’t notice. I was there for one thing and one thing only, and that was to say my lines without my hands shaking, my pulse racing, or my words getting caught in my throat. (Also, to get the part.) Standing in front of the directors, I muzzled my stage fright, took a deep breath, settled my nerves, and visualized myself as Claire Bennet. Then I went for it.

I didn’t freeze up. In fact, playing out the scene I’d rehearsed for days felt natural.

“Thank you for coming in,” the casting director said after I finished. “But please don’t leave yet.”

I’d started to walk toward the door, so I stopped short and turned. “Do you need me for something else?” I asked.

“No, not at all. We just wanted to say congratulations.”

“For what?” I asked. “I didn’t do anything but audition.”

The casting director laughed. “For getting the part. You are Claire Bennet.”

I thought my heart was going to explode with gratitude.

After I thanked everyone, I ran out to the waiting room to find Mom. I knew this news was going to make her prouder of me than she’d ever been before.

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” I said when I reached her, “but I can’t do it here. So, let’s go now.” I absolutely, positively couldn’t risk anyone else hearing me. Not only would talking disrupt whatever process the other girls were going through, but I very much didn’t want to hurt them.

Mom’s version of quiet talk was a stage whisper, so when she started to ask questions, I shushed her. We grabbed our things and made our way toward the door, and as we exited, we passed a few other girls about my age. I found out later they were other actors up for the role of Claire.

As soon as we got outside, I spilled the beans.

“You what?!” Mom shouted. “No one finds out on the spot if they got a part! It just doesn’t happen that way.”

“I know,” I answered, beaming from ear to ear. “But it happened. I promise, Mom.”

Mom’s lips parted, revealing her big smile. “Hayden,” she exclaimed, “this is life-changing. Are you ready for it?”

“I am,” I said.

Mom grabbed both my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. “I am so proud of you. You’ve been waiting sixteen years for this. Now let’s go call your father.”

“I guess this means we’re moving to LA,” Dad said after Mom and I returned home. He and Mom had spent the better part of two days discussing the pros and cons of relocating our whole family, and they’d ultimately decided that Heroes would be so demanding that I needed everyone’s support. Dad had also closed down his flooring business so he could train to become a golf pro, and he figured that—with its perfect weather—LA was a great spot to make that his full-time job.

The big unknown was Mom and Dad’s marriage. After Dad’s affair, they’d decided to stay together, but the tension between them was still palpable. Their fights were more frequent, their resentments more evident, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them kiss or say “I love you.” In fact, I don’t think I ever remembered them saying “I love you.” Everyone hoped that a change of scenery would fix things, but I decided to leave that up to Mom and Dad. I was only sixteen years old, and I didn’t want to shoulder the burden of my parents’ problems.

I also didn’t know how a move would affect Jansen. He was only eleven and still so sensitive that he’d just stopped sleeping with Mom and Dad the year before. Change had always been tough for him, and there are few bigger life disruptors than leaving all your friends and starting fresh in a new school.

I also worried that Jansen’s creative, impressionable mind sometimes got a little too creative, and in a wild and woolly new place like LA, who knows where that would lead. For instance, about a year before, he’d called me while he was at a slumber party.

“This will be quick,” he said. “My friends and I are in the kitchen and just opened up my friend’s parents’ spice cabinet. If I roll some oregano into paper and smoke it, will I get high?”

I almost dropped the phone. No one in my family smoked, especially not culinary herbs.

“Jansen, do not smoke that,” I said, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “First off, it’s disgusting. And if you do smoke it, you will feel like your lungs are on fire. Okay?”

He paused. “Okay.”

Jansen clearly needed stability, good sense, and discipline. Yet here I was, about to turn my little brother’s life upside down.

Last but not least, I had to think about myself. After my nightmarish experiences in middle school, I’d found a new group of friends in town, and we’d been thick as thieves since I was a freshman, my first year of homeschooling. We called ourselves DASH, short for Danica, Allie, Scarlett, and Hayden, and we did everything together. Our favorite activity, however, was throwing themed parties, including a toga bash, a Pimps and Hos party, and the Save Bella Party, which we organized when our friend Bella got grounded. I was a full year younger than the rest of DASH, but I had more in common with them than anyone my age. They didn’t bully me or harbor resentments; in fact, they stood by me. I knew I’d miss them terribly, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find a group of friends like that in LA.

But work called, and on an NBC show that had major money and promotion behind it, work was everything. Maybe I won’t have time to think about my family or friends, I thought, knowing deep down I was lying to myself. Maybe I’ll be so busy that the rest of my childhood will just pass right by.

SIXTEEN

Welcome to LA

In 2006, I purchased a condo in West Hollywood with my own money. It had two floors, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms, which I figured was just enough room for me, my parents, Jansen, and our two cats and dog. It was not the custom-built 4,300-square-foot house we’d enjoyed in New York, but we could make it work. We had to make it work.

My parents got the master bedroom, and I took one of the other bedrooms. Jansen’s room was above me, in the loft, and it contained a bed, a futon, and a desktop computer that blasted house music morning, noon, and night. The loft was Jansen’s preteen boy cave, and—as the only place that felt separate from the rest of the condo—it gave him a semblance of privacy and his own special space. There was only one problem: it was a loft, so it didn’t have walls that could hold all that house music in.

One night I was about to fall asleep, and I heard a loud thump above my bedroom.

“What is that?” I yelled, shooting up in bed.

Boom! It sounded like something was about to crash through the floor onto my bed—and my head.

“What is going on?” I yelled again, jumping up and running up the stairs to the loft. When I got there, I saw Jansen. He was standing on the couch, his back toward the television. A mattress lay on the floor behind him. He crouched low, then sprang up, arched his back, and flipped onto the mattress. His feet hit first, then he pitched onto his face.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “Are you… trying to do a backflip while I’m trying to fall asleep?”

“Yes, yes I am,” he answered proudly. “I’m teaching myself, and I’m just about to get it right.”

Welcome to LA. Our cramped condo was half the size of our house, with a fraction of the privacy. This living situation was really going to put our family to the test.

On September 25, 2006, Heroes premiered, and 14.3 million people tuned in to watch. The pilot was a slam dunk for NBC; for comparison, Monday Night Football gets lower ratings most weeks.

I wasn’t expecting this kind of reception, but in retrospect, I see why it happened. The writers—led by creator Tim Kring—were brilliant, crafting flawed characters viewers instantly sympathized with. The cast’s superpowers were so strange and unconventional that they felt radical; Hiro Nakamura’s space-time manipulation and Niki Sanders’s split personalities weren’t just fun to watch, they also made you think. This was pre–Iron Man, when the Marvel Cinematic Universe was still in its planning stages, and many superhero movies felt stale and dated. In Heroes, the characters weren’t always trying to save the world; they simply wanted to save themselves. What an idea! Each episode also sprinkled enough breadcrumbs that viewers followed them right up to the cliffhanger—and there were plenty of those. The show was a triumph, with escapist fun mixed with relatable social commentary.

I also loved how exciting the set was. Everyone was constantly on their toes, moving from scene to scene with a flood of endorphins coursing through our bodies. No one ever had the chance to doze off at their posts. When I wasn’t getting ready in my trailer, I was immersed in stunts that were a step up from anything I’d done before. They actually felt dangerous—and they were.

For example, after Claire jumped off an oil rig for her opening number, she took a walk with a friend and stumbled upon a burning, derailed train. After assessing the situation—with its broken, twisted metal and fiery explosions—she once again dusted off her cheerleading uniform and sprinted into the flames to save the train’s passengers. The plan was for me to perform the scene all by myself, with no stunt double, and I was pumped.

The scale of the derailment was massive. There were multiple train cars, a dozen or so actors playing firefighters, and a pyrotechnic crew who I decided had the most interesting job in Hollywood. The crew covered the train cars in fire-retardant materials so that when they ignited them, they’d look like they were fully engulfed, but in fact only their surface was. This small-scale burn ensured that I could run past the flames without them spreading and setting me on fire. No matter what, the train cars would never fully burn—nor would I.

“You ready for this?” an assistant producer asked as I stood just off camera before the scene started. Dad was on set, too, and I looked at him and waved. He was smiling, but I could tell he was worried by the way his arms were crossed.

“Totally. Let’s do this,” I answered.

The train cars exploded into flames, and the director called “Action!” That was my cue to run down a path toward the train and dive right in.

Easy peasy, I thought as I set off sprinting. I am a firefighter’s daughter, after all.

As I rushed into the wreck, the flames flickered around me, giving the impression that the fire was raging and inches from engulfing me. Guess what? It was. The flames were so close that they scorched my skin in seconds. But I stood firm, waiting for a voice on a loudspeaker to tell me to leave. When I finally sprinted out, I was coated in sweat.

Apparently, so was Dad.

Some of my stunts were so complicated and dangerous that I wasn’t allowed to do them myself. At first, this rubbed me the wrong way, but I quickly realized what was at stake. Claire’s first scene—when she revealed her powers of cellular regeneration—involved her hurling herself off an oil rig, landing with a thud, then standing up, dusting off her cheerleading uniform, and snapping her broken shoulder back into place. I was dying to do the stunt myself, but the director insisted I couldn’t.

“You’re not trained to fall eighty feet, even if you are strapped into a harness,” he said.

The plan was that I would run up the rig’s steps, then the camera would pan to the side while my stunt double strapped in and jumped off. In rehearsals, however, the wire on the rig broke. Thankfully, no one was injured, and the crew repaired the wire right away. But I learned my lesson: stunts are dangerous, and when a director warns you off one, they probably have a good reason why.

The genius of the early Heroes episodes also had to do with its actors. We were an ensemble cast—and a large one at that—so the show wasn’t driven by any one star. There were so many advantages to this: fans could fall in love with whomever they wanted; the plot was constantly moving among the trials and successes of many people, and if a plotline became stale, there was always another one to bolster it up. An ensemble cast keeps the audience on its toes. It does the same for the writers and cast, too. If viewers or critics start to complain about a particular character or plotline, the writers can make adjustments to keep the character exciting and fresh. Unfortunately, after the first season, this kind of perfectionism happened less and less in the writers’ room—but I’ll get to that later.

Right away my castmates felt like older siblings, guiding me through scenes and encouraging me to become a better actor through their examples. I’d never had an acting teacher other than Mom, but I’ve always learned the craft through other actors, and this was never truer than on Heroes. We began to develop off-screen relationships, going out to dinner or to each other’s homes. As we got to know each other, our on-screen characters developed together, too. We were deeply, fundamentally part of each other’s lives.

While it quickly became apparent that Claire was a fan favorite, I never once felt that the early success or failure of Heroes rested on my shoulders. Like I said, I learned from other actors as much as they learned from me. I also liked to study the work of my stunt doubles, who are some of the toughest, smartest people in the business. Whether I was running toward a blazing train derailment or acting out a scene with my costars, Heroes was liberating, like a full-body release. Something that had been lying dormant inside me came alive, and as I grew from a child into an almost grown-up, it felt like Heroes was setting me free.

SEVENTEEN

Target on My Thighs

When Heroes became a TV juggernaut and I became a household name in 2006, I was all of seventeen. From that moment on, there was a target plastered on my thighs.

I first sensed that the paparazzi was going to be a major problem when I started dating Stephen Colletti, who was one of the stars of the MTV reality series Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County. Stephen was the heartthrob at the center of the show’s first season love triangle, consisting of him, Lauren Conrad, and Kristin Cavallari. That drama, coupled with the show’s huge, unexpected popularity, made him a tabloid favorite. He and I met through my former publicist. I didn’t really watch the show, but I’d seen Stephen in a magazine, thought he was cute, and asked her to hook us up. She did and sparks flew. Stephen was my first Hollywood boyfriend, and in a lot of ways, he showed me the ropes—especially when it came to the press.

For example, the first time Stephen and I ventured out shopping together, a trail of cameras followed us, taking photos from every angle while they yelled our names. When we walked into a store, Stephen knew exactly what to do, and he approached the manager.

“Can you lower the shades?” he asked. “There are about ten tabloid photographers out there. I’m sure your other customers don’t want to be bothered while they’re shopping.”

After that, we always called managers ahead of time to prepare them.

I wasn’t always with Stephen, though, so I frequently had to fend for myself. For example, almost immediately after Heroes premiered, photographers began camping outside the Universal Studios set in Hollywood, waiting for me to leave. When my car came into view, they lined up behind it, then sped up and passed to get a picture of me. Sometimes they boxed me in, with cameras flashing on both sides of me, and more than once they raced through red lights to catch up to me. I found it absolutely terrifying to be driving down the 101 or Hollywood Boulevard and get passed—sometimes on the shoulder—by a speeding car with a camera lens extending out the window or the sunroof. If I’d crashed my car, I’m positive it would have been a dream come true for them.

Also, just to remind you, I was seventeen.

In the early 2000s, tabloids were obsessed with actors’ bodies, and they devoted entire covers to the “circle of shame,” where they circled fat rolls, dimpled skin, cellulite, or any number of body “flaws” that even the most fit and toned women get. It didn’t take long for me to stop wanting to go to the beach, knowing that every uncovered part of me would land somewhere in a magazine. I didn’t have to be on the beach for this to happen, though. A paparazzi photographer once snapped a photo of me in a pair of cutoffs, leaning over a counter so that you could see the back of my thighs. A magazine published it with a banner over my legs, featuring one word: CELLULITE. I suffered from body dysmorphia for years because of that, believing that no matter how strong, thin, or young I was, there was no escaping the dreaded cottage cheese thighs.

The words in print were horrible, but the comments I received were even worse. I remember once getting in my car only to be approached by a photographer. He had his camera out, and he was talking fast.

“Hey, Hayden, looks like you just started driving. When are you going to get your first DUI?”

I didn’t respond, so he kept talking.

“Come on, give us a smile, honey. You’re so beautiful, so sexy. C’mon, give us one of your sexy smiles.”

I was seventeen.

At one of the many industry events I attended during the first season of Heroes, I made my way through a crowd of people toward the entrance. A swarm of cameras was massed right at the door, and a publicist navigated me through them. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my leg, like someone had just kicked me. I scrunched up my face in pain and turned to look, and I noticed a photographer with her camera raised.

“Hi, Hayden, smile!” she yelled.

This woman had kicked me just to get a photo.

It’s easy to say that I could have pressed charges against her, but it’s much harder to do. If I’d gone to the cops, my case would become public, and I would have found myself in the middle of a tabloid spectacle. I suppose I also could have confronted her verbally, but a photographer would have taken a photo of me red-faced, looking out of control. When you’re in the public eye, you’re remembered for the last thing you did, and—trust me—a fuming, raging seventeen-year-old on the cover of a magazine is pretty memorable. It also sells a lot of copies. I wanted people to know me for the work I did on a set, not the chaos I faced when I was off one.

It used to be that there was an air of mystery around celebrities. There was an unspoken contract between photographers and people in the industry that allowed for privacy and respect, and if those boundaries were violated, a news organization would never again get an interview. But in the early 2000s—which have often been called the “gold rush” for paparazzi—the opposite was true. There’s a fine line between freedom of the press and stalking, and in the 2000s, the tabloids crossed that line again and again, with few repercussions. Navigating the press became a second job for a lot of actors, and it was one they felt forced to do. I once had a paparazzi photographer yell at me, “Smile! This is your job! You signed up for this.” I wanted to scream at him that I didn’t, that it was the other way around. He had signed up to target me.

In 2006, social media was not an integral part of celebrities’ lives. If the paparazzi took an unflattering photo of you, or if a tabloid said something hurtful or untruthful, you had no way to defend yourself immediately. Today, if I do a poor interview or take an awful photo, I can go on Instagram and tell my side of the story right away, and I’ll be met with positive feedback from fans that takes the sting away. It wasn’t like that in 2006. I was raw meat laid out for a bunch of hyenas to devour every single day.

The early 2000s also marked the beginning of tabloid blogging, which led to a huge shift in celebrity journalism. There was TMZ, Perez Hilton, Just Jared, and hundreds of others, many of whom made names for themselves by tearing celebrities apart. The harsher they were, the more clicks they got, so they became more aggressive. You couldn’t turn around without seeing your name, face, or thighs plastered—then made fun of—on a blog, and it was available to anyone and everyone, 24/7, entirely free.

I wish I’d been able to navigate this new world better, but I didn’t have anyone to hand me a road map except for Stephen and my former team. Not even Mom was prepared for it. Honestly, all the attention and pressure overwhelmed and exhausted me. Not only was I expected to be on top of my game in all respects—socially, privately, and in the press—but I had to push myself to fit into a city and a culture that was mostly foreign to me. No journalist ever stalked me after Racing Stripes. Now, here I was, being chased every time I left my condo.

Doing media felt like second nature to me because I’d been in front of cameras for so many years, but my old team sometimes complained that I got easily distracted, a practice I call “squirreling.” I’ve always been a squirrel—probably due to my nerves or short attention span—but growing up no one paid it any mind. During Heroes, I always needed to be on point and full of energy in front of the press. If I squirreled or got run down while answering the same questions over and over, it could become an issue. At one industry event when I was around sixteen, a former rep pulled me aside before I stepped onto the red carpet.

“Here, take one of these,” she said, placing a pill in my hands and holding out a bottle of water. “It’s a happy pill.”

I didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t formally seek my consent, but I didn’t think twice. I trusted the people I worked with—especially my team—so I popped the pill in my mouth and swallowed. Within minutes, a wave of energy washed over me, like I’d just woken up from the most refreshing night’s sleep of my life. I blinked my eyes and felt the corners of my mouth turning up, then my jaw relaxing. I looked around and noticed how bright the lights were and how red the carpet was, then I saw a cascade of crisp, vibrant colors as people walked past me in their gowns.

“I’m ready,” I chirped. “Let’s do this.”

When I stepped onto the carpet, my brain was firing on all cylinders. My interview was animated, exciting, and straightforward in a way no interview had ever been. All the chaos in my head vanished, and when it was over, I couldn’t wait to walk into the event and chat everyone’s ear off.

I’d always been a social butterfly, but sometimes I lost my focus and confidence. With this happy pill, I was a brand-new Hayden.

Within a few months, my former rep didn’t need to surreptitiously pass me pills anymore. Instead, before every interview, I asked her for one. I hadn’t questioned what the pills were made of or where she got them, nor had I mentioned them to Mom, who wouldn’t have approved. But one day, I decided I had to know the details.

“Where can I get these myself?” I asked.

“My brother gets them from Mexico,” she whispered.

Whatever they were—and I suspect they were some sort of amphetamine—I didn’t care. The happy pills had opened a door for me to feel more focused, energized, and alive. When I took my pills, rubbed my eyes, and could see clearly, the world was better. I was better. At sixteen, they were the gateway drug that ushered me toward the good of pharmaceuticals and the downfall of addiction. They showed me how drugs can change your brain for better or for worse. They opened up my world, but years later, they’d forever change it as well.

For all the negative influences and bad role models I faced when I was young and suddenly at the top in Hollywood, I still managed to meet people who wanted to make a difference in the world. The first time this happened was on the set of an independent film when I was sixteen.

“Hi, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping I could talk to you about something,” a voice said while Mom and I were packing up our things on the last day of filming. I looked up and noticed it had come from one of the crew members, who I’d never met formally but had seen almost daily around the set.

“Yes, how can we help?” Mom answered, smiling.

The man approached us and held out his hand. “I’m Jeff Pantukhoff,” he said. “I know Hayden is an animal lover, and I started a nonprofit to protect some of our ocean’s mammals. I was hoping I could show you both a short film I made. It describes what we’re doing. I think you might be interested.”

My ears had perked up at the words “animal lover,” so I was interested. I nodded my head, and Jeff opened up his laptop.

“What’s your organization called?” I asked. “And what do you do?”

“I’m a marine life photographer, filmmaker, and whale researcher, and my organization is called the Whaleman Foundation, or Whaleman for short. I started it in 1995. Just watch…”

Jeff pushed a button, and a video started playing on his computer. The footage that unfolded transfixed me then, and it has ever since. When it was over, I immediately told Jeff I’d help him out however I could. It was one of the best decisions of my life.

Whaleman’s mission is to preserve and protect dolphins, whales, and our oceans by raising awareness and influencing key decision-makers. As a filmmaker, Jeff and his team create short films that show the plight of the mammals in our oceans, including what threatens them and how we can help save them. Its first big victory came in 1999, when Jeff screened a short film called Gray Magic: The Plight of San Ignacio Lagoon to the United Nations. As a result, Mitsubishi agreed not to build a plant in this Mexican United Nations World Heritage site, which also happened to be the last pristine mating and birthing site for the California gray whale. Another film he made about orcas helped designate a certain species of these mammals as endangered species in both Canada and the United States.

The idea of giving back, utilizing my platform, and being in the public eye to make positive changes had always intrigued me, but I’d never had a chance to do that until Whaleman. Almost immediately, I started traveling with Jeff and his team on their shoots so I could appear in his films, and for the first time in my life, I began scuba diving. It was completely terrifying, but I knew I was facing my fears in a way I never had before. Under the ocean, I found a strength I didn’t know I had. With these massive, mysterious animals I grew to respect, I felt like I was doing something bigger and more important than I ever had before.

Did I mention it was terrifying? And that I was swimming with dangerous, wild creatures in the middle of the ocean? I shudder when I think about it, and then I feel pure joy.

A few years after I teamed up with Whaleman, Jeff invited me, Mom, and Jansen to do an open water dive about forty-five minutes off the coast of one of the Hawaiian Islands. He was filming pilot whales, which aren’t whales but large oceanic dolphins with blunt, roundish heads, like beluga whales have. Mom, Jansen, and I had received our marching orders to get ready, and we were suited up and prepared to jump in.

“Oh, hey, look over there!” Jeff said, pointing in the distance toward the coast. “It’s a school of hammerheads!”

I froze. I hadn’t even been a blink in my parents’ eyes when Jaws came out, but I knew what sharks did. They stalked blond teenagers, devoured them like candy, chewed up their bones, then spit them out and went back for more.

“Oh yeah,” I answered, turning away. “That’s cool.”

Jeff stopped me. “What are you doing? Get in there! You are not missing this opportunity.”

I looked at Jeff, then at Mom, then at my poor little brother, who I’m pretty sure was in the process of wetting his pants. “Should we do this?” I asked. Mom nodded slowly. Jansen squirmed, then shrugged. And before any of us could change our minds, hijack the boat, and drive it back to dry land, we all said our prayers and leaped in the water.

Within minutes, I found myself floating helplessly over a moving school of about fifty hammerhead sharks. As I pulled in the oxygen from my tank and forced myself not to hyperventilate, I was sure they could sense my paralyzing fear, and I worried that would draw them toward me. Guess what? That’s exactly what happened. Two of them swam up to me, their flat, elongated heads right in front of my face. Then they swished their tails and started circling me. I decided the only way to get of this mess—which I was sure was going to become a bloody mess in a hot minute—was to keep one of the sharks in my line of sight, grab the top of its two-by-four like nose, and guide it away from me. I knew that if I splashed, I’d look like a dying fish, and then I’d be toast.

It never came to that. The two sharks eventually lost interest and swam away to join their school. Mom, Jansen, and I scrambled back into the boat.

“That’s it for me!” Mom said.

“Me, too,” Jansen added.

Not long after, I was getting ready for another dive, the exhilaration I felt in the water overtaking my fear of sharks. Right as I was suiting up and putting on my last fin, a crew member I’d started calling Captain Reaction (because he had the flattest affect of any person in human history) spoke up.

“Just so you know, the oceanic whitetip sharks love to follow pilot whales because they are such messy eaters. They will eat anything, including survivors of accidents at sea.”

I closed my eyes and willed Captain Reaction to be quiet. I was about to go on another dive, and I didn’t want to think about becoming a whitetip’s next meal.

My safety diver and I got into the water for our first shot, and I swam toward a nearby pilot whale. Suddenly, out from the distance came a whitetip. He was monstrous.

“Oh my God!” I screamed underwater, and then I began doing absolutely everything a person face-to-face with a shark should not do, I kicked, flailed, and grabbed my safety diver and pushed him in front of me. (Yes, I am not proud of this fact.) You think—if you’re smart and prepared—you will be brave in moments like this, and then these moments happen, and you crash and burn. It’s human nature to do everything in your power to survive, including throwing your safety divers to the sharks.

Thankfully, the whitetip swam away. But the memories of my time with Whaleman stuck with me, and over the course of the next few years, the foundation became a hugely important part of my life. It gave me purpose, drive, and fed my soul. Never mind whitetips and hammerheads and Captain Reaction, the ocean became a refuge and Whaleman my passion. I’ll always be grateful to Jeff and the incredible creatures he’s introduced me to. He’s brought out the very best parts of who I am.

EIGHTEEN

On the Town and Across the Globe

I was young and new to Hollywood, and there were times I wanted to let my hair down. The place everyone said I could do that was a brand-new Hollywood club called Les Deux. Les Deux was the hot spot of the moment for famous twentysomethings, located behind unmarked doors on a nondescript street called North Las Palmas Avenue. While it was full of celebrities and the paparazzi swarmed the entrance, security fended them off by the time you reached the inside. My favorite part of Les Deux was its gorgeous outdoor courtyard, which Kim Kardashian used for her twenty-seventh birthday party and where so many episodes of The Hills were filmed that the club pretty much became a side character.

I was seventeen, so while I’d spent some time sneaking beers with the DASH girls, I wasn’t a big drinker. Sometimes I asked Stephen to order me a cocktail at Les Deux, but I’d put it down to talk to someone and forget all about it. I was also afraid of someone slipping a pill into my drink, so if I abandoned one, it was for the best. Roofie-ing happened all the time—even in the nicest bars and clubs—and I didn’t want to take a chance.

I’d also just become the face of Neutrogena, a brand with a squeaky-clean product identity. Not only did I have a strict morality clause in my contract, but I was well aware of what I was supposed to represent as a Neutrogena cover girl. The brand was pure, clean, and natural, and I was meant to showcase that image as an innocent, all-American sweetheart who didn’t touch cigarettes, booze, and happy pills. My relationship with Neutrogena helped dictate every outfit I wore, every hair and makeup choice, and how I acted when I was out on the town. I never let the paparazzi see me holding a drink—underage Neutrogena girls didn’t do that—and while I didn’t force myself to dress modestly, I never showed too much skin. I started walking through my life playing the role of Hayden Panettiere, Neutrogena Girl, and, at times, that was a high standard impossible to uphold. Once again, I couldn’t stand to let anyone down. I became a people pleaser at the expense of the real me.

Despite all this, a big part of me was relieved that I didn’t feel the need to stay at Les Deux or any other club all night. My priority was acting, not playing a celebrity, and the relentless pressure from the press had shown me the difference between the two. But another part of me knew the truth: none of the other bold-faced names my age were begging me to stay. You’d think these were the people I’d have the most in common with, but at times it felt like the opposite. Paris Hilton was like a big sister to me, and I have gone to many of the amazing parties she’s thrown over the years. You would think her parties were Hollywood events because of the amount of celebrities there. As I got older, I began to feel more accepted into the “popular” club, but as a teenager I found myself hiding in the corner watching these people work their magic. The confidence most famous people radiated was palpable. Watching how people like Lindsay Lohan commanded a room was mesmerizing. I was around thirteen when I first met Lindsay, and she’d always been warm and friendly to me, but I thought of her as one of the consummate cool girls. She always seemed completely in her element, talking to anyone and everyone. I remember watching her in awe from across the room, and I was convinced she was born to be in situations like this. I was not, and I feared rejection. So, I went to the parties and tried my best to say the right things, but never felt like I made friendships like I had with the DASH girls.

I don’t write any of this to get sympathy. My life was blessed then, and it is now. And I suppose I was lucky, not becoming fully enmeshed with the group journalists had started calling the “Messy Generation.” I could have gotten in huge trouble if I’d drank more, gotten into fights, or raced away from Les Deux in my car and crashed it into a ditch on Sunset Boulevard, where photographers would have swarmed me like flies. The paparazzi and magazine editors wanted to build me up and make me popular so they could sell magazines—but then they wanted to crush me. When I was seventeen, I only escaped that because I wasn’t a bad girl. Little did I know that I’d have the rest of my life to fall apart in the public eye.

I was still preoccupied with disappointing my team and parents, too. While the other celebrities faced everything from ridicule to jail time for their escapades, I still felt a duty to be home at a reasonable hour, when Mom was there to greet me. Sure, it hurt not to have friends in the cool crowd, but it was for the best. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but I missed out on a lot of drama and grief because I still thought of myself as the child I was.

And in the mornings, after a night out, I woke up feeling good. With the paparazzi waiting to pounce, I drove north through the Hollywood Hills, to the Heroes set for a long day of work. It was there—especially after the first season—that I was about to discover a true, lasting set of friends.

Just before the second season of Heroes aired—and right as the show was being rolled out into a few international markets—the producers decided to send the cast on a worldwide promotional tour. They split us into three groups: one that would hit Europe, one that would visit select cities in North America, and one that would travel to Asia. My group—the European leg of the tour—included Jack Coleman, who played my adoptive father, Noah Bennet; Milo Ventimiglia, who starred as Peter Petrelli, a hospice nurse whose superpower was mimicking other people’s powers; and Adrian Pasdar, who played Peter’s older brother, Nathan. I was far and away the youngest one in the bunch, but I didn’t feel left out one bit. With a character like Claire to sink my teeth into and a cast and crew that had been more than supportive so far, I was confident. Work wasn’t Les Deux, middle school, or some other social experiment. It was where I could really let my light shine.

I had just turned eighteen, and that meant for the first time in my career, Mom and Dad weren’t legally required to travel with me. I would be on the road with colleagues I loved, promoting a show that had launched my career into the stratosphere. I put a lot of stock into star signs, and I’m a Leo, which means I crave excitement and adventure. This tour was the adventure of a lifetime, and I was free to do whatever my heart desired—so long as it didn’t damage the show. I still played it safe every chance I got, so I knew that wouldn’t be an issue.

I expected to have the time of my life. What I didn’t expect was the onslaught of fans who greeted us at each of our two-day stops. Jack, Milo, Adrian, and I hit London, Munich, and Paris, and—even though the show had only aired a handful of times in each territory—there was a frenzy everywhere we went. I remember getting off the London Eye, unable to move because I was swarmed by Heroes fans demanding autographs. The screams from the crowds in Munich were deafening. We had bodyguards and escorts and paparazzi chasing us on motorcycles, which are far scarier than cars because bikes can zip in and out of traffic. I’d been so focused on the paparazzi in LA that it hadn’t occurred to me that Heroes had turned us into international stars overnight, but those ginormous crowds weren’t faking all the noise they made. Heroes was a big, fat deal all over the globe, and there was no getting around it.

I’d had a little crush on Milo since the show started, but we were friends and nothing more. Milo was thirty and I had just turned eighteen. However something was in the air in Europe. Maybe it was the sights or the food or the fact that everyone fell all over us, but I felt dizzy with joy, and it seemed so did Milo. Over the course of the world tour, our friendship turned to flirtation, and, just like that, we became a thing.

NINETEEN

The Last Straw

One night over dinner with my parents, I decided to discuss the elephant that had stood in the room since I turned eighteen.

“I think it’s time I move out and get my own place,” I said.

Dad looked down at his plate, and Mom put down her glass of wine. I glanced over at Jansen, and I couldn’t tell if he was stunned or angry. Probably both. I was keenly aware that when I left home, Jansen would be alone with Mom and Dad. Moving to LA hadn’t patched up their relationship. If anything, the distance between them had gotten bigger.

“Where are you going to go?” Mom asked. She looked sad, which I understood. A big part of me was sad, too.

“I think I’m going to buy a house. Somewhere I can spread out and have friends over. Don’t worry, I’ll be close.”

“Are you going to sell this place?” Mom asked.

“No, Mom, of course not. You guys live here.”

Heroes and Neutrogena were keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads. Mom and I were pitching ideas for movies together, Dad was playing golf, and Jansen attended an excellent private school and acted whenever he could. Our lives were more than comfortable. Except for the tension between Mom and Dad, everything seemed to be coming up roses. As far as I was concerned, there was no reason it shouldn’t continue to.

“I don’t want there to be any disruptions when I move,” I said. “We’re a family, and we stick together.”

Mom smiled. “We are a family. Nothing will change that.”

If only she’d been right. But in life, some breakups feel inevitable.

A few months later, I was in my trailer on the set of Heroes when I heard a knock on my door. It was Milo, so I let him in.

“You might want to sit down,” he said, closing the door carefully. “Do you know where your dad is?”

I searched his face, and it was as serious as a heart attack. Panic immediately set in. “What do you mean? Isn’t he at home?”

Milo paused and clenched his jaw. “He’s in jail.”

“What?” I pleaded. “Why? What happened?!”

“He hit your mom,” he answered.

I sat down—just as Milo had suggested—and my heart began to pound so hard I thought it might break my ribs. Thoughts raced through my head, and I wondered who could have called the cops—and why. It just couldn’t be true. My parents’ relationship was hanging on by a thread, but was no way Dad would hit Mom. Maybe they were fighting so loud that the neighbors intervened, I thought. Or maybe this is all a misunderstanding. Then I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to think. Even though almost nothing about my family surprised me at that point, there had to be another version of the story. In fact, I’d seen Mom and Dad the night before, and while they weren’t getting along, there was no way Dad went home and did something that would ruin my family’s lives.

The previous evening, Mom, Dad, and I had attended a charity event for the Whaleman Foundation. I had started serving as Whaleman’s international spokesperson and had been the fundraiser’s official host, and both were huge honors for me. The party had been a massive success, with tons of money raised and terrific exposure for Whaleman. It was also a pretty spectacular time.

Then there were my parents. The last image that planted itself in my mind before I left suggested something deeply hostile was happening between them. Both had been drinking, Mom had started arguing with people, and from his body language, I could see that Dad was at his wit’s end. I’d witnessed my parents’ inability to communicate in a healthy way a thousand times, and this entire scene was case in point. But it was their problem, not mine, so I decided to bow out. Besides, if anyone from the press saw me intervene with my bickering parents, they’d twist the story, and it would make all of us look like jerks.

So, I walked out of the event without saying goodbye to them.

“I have to get Dad out of jail,” I said to Milo as I picked up my phone and started scrolling through my contacts.

“Yeah, I get that,” he answered. “Just be prepared to spend some money because bail isn’t cheap.”

“How expensive are we talking?” I asked. Milo cringed, which gave me a good idea. Then I found my lawyer’s number and prepared to spend tens of thousands of dollars to rescue Dad.

I’m going to stop here and say something important. Given what I’ve endured in my own personal life—which I will get to later in this book—I am more passionate about this message than almost anything. Domestic violence of any kind—physical, verbal, financial, sexual, emotional, or psychological—is inexcusable. It destroys lives and scars people forever. The trauma I feel from the abuse I’ve suffered is painful on a level I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I do not take the subject lightly. If you are in an abusive relationship, please take care of yourself, put your needs first, and lean on your support network. I know how hard it is to do these things—and if I could take my own advice, I’d be in much better shape than I am—but try to set boundaries and take the necessary precautions or actions to make yourself safe. No one should live in fear of a loved one, and no one should ever lay their hands on you or harm you in any way. Period. Full stop.

However, violence within families and between intimate partners is also a complex and personal issue. Because of this, I refuse to judge or comment on other people’s situations or experiences. I respect their privacy and dignity, and I ask that others respect mine. Family dynamics aren’t always healthy, and mine was no exception. In 2008, the Panettieres were feisty and feistier. I love my family with all my heart, but we fight hard. Jansen and I spent hours of our lives rolling on the floor pulling each other’s hair and punching each other’s kidneys. Mom and Dad bickered about issues both big and small, and their fights were loud and intense. We’re fiery Italians, and “fuck you” was our way of saying “I love you.” Sometimes, we also meant “fuck you” literally.

To the best of my knowledge, none of my parents’ disputes ever erupted into physical violence, and certainly not after the Whaleman event.

The paparazzi that lined the streets and flew in helicopters over my house and condo reported that at about 4:00 a.m., Mom called 911 from my condo. When the police came, she told them that Dad had struck her across the face two or three times. Dad wasn’t home, but when he returned, they arrested him on the spot and charged him with felony domestic assault.

Dad later told me that the trouble started before he and Mom had left the gala. After having a few drinks, Mom saw a guest in a corner kissing a woman who wasn’t his wife or girlfriend. Mom told Dad she planned to say something to him, and Dad told Mom to leave him alone because he was a grown man. Mom disagreed, and she marched over, told the man he was being inappropriate, and insisted that he stop.

The man looked Mom straight in the eyes and told her to go to hell.

Mom stormed off and found Dad. “Skip, that man over there said the most offensive thing to me,” she complained.

Dad sighed. “Do you want me to go do something?” he asked. “I mean, why’d you even bother the guy?”

Mom protested, and Dad stood firm, refusing to validate her feelings. Mom complained, and Dad got more irritated. I witnessed this interaction, and—even though I found it almost impossible not to intervene—I chose to leave the scene. Not long after, Mom and Dad decided to go home, and they went back to my condo, still swimming in the toxic, drunken cesspool of tension that had started at the party. Dad got into bed because it was late, but Mom didn’t feel settled.

“We need to talk, Skip,” she said, following him into the bedroom.

“For God’s sake,” Dad answered, “it’s three a.m. Jansen is asleep upstairs. I know where this is going, and I don’t want it. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Mom wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she kept insisting that they talk. Dad got up, grabbed his pillow, and walked to the spare bedroom, then crawled into bed. Mom followed him and pulled the blanket off his body, making Dad roll onto the floor along with the blanket.

“What the hell, Lesley?”

Dad stood up. Mom approached. Dad balled up his fist, placed it against Mom’s face, and said, “Get out of my way. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m afraid I might hit you.”

Mom backed off. Then Dad ran out of the condo, got into his car, and drove to my house. When he saw Milo’s car in the driveway, he returned home, just in time for the police to arrest him.

Mom instantly regretted calling the cops, and when Dad came home from jail, she begged him for forgiveness. She also tried to get the charges dropped, but in the state of California, only the district attorney has the power to drop domestic violence charges. On the advice of a lawyer friend, Dad pleaded no contest so that the issue would fade away without a trial. Unfortunately, the opposite happened. The fact that he didn’t claim he was innocent made everyone believe he was guilty, and the tabloids ran with it. Dad was sentenced to fifty-five weeks of anger management classes—all of which he attended—and boy, did he have some stories about the people he met there.

That was the last straw for Mom and Dad’s steaming pile of a marriage. Their connection had faded over the years as the differences between them grew and their interests diverged, but now real damage had been done. They might have had love for each other—and they certainly had a codependent, explosive kind of passion—but they didn’t like each other anymore. All they saw was anger, distance, betrayal, and resentment.

A few weeks later, Dad moved out and got an apartment close to Jansen’s high school. Mom stayed with Jansen in my condo.

I was furious at Mom because I was sure she’d called the cops based on a knee-jerk reaction to Dad blowing up and leaving that night. I also couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of how this would land on my shoulders when the press ran with it.

“It’s a mess,” I said to Milo. “This whole incident is in every paper in America and in other countries. But instead of running Mom and Dad’s photo, they’re showing me.”

Dad later said he thought Mom got so upset because she suspected he wanted to leave her. He’d even accidentally left his phone out while he was searching for apartments, and Mom had likely seen what was on his screen. But that was all just the icing on the cake because—as far as Mom and Dad’s marriage was concerned—the writing had been on the wall for years. Now it was out in the open. And I don’t mean out in the open in the comfort of my own home. I mean on TMZ, US Weekly, and every other publication you could think of.

The Whaleman event was the last I saw of my family. Rather, it was the last I saw of my broken, but still somewhat intact, family. I’d been growing up fast for years, but now, I was officially out in the world, on my own.

TWENTY

Room 23

As the third season of Heroes debuted in the fall of 2008, my family’s happiness and well-being weighed on me. But so did my own needs. I was now nineteen, living entirely on my own and managing my own finances. I had great management, contracts that would keep me employed for years, and a show I believed in 100 percent. I didn’t need much more than that.

I was also convinced I didn’t need Mom’s help.

My relationship with Mom had been strained in the months since Dad’s arrest. I tried not to be involved with the drama between them, but she leaned on me, just like she had when Dad confessed to his affair. Mom and I had been so enmeshed in each other’s lives for so long that the boundaries between us had blurred, sometimes in an ugly, damaging way. For instance, Mom had managed my earnings up to that point, yet I never felt we communicated enough about them. That made me resent her. Recently she and I had been pitching movies together, and I’d decided to tell her that the cleavage-bearing boho tops she wore to meetings were too risqué. No parent wants to be told how to dress by her child, so it made her resent me. She got upset when I didn’t invite her to certain industry parties, and I got upset when she wanted to stay too long at these same parties. For nineteen years, Mom and I had been living each other’s lives. Now I’d grown up, and it was time for me to be in the driver’s seat of my own life.

I asked Mom to come to my trailer on the Heroes set one day, and that’s where I broke the news.

“Mom, I can’t work with you anymore,” I said. “I just want you to be my mom now.” I wasn’t in the mood for an argument, so I didn’t mention anything that had helped build the wall of resentment between us. All I wanted was to discover what it was like to have a “normal” mother–daughter relationship, and that dynamic didn’t involve contracts, producers, boho tops, or drinking wine at industry parties.

Mom picked up her purse, clenched her jaw, and looked straight at me. “You owe me,” she answered. Then she turned around and walked out of my trailer. When I heard the click of the door, I took a deep breath, then burst into tears. I knew I’d done the right thing, but I sensed something in me had died.

It was the part of me that still felt like my mom’s baby girl.

For my entire life, Mom had defined and driven me. Her persistence, her determination, and her belief in my potential pushed me forward. Because she was passionate that I had to know a script backward and forward, I never once showed up on set less than perfectly rehearsed. Mom had shaped my approach to every audition, television show, movie, commercial, and interview, and not a day had passed when she hadn’t been there, watching me struggle, learn, grow, fall apart, and triumph. Her dream had become mine, and mine had become hers. Mom was fully responsible for the trajectory of my career, and even though it hadn’t been my choice, I loved what I did. Without Mom, I wouldn’t be sitting in an NBC trailer, my cheeks soaked in tears. I owed her everything, and now I was on my own.

In March 2008, I purchased a house on Curson Terrace, a stone’s throw from Runyon Canyon and even closer to the NBC set than my condo. It was a three-bedroom, three-bathroom house spread over two stories and 3,100 square feet, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking down a hill toward downtown LA on one side and the coast on the other. You could stand in every room and take in gorgeous views, and trust me, I did. After two years of living in a condo with fighting parents and a brother doing backflips above me, I needed space and freedom. I got that in my new house.

My house was secluded, on a dead-end road with only one set of neighbors. I could also hear coyotes howling in Runyon Canyon, which is one of the creepiest, loneliest sounds in the world. I’ve always been a people person, and—living alone for the first time in my life—I craved company. Thankfully, my neighbors were young, and we became fast friends. I also had Milo, the rest of the Heroes cast, and a group of friends that included a makeup artist named Annie, who I’d met when I was filming Bring It On. Annie did my makeup as a favor sometimes. One night I received a last-minute invitation to an industry party, so I called her up.

“I hate springing this on you,” I begged, “but can you do my makeup for a party? Pretty please…?”

Annie sighed. “Oh, honey, I can’t. I’m doing all the makeup for a photography book right now. I’m at the apartment where they’re shooting.”

“What’s the book?” I asked.

“Well, it’s called Room 23, and it’s a coffee table book that features photographs of a hundred celebrities in the fancy apartment I’m in now. Not all the celebrities will be in the room at the same time, of course. All the proceeds go to charity.” Annie paused. “Some of the photos are really provocative, but they’re gorgeous.”

I heard voices in the background, then Annie speaking to someone.

“Sorry about that,” Annie said when she returned to the phone. “That was Diana Jenkins, the brains behind Room 23. Hey, why don’t you just come here, I’ll do your makeup, and maybe you can take a few photos? Then you can leave for your party.”

I thought about it and said yes. Even if my photos didn’t end up in the book, I’d get my hair and makeup done and see my best friend.

A few hours later, I walked into a high-rise penthouse in Beverly Hills, where someone dressed me in a gold sequined gown that was so heavy I could hardly walk in it. I stood in a massive bathroom and gazed into a mirror as the photographer snapped photos. Diana Jenkins stood next to her, peppering her with orders.

“We need one more shot,” Diana said in a heavy Eastern European accent. “But try to seem dramatic. Look fierce.”

I did as I was told, and the camera snapped.

“Thank you so much for coming, my dear,” Diana said to me when the shoot was over. “We can definitely get your photos in the book.”

I smiled and thanked her too. Then I relaxed and took in this woman who’d pulled me into a project I hadn’t been expecting the day before.

Diana was tall, blond, and striking, with warm brown eyes and the kind of gravity-defying breasts that wealthy women in LA pay good money to get. I’d only just met her, but her charisma and command of the room pulled me right into her orbit. Annie had told me about her background: Diana was from Bosnia but had fled to London during the siege of Sarajevo. There, she married a banker and later moved to LA. She was now a fixture on the social circuit and had just launched a line of beverages called Neuro.

TWENTY-ONE

Penguin Pajamas and Private Jets

Diana Jenkins called me immediately after the shoot.

“Your photos were so beautiful,” she said. “You are beautiful. When can we get dinner?”

“How about Wednesday?” I asked.

Diana and I met a few days later for dinner, and after that she took me under her wing. I’m not sure what I needed at the time—a mother figure, a diversion from Heroes, or some excitement and friendship—but I fell completely under her spell. Dinner led to parties led to planning weekends together. I had plenty of friends my own age, a boyfriend, a dream job I loved, and a family I was mending fences with as best I could, but I craved the attention and adoration.

I was far better known to the public than Diana, but her personality dominated mine. She gave people orders, and I smiled and made them feel welcome. She worked her magic, manipulated, and generated attention, and I tried to be straightforward and genuine. Our good cop/bad cop routine worked, and I never once felt like Diana undermined me. We complimented each other.

Diana was almost thirty years older than me, and while I’d always been mature for my age, it’s impossible to overlook an age difference that large. It was a weird friendship for sure, but as I stretched into my newfound adulthood, I had to see which relationships suited me, on my own terms. At that moment, Diana seemed like she could give me everything I needed.

My relationship with Milo was heading into its second year. The press scrutiny around our age difference had been relentless, and Milo was such a private person that I knew it wore on him. But as far as I could tell, there wasn’t much wrong with our dynamic. I liked Milo and he liked me. My family approved and that gave me comfort. Maybe we weren’t destined to spend our lives together, but I enjoyed what we had, and it seemed like he did, too.

One night late in 2008, Milo and I went together to a party that was also attended by an important executive at NBC. This man—who I’ll call John—was one of my Big Bosses, and I didn’t want to ruffle his feathers since he weighed in on decisions, such as if I could take time off from Heroes to film a movie. I liked John and had never had a problem with him. Milo, however, just never seemed to warm to him.

“Hayden!” John said, approaching me from across the room. “How are you?” He smiled and waved, then leaned forward and pecked me on the lips. I can’t say I’d ever been kissed on the lips by a television exec before, but I knew it was innocent. To be honest, we’d both had a few drinks, and John had never made me feel uncomfortable.

I decided to tell Milo what had happened when we left the party and were in his car.

“John gave me a kiss on the lips back there!” I said, laughing. “Not an air kiss or a cheek kiss. His lips touched mine. What a sleazebag!” I actually didn’t think John was sleazy, but when your boss pecks you on the lips at a party, sometimes jokes just have to be made.

Milo was silent. I glanced to my left and saw him gripping the steering wheel, his face fixed in a frown.

“Milo?” I asked tentatively. “You’re not laughing. It was funny, I promise.”

Milo was quiet for a few more minutes, then he cleared his throat. “Next time I see John, I’m going to say something to him. That was completely inappropriate.”

I pivoted in my seat, realizing I’d made a mistake. “Seriously,” I said, “it was not a big deal. It was a peck that lasted a split second—just to say hi. I was not offended. You really don’t need to say anything to him.”

Milo pulled the car into a gas station and turned to face me. “I think I need to take you home,” he said. “I’m just not feeling well.”

“Go home, I’ll take a cab,” I answered, reaching for the door handle. Whatever was going through Milo’s head was his business. I couldn’t tell if he was upset about the silly kiss, genuinely sick, or something else entirely, but if I left him alone, I was sure it would all pass. Milo was a sensible, solid guy.

I opened the door, waved goodbye, and motioned that I’d call him as soon as I got home.

“Get home safe,” Milo yelled when a cab rolled up and I stepped inside.

A few days later, Milo and I met up.

“We need to talk,” he announced as soon as we sat down.

Those dreaded four words, which anyone with two ears and five brain cells knows the meaning of, were the last thing I expected to hear. Except for the party incident, everything about our relationship had been drama-free. Now this. The realization that my relationship was most likely ending hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt the oxygen leave the room, and I gasped and sucked in my breath. I felt my chest start to heave, and I exploded into a torrent of hysterical tears.

“Are you breaking up with me?!” I stammered. “It’s over, isn’t it?” I wasn’t really in love with Milo, but our relationship was something stable in my life, and now he’d pulled the rug out from under me. In my nineteen years, no one had ever broken up with me—especially not after a silly misunderstanding like this (or whatever had happened the other day). My delicate nervous system wasn’t prepared for the shock. I put my face in my hands and felt hot tears blinding me, then I lifted up my face to the sky and began to wail as only a heartbroken teenager could.

“Noooo… !” I cried.

Milo put his hand on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, I could see the shock registering on his face. “Hayden,” he said softly. “I take it back. I take it back.”

I collapsed in his arms and continued sobbing for a good five minutes.

About a week after Milo announced he’d changed his mind and we were indeed still together—or at least that he’d “taken it back”—I was sitting in my house wearing my most comfortable pair of pj’s. They were what I call penguin pajamas because they had rubber-soled footies that keep your feet warm, not that it gets all that cold in LA. Milo and I had spent the morning together, so I assumed we were back on track. After the horrific display I put on during our last “talk,” I sure hoped so.

“Is there anything we need to discuss?” I asked. “I mean, about last week.”

Milo hesitated, and I noticed his face was dead serious. “I changed my mind,” he answered.

My stomach turned and heat flooded my face. “Wait, what? Are you breaking up with me? Again?”

“We can definitely still be friends,” he responded.

I stood up from my chair, rose to my full five foot two, and faced Milo. Instead of feeling traumatized like I had before, I was filled with red-hot rage. “I’m sitting here in my penguin pajamas, like some eight-year-old,” I said, “and you’re breaking up with me again? After you broke up with me, then changed your mind last week? What is going on with you? I thought we were fine!”

Milo was silent, and he looked down. “I’m sorry, and I mean it. But it’s just not working out.”

A burning sensation filled my stomach as I felt my whole world fall apart around me—again. But instead of crumbling along with it, my fight or flight instinct kicked in. “Get out of here!” I yelled, picking up his coat from a chair and throwing it into the hall. “Out!”

Milo stood up, grabbed whatever I hadn’t tossed out of the room, and apologized again.

“I said get out!”

He turned and walked away, and I collapsed to the floor in my footie pajamas.

The next afternoon, I was still in my pj’s, lying in bed in the fetal position. I’d hardly slept the night before, and I hadn’t answered my phone or any texts. How could I? I’d been kicked to the curb for the first time ever, and that warranted a serious period of mourning. I’d cried all the tears I could, and now I needed to lie in bed for a few more hours to honor the somber occasion.

Suddenly, I heard a knock on my door. Slowly and deliberately, I peeled myself out of bed, then dragged myself toward the front door. I looked through my peephole, and there stood Annie. Next to her was a rolling suitcase.

“You look terrible! Why aren’t you dressed?” she asked when I opened the door.

“Milo broke up with me last night,” I answered.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I just think he wants to move on.”

Annie’s mouth turned down into a frown, and she looked at me sympathetically. “Girl,” she said, “take off those stupid pj’s, get in the shower, and pack up your nicest clothes. Diana Jenkins just invited us to New York City on her private jet, and the plane leaves in five hours. You are going to be on it.”

In an instant, the clouds cleared, and the skyline of New York City began to dance in my brain. I thought of fancy dinners, late nights out, sexy men and women, and all the things I could see and do after I stepped off that swank private jet. In the blink of an eye, my delicate adolescent heart mended, and Milo became a distant memory. Ah, youth! I’d had a thoroughly traumatic eighteen hours, but that was all over now. Life is short and relationships come and go. New York City was calling, and it was time for this nineteen-year-old to party.

TWENTY-TWO

The Heavyweight Champion of the World

On February 17, 2009, Annie and I walked into a packed restaurant in Beverly Hills for Room 23’s launch party. It was a black-tie event, and I was dressed in a long red gown, with my hair short, neat, and tucked behind my ears. The trip to New York had made me feel like I was some impenetrable nineteen-year-old force, capable of dining from a buffet of anyone and everything. But that was in the past, and this party was all business. Hooking up with someone was the last thing on my mind.

The ballroom was packed with actors, artists, musicians, and even politicians, all of whom were the cream of the social crop. Annie and I said our hellos to Diana, scanned the room, and made our way to the long, crowded bar as the DJ spun records in the background. Drinks in hand, we then edged into a circle of people, one of whom was a man in his forties with a soul patch and dark handlebar mustache. His jaw was firm, and his eyes were intense, and I recognized him but couldn’t put a finger on who he was. When I glanced his way, I could also tell that he had his eyes on me.

“Great to see you,” I said when we were close enough to each other to start a conversation. In a room full of people this influential, I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by saying “Great to meet you” and then discover we’d already met.

“You’re Hayden, right?” he answered.

“I am,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice that I hadn’t said his name.

We chatted for a few minutes, never touching on anything personal, but our small talk veered dangerously close to sweet talk as the champagne I was drinking started to go to my head. Whoever this man was, he was way too old for me, and I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. When I realized we were about to cross over the line of harmless flirtation into something intentional, I decided my best move was to say goodbye.

I nudged Annie in the ribs. “Hey, I have to go to the bathroom,” I said. “Will you come with me?”

Annie grabbed my hand. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry we have to go!” I said to my friend with the mustache. “Maybe I’ll see you around the party.” Then Annie and I turned and marched toward the bathroom.

“Do you know who that was?” Annie asked.

“No, I’m clueless,” I answered.

Annie snorted. “What is wrong with you? Did you sleep through the nineties? That was Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

I didn’t have a chance to register my shock because—as I turned from facing Annie—I nearly walked into the chest of the largest man I’d ever seen.

I jumped back and looked up toward a broad face with a jawline that could have been chiseled out of marble. “Oh my God!” I said. “You are huge!”

“And you are tiny,” the giant man answered in what I thought was a Russian accent.

Annie inched closer to us. “Wlad, I don’t know if you remember me, but I did the makeup for Room 23.” She then looked at me. “Hayden Panettiere, this is Wladimir Klitschko. He’s the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. Hayden is an actor and one of my best friends.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said because I was positive we’d never been introduced. “I watched a lot of boxing as a kid because my dad loves it.” I decided to leave out the fact that every time Dad turned on boxing, I tuned out. I thought choosing to get hit in the head for a living was the pinnacle of stupidity.

“Hayden,” Annie said, “I still have to go to the bathroom. Do you want to join me?”

“That’s okay,” I answered, waving her off because I didn’t mind being stuck with this man. There was just something about him I liked.

“So, Wlad, you’re in Room 23?” I asked.

“I am,” he answered.

I smiled, looked up at him, and noticed that he was studying me, not in a flirtatious way, but like I was an artifact on display at Ripley’s Believe It or Not!

“Why are you looking at me that way?” I asked.

His concentration broke as he started talking. “I’m sorry, you are just so small. I’ve never stood next to anyone who is…” He made a motion with his hands, and I interrupted.

“About a foot and a half below you? Maybe two feet?”

“That’s right,” he answered. “Wait a second…” He paused and started to bend down. “I bet I’m taller than you even when I’m on my knees.”

I began to laugh as Wlad lowered himself to the ground so he could rest on his knees. “Look at this! We just met, and you’re already kneeling down to me,” I said. Then I took off my heels, shuffled closer to him, and saw the final result: even on his knees, Wlad was taller than me by an inch or so.

“Here, let’s take a picture,” he said, smiling as he stood up and a photographer approached us. “I don’t know anything about you, but you are the only person at this party who’s made me smile.”

After the photographer walked away, we kept talking. Wlad had some quality that I couldn’t put my finger on. I wouldn’t say he radiated warmth—his larger-than-life features made him pretty intimidating, to be honest—but the temperature in the air between us felt just right. I liked him, and he seemed to like me. In a room full of people trying to see and be seen in a superficial way, he’d noticed me as a person, and I’d done the same. Now we were just two individuals at a party, taking photos, making jokes, talking, and laughing about nothing in particular. It was nice. Really, really nice.

Just then Diana approached us and grabbed both our arms.

“Wlad! Hayden!” she said loudly. “I see you’ve met! Wonderful. Now Hayden, you do know that Wladimir Klitschko is the heavyweight champion of the world, right?”

“I do,” I answered, realizing that two of my best friends had identified Wlad that way within the last hour. Maybe, I thought, that meant he was someone important and not just some idiot who got hit in the head for a living.

Wlad and I exchanged numbers that night, and I didn’t think much of it. I was navigating a single life for the first time in years, so I tried not to project into the future or worry about whatever potential might exist with another person. All I knew was that Wlad and I had sniffed each other out, and we liked what we smelled. He seemed strong and steady and like someone you could count on. He was polite and friendly and didn’t cross any boundaries, but at the same time there was something exotic and new about him. If stability and excitement can exist at the same time, it was what I’d encountered when I met Wlad.

I was also curious about him, so I did some research. I learned that Wladimir Klitschko, pronounced “Vladimir,” was thirteen years older than me. He’d been born in Kazakhstan while it was still part of the Soviet Union, and he’d moved to Ukraine with his parents and older brother, Vitali, when he was a young boy. He and Vitali had boxed their entire lives, and both were considered two of the most accomplished heavyweight boxers of all time. Vitali still fought professionally, but he was also an important figure in Ukrainian politics. Wlad, as I now knew, was a reigning champion. Ukrainians loved the Klitschko brothers, too, and they treated them like national heroes.

Well, maybe I can show him how to feel like a regular ole guy in LA, I thought. So, the next night, when Wlad called, I invited him out to a club with my friends.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Wlad said on the phone, “I’ll pick you up in a car.”

While I was perfectly capable of getting to a club all by my lonesome, I’d take it. A few hours later, a black car arrived at my house right when Wlad said it would, and I slipped into the back seat next to him.

“Thanks for picking me up,” I said, looking up at him.

“You’re welcome,” Wlad answered. I noticed that not a single muscle in his face had moved while he was speaking.

“You know,” I said, turning to him, “you have the best RBF I’ve ever seen.”

He was, again, expressionless. “What does ‘RBF’ mean?”

“RBF is ‘resting bitch face,’” I answered. “And you look like you invented the term.”

There was a noticeable pause. “Resting bitch face?” he asked. “You call me a bitch? Okay, so I am a bitch.” Then I heard a sound I hadn’t expected to hear: Laughter. Wlad erupted into loud, raucous, belly laughter, and I joined along. It was positively delightful.

“We’re almost here,” Wlad said a few minutes later, and I noticed the RBF had returned.

Our car pulled into the valet area, and the driver exited and came to my side. As he began to open the door, flashbulbs erupted, and a crowd of paparazzi descended on us.

“Hayden! Hayden!” they screamed. “Give us a smile! Who are you here with? Is he your new boyfriend?”

“Sorry about all this,” I said to Wlad as I shielded my eyes and got out of the car. “I’ve been putting up with it for two years.” Wlad and I made our way through the crowd and into the club. When we were safely inside, I turned back to him. “Again, sorry about that. Are you okay?”

Wlad was still wearing his RBF, but this time his eyes were as big as saucers. “Who… are you?” he asked.

“I told you, I’m an actor,” I answered.

He paused and laughed. “Well, you must be a very famous actor.”

TWENTY-THREE

Trust

“It’ll be a great party, sweetie,” my friend Stella said. “You can trust everyone there.”

Stella McAmis was a semi-successful twentysomething actor I’d met at an industry party, and she filled up my nights and weekends with long dinners, strong cocktails, and gorgeous people. I told myself fun was what I needed and that I should take it as seriously as I did acting. Somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear Mom’s voice: “Don’t phone it in, Hayden. Whatever you do.” Newly single and thrilled to be picking up friends, I was determined to keep giving the performance of my life. Goodbye, stage fright, hello Hollywood high life.

There was something strange about Stella, though. Her career track didn’t match up with how much money she spent, yet she never talked about her family or her past. No matter where we went together, she immediately made a beeline toward whatever rich and famous man happened to be there. She’d grab me and pull me along with her, then introduce me to the men.

“This is Hayden. You must know her from Heroes.”

I always made friendly conversation, but I sensed these men’s eyes on me, and it made me uncomfortable. Instead of feeling like Stella’s friend, it was like I’d become something else: a young commodity, ripe for the pickings. I was freer than I’d ever been, but I certainly wasn’t cheap. These flirtations didn’t feel right. But I couldn’t place my finger on what Stella was trying to do with me. Sure, I was in charge of my life and she was in charge of hers, but she needed me for something. I just couldn’t figure out what.

A few months after I met her, Stella invited me to what she said would be a casual yet star-studded party at her apartment in Los Feliz. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I said yes. I didn’t think anything of it until she mentioned the word “trust.” This was a party she was talking about, not a secret society. The word “trust” made the whole thing sound fishy.

I told myself I didn’t have anything to worry about, though, because Stella was my friend, and she’d never done anything but show me a good time. A night out would be fun. So, right at the time Stella told me to arrive, I took the elevator up to her apartment. When I walked in, I saw a tiny crowd of people instead of the party I was expecting.

“Oh, hi, love!” Stella said, coming out of nowhere. “Everyone, she’s here!”

Stella waved her arms to the side of the room, and I looked toward a small group of men who were gathered together talking, drinking, and smoking weed. There were some musicians and some actors, all of whom counted themselves among the most exclusive people in Hollywood. They were also all in their forties and fifties.

I was nineteen.

“Hi, everyone,” I said, waving. Then I turned to Stella and lowered my voice. “I thought this was a party? It’s more like… a meeting.”

“Do not worry, it’s a party,” she answered.

There it was again: the implication that I actually did have something to worry about, or that maybe trust—or the absence of it—was back on the table.

Stella got me a drink, then pulled me toward the men and introduced them to me one by one. I did my best to be friendly, but I was deeply uneasy. These men seemed to be a little too comfortable together, like they knew something I didn’t. As a woman in a room dominated by men, it was also hard not to feel like I was being watched. The men were nice enough, asking me questions about Heroes and whether I had plans to film more movies, and I answered them politely. But I didn’t feel right, so I never let my guard down. Instead, after about half an hour of small talk, with all eyes on me, I decided to figure out my exit strategy. It had been a perfectly good night, and there was no need to ruin it with whatever was going down in this apartment.

Just as I was putting my coat on and about to say goodbye to Stella, one of the men—an Oscar-winning actor and director—approached me.

“It was nice to talk to you over there,” he said, smiling. “Are you heading home?”

“I am,” I answered. “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

He smiled again, this time a little bigger. “Well, have a good night. Just be careful when you leave because someone spit their gum out somewhere, and I got some on my pants.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, stepping back.

“Look here,” he answered, pointing down. “There’s a big wad of gum on my pants.”

I looked down and recoiled. This well-respected, award-winning actor’s testicles were hanging out from his unzipped fly.

“I have to go,” I said, turning away from him. Then I pulled on my coat and ran out the door, slamming it shut behind me. It wasn’t until I’d reached the elevator that I realized I hadn’t told Stella goodbye.

Up to that moment, men in Hollywood had always been kind and respectful around me. There may have been a peck on the lips here and an inappropriate comment there, but nothing had crossed a line. The gum on the pants, however, was a head-scratcher. It hadn’t hurt me and I was sure it was a drunken joke, but I’d never seen a grown man do something like that. I was shocked.

I decided not to mention it to Stella, partly because she couldn’t do anything and mostly because the moment had passed. I was nineteen, and I assumed some older men had just grown up with no manners. There are some really strange people out there doing lots of icky things. Besides, Stella was my friend, and I was sure that friends always protected each other. No one I loved had ever put me in harm’s way, and as far as I was concerned, Stella was no different.

Before I knew it, Stella and I fell back into our old patterns. She invited me out, and I said yes because I loved her company and was looking for a good time. Stella was aways there, no questions asked.

In spring 2009, Stella invited me to the south of France, and I jumped at the chance to get away. NBC had just finished airing the third season of Heroes, and I needed distance from the show. It wasn’t Milo’s presence on the set; we were both professionals, and we didn’t let the fact that we’d broken up interfere with our jobs. Besides, there was no bad blood between us. I also still looked forward to going to work every day, but season two had let me down. The plotlines were confusing, the writing was often stale, and some of the characters’ motivations and dramas no longer rang true. Heroes was a show based on the supernatural, but a lot of viewers and critics also complained that they’d been forced to suspend their disbelief a little more than they were comfortable with. After ratings plummeted during the second season, two of the executive producers—who also worked as writers—were fired, but the problems remained all the way through season three. The rest of the cast and I were frustrated and upset, but there was little we could do. We did everything in our power to make the characters as interesting to watch as possible, but at the end of the day our influence was limited. Ultimately, decisions about direction and writing were out of our control. We also believed in the show, so we forged ahead.

Now, being thousands of miles away was just what the doctor ordered.

I landed in France and promptly boarded a yacht that Stella had somehow rented for a week. This wasn’t just any old yacht, either; it was a super yacht, like the kind oligarchs dock in international waters to avoid paying taxes. There were multiple decks, dozens of rooms, and a kitchen, crew, and bar prepared to meet our every need.

It quickly became apparent, though, that the main deck was where the action was. Stella kept the party going up there, and when I walked from my room, freshly showered, to meet her, she handed me a drink.

“Here, sweetie. Welcome to France! Enjoy.”

“Cheers,” I answered. Then we clinked glasses, turned our faces toward the sun, and tried to forget all our troubles, which lay on the shores beyond the deep, blue waters of the Mediterranean.

The first few days on the yacht were heaven. One night Stella hired a DJ, and we danced on deck all through the night, then at six in the morning escaped to the galley, where the chef had cooked bacon, eggs, and pancakes and piled them high on individual plates. There was always champagne flowing, someone famous or beautiful lounging on the deck, or a card game or deep conversation happening in one of the many lower-level lounges. I spent mornings sleeping in and afternoons in the sun, with dips in the warm, blue water whenever I wanted. Good times and Stella were one and the same. Honestly, I would have had to try to have a bad time.

Toward the end of my stay, I was filling my plate up with tiny sandwiches and my wineglass with chardonnay when Stella approached me and asked me to come downstairs with her.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” she said. “Follow me.”

I put my plate down and smiled. “I’ve been here for days. I thought I’d met everyone.”

Stella laughed. “No, he’s new,” she answered. “Just trust me.”

There was that word again. Trust. I pushed any worries I had to the side, though, and followed Stella down a set of stairs. After walking through a narrow hallway, we reached a door and knocked lightly.

“Come in!” a voice with a British accent said.

“Go on in, Hayden,” Stella said, smiling sweetly at me. “I’ll be right behind you.”

I walked into the cabin and saw a famous thirtysomething British singer-songwriter lying in a bed. He was shirtless and propped up on a few pillows with his arms positioned behind his head. From the waist down, he was covered by bedsheets, and I could see the outline of his body underneath.

Oh my God, I thought. Is he naked under there?

Stella leaned down and whispered in my ear. “I want you to get in bed with him. He has a huge dick.”

She pulled back the covers on the unoccupied side of the bed, and I did as I was told. My thoughts were a blur, but I’d spent my life trusting that others had my best interests at heart. Being “managed” was routine, to the point where I lost faith in my intuition. I could feel my heart pounding, as I settled in underneath the sheets, I disassociated. My body no longer felt like my own. The shock was so great it didn’t even occur to me to say no. Stella was one of my closest, most trusted friends, and this couldn’t be real. There was no way she’d ever let anything happen to me.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Stella said as she left the room.

As soon as the door clicked close, my survival instinct kicked in, and I squirmed out from under the sheets.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t know what she said to you, but this is not going to happen.”

I jumped out of the bed, pivoted toward the door, and ran into the hall. I sprinted up a flight of stairs, then down another hall, and ran till I reached my room. I knew I had to get off this boat, away from this horrible woman and whatever she was up to. When I was safely inside my room, I found my phone, booked a hotel, and started packing my bags. I wasn’t scared, but I felt like I’d been kicked in the face. Stella had become my wingwoman (or I’d become hers). She’d confided in me, pampered me, and treated me like her best friend—then turned around and treated me like a call girl.

I deserved better than that, by a lot. I needed to be with sane, normal people who didn’t care so much about fame, parties, and press and never, ever used people for their own benefit or ends. I told myself I had Annie, the DASH girls, Jansen, and a dozen other close friends, and they all meant the world to me. Truly, I wasn’t alone, even if sometimes I thought I was.

Then, all of a sudden, I thought of the last person who’d looked past the flashbulbs of the paparazzi and treated me with respect. It was someone who not only didn’t care that I was famous, but who also didn’t know who I was till a few months ago. We hadn’t seen each other for months, but I’d thought of him often.

I decided that as soon as I was off the yacht and back in the comfort of my own home, I’d call Wlad. If there was anyone who was the opposite of Stella McAmis, it was him.

TWENTY-FOUR

Making Magic

When I got back to LA, I reached out to Wlad immediately. He told me he was staying with a friend, and while he’d love to see me, he wasn’t sure that between my schedule and his we’d have enough time. That didn’t matter much to me. Simply knowing he was there, ready to talk, was enough.

We texted each other every day. And each time his name popped up on my phone, I felt warm inside, like my heart was swelling. Thinking about Wlad, I felt calm and safe. When I remembered how playful and lighthearted our conversation had been, without agendas or expectations, I saw glimmering in the distance the tiniest bit of joy. Joy was definitely something I could get used to.

About a week after my return Wlad sent me a message.

I am back in Ukraine. I wanted to say hello.

My heart sank. Ukraine? That meant Wlad had left LA without saying goodbye to me. The thought hit me hard.

Are you returning anytime soon? I asked.

Yes. Next month. I will call you. I would like to see you.

I hadn’t expected to be so excited about Wlad. I was in no mood to hop into a relationship and I had too much going on in my career to be distracted by dating or someone else’s drama. I was also far too young to tie myself down. Yet I couldn’t shake the feelings I had. Wlad and I looked different, sounded different, and came from different worlds, but the thought of him made me smile. I missed him, hard.

Wlad came back to LA a month later, just as he said he would, and he invited me over to the house where he was staying. We sat together on his friend’s big, comfortable couch and caught up on what each of us had done the last few months. Wlad had been training. I’d been on a yacht with Stella. I left out most of the awful parts, wanting to spare myself the anger and shame, but otherwise I told him everything. Wlad listened closely, like he had no other place to be, and soon, the air in the space between us turned electric. Human beings are composed of microscopic particles of energy, each bumping against each other, and I felt those particles vibrating through every inch of my skin.

I looked down and noticed I was a good foot away from Wlad on the coach, so I scooted a little closer. “It’s really nice to see you, Wlad,” I said. “I mean it.”

Wlad’s resting bitch face morphed into a smile, and I leaned my head onto his shoulder.

I don’t care how different we are or how much I don’t want to be in a relationship, I thought. I think I should try this because it feels so right.

For our first official date, Wlad invited me to a place that he was sure I’d never forget.

LA’s Magic Castle.

If you’re from LA, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, buckle your seat belts. The Magic Castle is a Victorian chateau-style mansion situated on a hilltop in Hollywood, run as a club and performance space by the Academy of Magical Arts. In a neighborhood dominated by nondescript hotels and apartment buildings, the Magic Castle is an oddity. A big one. No other building on Franklin Avenue has ornamental porch railings, turrets, stained glass windows, and a hidden entrance that you can get through by saying “open sesame” to an owl figurine. My house and condo weren’t far from it, and I’d always wondered who in the world went there—other than magicians, I suppose.

Now I realize who else loved the Magic Castle: a positively giddy Ukrainian boxer named Wladimir Klitschko.

“Please wear a gown,” Wlad said after he invited me. “This place is very nice.”

Dressed in our finest, Wlad and I said “open sesame” to the owl and watched a bookcase swing open, leading us directly into a large parlor. From there, my eyes feasted on dark, wallpapered walls, hardwood floors, ornate chandeliers, and expensive oriental rugs. There was a massive bar anchoring the space and a grand staircase in the distance. The first thing I thought was that it looked like the mansion in Clue, and the second was that there were probably cobwebs lurking in every creepy corner. The rooms seemed to go on forever, and as we walked through, I counted two, then three, then five dining rooms, all of them filled with people. This place was gigantic.

Wlad squeezed my hand and jolted me out of the trance I’d fallen into. “There is a room here where people perform séances. Sometimes they summon Houdini.”

I stifled the laugh that rose up in my chest. I didn’t have a comeback for that one.

“We will have dinner, then watch a magic show after,” Wlad added, smiling just enough to crack his RBF. It was hard for me not to feel like a kid again in this place. The more I looked around, the more I got swept up in its kooky charm.

A server ushered us over to a table for dinner, taking our orders for drinks first. Wlad pulled out a chair for me to sit in, and I settled myself into its red velvet, surprised that a big plume of dust didn’t rise up when I sat. As we sipped our drinks and waited to order dinner, Wlad turned to me.

“I want to show you a magic trick,” he said.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. You will have to wait while I leave to prepare.”

All six feet and six inches of Wlad stood up from the table and walked away. A few minutes later, he returned with a deck of cards and sat down. What followed was something involving the cards, Wlad’s fingers, some string, and some “magic” sleight of hand I had figured out the moment Wlad started it. I mean, I had a little brother. I knew how magic tricks work.

“You see, it was magic!” Wlad said at the end of the trick.

“Wlad,” I answered. “I could see the string and fake thumb you thought you were hiding the whole time.”

Wlad’s face froze. “No, Hayden. This is not right. You do not ruin a magic trick by telling the magician what they did wrong.”

“Well, I do,” I answered, relieved that the waiter had come to take our orders. “I call bullshit. You need to practice more.”

Wlad’s face remained fixed in place, but I could see his eyes widen ever so slightly. When you’re invested in someone, unconsciously picking up on their energy, you notice this sort of subtle expression shift. I knew that Wlad’s eyes were telling me he wasn’t mad. In fact, I was pretty sure he liked my honesty.

“It’s okay,” he said, laughing. “Next time I’ll do better.”

I could feel my heart softening around Wlad. He was a bundle of contradictions, yet I found all of them lovable. He was the epitome of masculinity—and had a few belts to prove it—yet he was also a little boy who loved magic. He spoke few words, and they were usually in a monotone, but one tiny shift in his expression told me volumes. I didn’t know Wlad very well, but I understood him. And I knew he felt the same about me.

A few hours and a dozen magic tricks later, Wlad drove me back to my house. I didn’t invite him in because I wasn’t ready to take things any further. What I was ready for was to walk through the new door I’d opened when I met him. Not long before, I’d been lying on the floor of the Heartbreak Hotel, convinced that life as I knew it was over. Now I was spending time with a wildly interesting man who was so different from the type of person I’d dated in the past. I’d set out to do single differently, and it had landed me in the Magic Castle with the heavyweight champion of the world. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it felt like this new, adult path was the road I was meant to travel on.

“Thanks for a great night,” I said. “Magic Castle was a first for me.”

I kissed Wlad goodbye, then I turned, walked into my house, and started counting the minutes till I could see him again.

TWENTY-FIVE

Challenge Accepted

Three days later I drove toward the house where Wlad was staying for a few weeks. Wlad had texted me while I was behind the wheel, and after I parked in the driveway, I checked my phone.

Running late. I left the key on top of the rock wall for you.

I got out and looked left, then right. There were two walls, and both were at least six feet tall. Remember, I’m five foot two.

“All right, here we go,” I said as I approached one, grabbed on to whatever handholds I could find, and started to climb. When I was able to peek over the top, I hoisted myself up, rested my belly on the edge, and scanned every inch of the wall.

There was no key in sight.

I jumped down, dusted myself off, and walked toward the other wall, shaking my head and wondering what Wlad could have possibly been thinking. Then I remembered I had an extra wiper blade in the back of my car, and surely it was long enough to reach the top of the wall.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered as I reached up and scraped the wiper blade across the top of the wall. No key. I moved down the length of the wall, scraping as I went, and just as I was sure I’d hit something, I heard the front door open.

“Hi, can I help you?” a man’s voice said.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I am so sorry. I’m Hayden. Wlad told me he’d left a key on top of one of these walls for me.”

“I’m Roger,” he answered more kindly than I expected, given that it looked like I was trying to break into his house. “It looks like our friend thinks everyone’s as tall as he is,” he added. “So instead of killing yourself out here, come on in. Wlad’s not back yet, but you can wait for him inside.”

I smiled at Roger and thanked him. Then I put the wiper blade back in my car and followed him into the house.

A good half hour later, Wlad showed up. After some lighthearted joking about how he’d probably be late for his own funeral—then make sure the programs were on top of six-foot walls that no one could reach—we sat down on his friend’s couch and began talking. Almost immediately, we fell into an easy conversation, and before I knew it, I was holding Wlad’s hand, then kissing him. He wrapped me in his strong arms, and I swear I could have stayed there for the rest of my life.

For the next few days, Wlad and I were inseparable. I didn’t feel any rush to leave or to be anywhere except by his side. The more we talked, the more our habits and routines ebbed and flowed, and the more we learned about where we came from, as well as all the things we dreamed of doing in our lives.

Wlad told me that he’d grown up working class, living with his brother, parents, and grandmother in a house the size of a one-bedroom apartment. His dad was in the Soviet air force, and they lived in Pripyat, Ukraine—the site of Chernobyl—when the disaster happened in 1986. While most of the family fled, his father stayed to help clean up, just like my dad did at Ground Zero right after 9/11. During the Soviet era, boxing—and sports in general—were viewed as a way to move up in life, so he and Vitali had trained in gyms every moment they could. I wasn’t a fighter like him, but I understood this daily struggle to prove yourself to others.

Wlad was a kindred spirit. We had come from very different places, but our lives felt deeply entwined.

During one of my stints in treatment, I read The 5 Love Languages by Gary Chapman, and it caused me to reexamine every relationship in my life. Chapman introduces the five ways—or “love languages”—through which people express and experience love, including physical touch, quality time spent, words of affirmation (such as compliments), and gift giving. I realized immediately that my love languages are quality time spent and physical touch; I’m a hugger and a talker, and I need people around me because solitude depresses me. My dad is the same; he needs his friends and his golf buddies, and when he didn’t experience satisfying intimacy with my mom, he escaped into the arms of another woman.

Both my mom and Wlad find love in words of affirmation. Mom thrives on the positive reinforcement of coaching, callbacks, and casting; if she’s judged well, she feels loved. Wlad, like Mom, is a workaholic. Work yields results, and a job well done affirms the effort put into it. Wlad’s love language got a little deeper with me, though. If he made me happy, it affirmed what he was doing. If success in friendship, the boxing ring, intimacy, or anything else he poured his heart and soul into yielded positive emotional results for someone else, Wlad was on top of the world. His superpower was making me happy because it made him happy.

“You know, I’ve only been in love once,” Wlad said to me one night.

“Oh yeah, who?”

“My ex-girlfriend, Diane. It was a long, long time ago.”

I didn’t respond because I could tell he was about to say something important.

Wlad sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love again. I definitely don’t want to get married.”

If there’s anything I love, it’s a challenge. I’m the girl who rode a zebra, sang “… Baby One More Time” on the Rosie O’Donnell Show when she was eleven, and ran directly into a fiery train derailment—without putting her long hair up. When I heard Wlad’s declaration, I didn’t feel sad or worried about our future. Instead, I decided to take the bull by the horns.

You’re not going to fall in love again? I thought. Challenge accepted. Wladimir Klitschko, you are about to lose your heart.

At the end of our three days together, Wlad told me he had to discuss something with me.

“I’m not going to see you after today… for a while at least,” he said.

“You’re leaving town?” I asked. My heart suddenly felt like it might break in two.

“Yes,” he answered. “I have to go back to Germany to train.”

I absorbed what Wlad said, and I burst into tears.

Wlad wrapped his arms around me, and I looked up and noticed the shock that was registering on his face. “What’s going on here? Are you crying? You don’t want me to go? Is that what this is about?”

“No, I don’t,” I answered, my chest heaving as tears streamed down my face. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Wlad looked at me, and I saw a tiny shift of emotion that signaled he was ruminating on something. He didn’t say it, but I knew what it was. By opening the door to honesty and deep emotions, I’d given him permission to fall for me. He’d been waiting for me—the one whose love language was tactile and tangible—to signal that something made me unhappy. If I was unhappy, he was, too. For Wlad, it was challenge accepted as well. His next move would be to lower his defenses and fall in love.

He was ready, and I was too.

Wlad didn’t know how long he’d be in Germany. Every day he was gone, longing ate at me, like Wlad was satisfying a need I hadn’t known existed.

In the late 2000s, Skype was the go-to platform for free international video calls, and it became my lifeline to Wlad while he was away. I’m not exaggerating when I say that we rarely—if ever—turned it off. If Wlad went to the gym to train, he left Skype on. When I got in bed at night, I set my phone or my laptop next to me so Wlad and I could talk before I fell asleep. We talked about our hopes, dreams, disappointments, families, careers, and mistakes. We ate meals together. We cried and dreamed and planned.

The one thing we didn’t nail down, however, was when we’d see each other again. Wlad’s training schedule was packed from morning till night.

“So how does it work when you’re in the ring? Like, what do you like to do?” I asked on a call one night. I knew next to nothing about boxing, except that it involved getting hit in the head.

“I am known for defense,” he answered. “I stand back a lot and protect my body while my competitors advance, then punch and fail to connect. When they get exhausted, I punch them out.”

“Whoa,” I said. “That’s impressive.”

Wlad laughed. “Tell that to my critics. They think my fights are boring because I don’t throw many punches. But my strategy has allowed me to fight my entire life without getting any brain damage.”

I paused before responding. “I guess if I were a boxer, I’d be right in there, throwing punches like crazy,” I said.

“I know you would,” he answered. “But in boxing, you have to watch as much as you have to act. I watch the other boxers and find their weaknesses, then attack. People call my fights boring, but I don’t feel that way. The fact that I study my opponents makes me smart.”

Wlad was smart, with a PhD in sports science and four languages (English, German, Russian, and Ukrainian) under his belt. He also owned a few businesses—including a sports management company—and invested in various ventures across Europe.

“I sit in many chairs,” he said one night.

Wlad had come up in a world so different from mine, with political oppression, poverty, and disaster, and yet he hadn’t let that weigh him down. He’d used the body he was born with to create a better life, and he kept fighting—both in the ring and outside it. Forget the tough Wlad I’d met at Diana’s book party. The Wlad I was falling in love with looked intimidating, but he was good as gold.

“I really, really miss you, Wlad,” I said early one morning a few months into our separation. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stand having a relationship on Skype.”

He didn’t answer, and I figured he’d walked away from his phone for a minute. Then, suddenly, a photo popped up in my texts.

“Wlad?” I asked. “Why are you sending me a photo of my front gate?”

“You got my picture?”

“Yes, what is going on?”

“Come outside.”

I jumped up from bed, ran through the house, and swung open the door. There stood Wlad holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Wlad!” I screamed, jumping into his arms. “I can’t believe it!”

“I’m in town for a few days. Can I stay with you?”

“Of course you can,” I replied. “Now, come inside.”

The next few times Wlad returned to LA, he showed up at my house unannounced just like he had the first time. He always brought thoughtful, beautiful gifts, and we’d spend entire days together until he had to leave town.

“Roll over, monkey,” he sometimes said just before we went to sleep. “You’re taking up the whole bed.”

“Monkey” was his nickname for me, along with “kukolka,” which means “little doll” in Russian.

As a person whose life had been scheduled from dawn to dusk for years, I loved the surprise and spontaneity Wlad brought to my life. The truth was I was getting bored with everything other than him, and I needed an outlet and a distraction. Heroes was well into its fourth season, and the entire cast felt that the writers were cranking out scripts like they were on autopilot. The plotlines didn’t feel fresh, the writing seemed forced, and none of us felt the electricity and suspense we had in the beginning. I still loved my castmates, my character, and all the stunts I got to do—and there was no part of me that wasn’t grateful for the opportunities I’d had on the show—but it was time to move on. I wanted to run away from the mundane and toward excitement. I wanted a new life on my own terms, with someone far away from everything I knew. That was Wlad. I knew, deep in my heart, he’d be one of the biggest influences in my life, breaking open my world and taking me to places I’d never been before. I couldn’t wait.

TWENTY-SIX

A Different World

Wlad had met my family, but I was a total stranger to his. So, at the end of January 2010, he asked me to join him in Hamburg, Germany, for the Best of Musical Gala, where we’d be joined by Vitali, his wife, Natalia, and their children. Though he’d been the heavyweight champion of the world like his brother, Vitali was now winding down his boxing career as he moved full-time into politics. He’d just become the leader of Ukrainian Democratic Alliance for Reform (UDAR), a Ukrainian political party, and he was supposedly thinking about running to be the mayor of Kyiv for a third time. Wlad told me he was sure that this time, Vitali would win.

I was nervous about meeting Vitali and Natalia. It had been hard enough breaking through the language barrier with Wlad, whose English wasn’t terrific. In fact, I’d suggested he take English and elocution lessons, and he’d agreed to them, telling me it was a brilliant idea. But whether Vitali and I would be able to speak comfortably in English was a big unknown—as was whether he’d be interested in his brother’s girlfriend.

Wlad and I had also never appeared in public before, let alone on a red carpet like the gala would have. I decided to wear a strapless, emerald green dress, and I settled on my tallest platform heels so our height difference wouldn’t be so glaring. Then I told myself this was just another day out. Maybe I didn’t know anyone, and maybe I wasn’t sure how to act—or if I should blend into the shadows—but I could do this. I just needed a little reassurance from Wlad.

“I’m a little nervous about meeting everyone,” I said. “I’m just some American woman who’s thirteen years younger than you. Am I going to make a fool of myself?”

Wlad put his hands on both of my shoulders. “Do not worry,” he said, looking me right in the eyes. “Be yourself. You are the salt and pepper in my soup. You are the seasoning.”

I breathed a big sigh of relief, then hugged Wlad like my life depended on it.

Not long after, Wlad and I walked into the gala and made a beeline toward Vitali and his wife, Natalia.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, shaking Vitali’s hand.

“And it is nice to meet you,” he answered.

Vitali and Wlad could have passed for twins even though there was a five-year age difference between them. Vitali was strong and commanding, just like Wlad, and I could sense the warmth between them immediately. Wlad had told me they’d always been close. Next to Vitali stood a strikingly beautiful woman with dark brown hair and eyes and perfect cheekbones. She was carrying a small boy, and by her side was a slightly older girl and another boy who looked to be about ten.

“This is Natalia, my wife,” said Vitali. “Natalia, this is Hayden.”

I shook her hand, and she smiled at me. It was the loveliest, warmest smile I’d experienced in years.

“And who’s this?” I asked, motioning toward the children.

Natalia beamed with pride. “This is Yegor, who is nine, Liza, who’s seven, and Max, who’s four. They’re going to watch the performances, then they’ll go home while we have dinner.”

“It’s so nice to meet you all,” I answered. I’d always loved kids, and this crew was adorable.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Liza responded sweetly, enunciating the words in a way that made it clear she’d been practicing her English. When I saw Natalia grab her little hand, ready to usher her to our seats, the tension in my body fully dissipated. This was a strong family who supported each other. Maybe I didn’t have any reason to feel left out after all.

“Can I get you another drink?” a waiter asked me while we were seated at our table, ready for dinner to be served.

“Yes, white wine, please,” I responded, silently hoping that the bartender would make it a tall pour. I was seated between Wlad and Natalia, and scattered around us were a collection of men, most of whom were Wlad and Vitali’s business associates and friends. The men spoke fast and loudly, all in Russian, and I couldn’t understand a single thing they said.

I guess if I can’t talk, I can drink, I told myself. At the very least, wine would loosen me up.

Every now and then, one of the men would raise his voice, and the rest of the table would become silent. Then another would pick up one of the many vodka bottles scattered around the table, pour each man a small glass, and stand, raising his own glass. A toast would ring out, and all of the men—including Wlad, who hardly ever drank—would take a shot.

Natalia and I stuck to our wine. No one ever offered us a shot.

“These men love to toast,” said Natalia, turning to me after what felt like the hundredth toast about who-knows-what.

“I bet it’s the only way they can get Wlad to drink,” I answered. Then I realized that if the night went on like this, he’d be drunk within the hour.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Natalia added, smiling. “If you and I asked Wlad to raise a glass to something, he would be forced to drink. And getting Wlad drunk for fun is a terrible plan.”

As I laughed and filed Natalia’s idea away for future shenanigans, I realized how much I liked her. At a table full of loud, dominant men, she was warm and gentle, yet I could see the strength inside her. I hardly knew her, but I wanted to be her friend.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said after the toasting quieted down. “What do you like to do?”

“I used to model,” she answered, “but what I really love to do is sing. My parents were musicians when I was growing up.” Then her eyes looked away from me toward something far in the distance, I didn’t know what. “If I could do anything, I would sing for a living.”

I took a sip of my wine and thought about what she’d said. I was twenty, with a lifelong career that brought me joy and made me proud. Women in Hollywood had faced dozens of obstacles in their efforts to achieve equality with men—and while we weren’t there yet—we’d come a long way. The same was true in many other industries across America. In Ukraine, gender roles were much more traditional and rigid, with men seen as the breadwinners and women viewed as their supporters. Natalia clearly bristled at this social structure—or at least didn’t defend it.

“I love to sing, too,” I said instead of what was on my mind. “I’ve been singing since I was a kid.”

“Yes, well, I’d love to hear you sometime,” she answered, smiling in the kindest possible way.

“I’m sure we’ll have the chance,” I said, finishing off my glass of wine. “That is, if Wlad invites me back here to be with these guys.”

Natalia laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. And you should just ignore all these men. But I would worry about something.” She leaned toward me and began whispering. “Vitali once said there are few things Ukrainian men like less than seeing a woman drunk. Be careful because I’m afraid he’s right.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Scream 4

On May 14, 2010, NBC announced that Heroes would be ending after the season finale. I knew I’d miss the cast and crew terribly, and having a steady job to go to every day always felt nice, but on the whole, I was relieved. The show needed to wrap up, and I wanted to move on.

A week later, news broke that I’d been cast in the fourth installment of Wes Craven’s hugely successful horror franchise Scream. I’d be playing Kirby Reed, a no-nonsense, sarcastic high school senior whose best friend is the character played by Emma Roberts. Kirby was the foil to Emma’s ego-driven villain, the dry-witted girl who everyone assumes is a sidekick until she proves that she can kick butt. If the script was to be believed (and they usually are) my character was written really well, so Kirby had the potential to be one of the film’s breakout characters. I would even get to work with Rory Culkin, who had been a good friend of mine since we were kids. My agent had also negotiated a character no-kill clause in my contract, so—even though I was going to get stabbed in the stomach twice—Ghostface couldn’t get me. Chances were Kirby would be back in future Scream sequels (spoiler alert: she was).

The movie was filming in a few locations around Michigan, and I convinced the producers to hire my high school BFF Allie to be my assistant. I use the term “assistant” lightly because Allie was more like my emotional support human being. Her main job duty was keeping me company on set and off, and she performed the task admirably. Allie didn’t star in Scream 4, but that’s only because the director peeled her body off my hip before every take.

Remember the Titans had been blissful, and Heroes had been the best extreme sport I’d ever participated in, but Scream 4 was next level. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much or so hard as I did in those few months. The costume designer from Heroes was hired to head up the department on Scream 4, and she brought along her son and his best friend. Allie and I became fast friends with the two of them, and we quickly bonded with most of the young people on set.

We had the kind of wild adventures only twentysomethings can enjoy without getting arrested. For the Fourth of July, Wlad offered to fly a few of us to Hollywood, Florida for a few days of sun and fun. Later that summer, Neve Campbell rented a large, rural property with cottages on it, which sounds upscale, warm, and cozy except that staying there was more like glamping. My crew didn’t care, though, and one weekend we decided to glamp out there and take ’shrooms. I’d never tried ’shrooms before and didn’t know what to expect, but I felt so comfortable with my friends that I wasn’t worried. They would take care of me and ensure I had a stress-free trip.

Not long after we took the ’shrooms, when I was starting to settle in, someone decided to invite David Arquette over. When he arrived, he took in the scene and passed on taking the ’shrooms. Then he announced proudly that he wanted to show us his directorial debut, The Tripper.

“It’s a slasher film,” David said, holding up a DVD, “but it’s funny.”

David turned on the DVD player, pressed play, and let the film unfold before us. A few minutes in, the screen filled with graphic images of corpses, viscera, carnage, and war. The movie was gorgeously filmed and brilliantly conceived, but as I drifted far into the psychedelic haze of my first ’shrooms trip, I swear to God my eyeballs were about to spout blood. One friend curled up into a ball next to me, and another put his head between his legs. Finally, one of us stood up to turn the DVD off.

David Arquette is a good friend and a great director and actor. But unless he was messing with us—and I’m sure he was—I will never know what he was thinking.

I started filming Scream 4 when I was twenty and turned twenty-one during production, and on the big day Wlad threw a massive birthday party for me. He rented an entire building, invited everyone we both knew, and staffed the party with several of the characters from Beacher’s Madhouse, an avant-garde, circus-like performance that had run sold-out, celebrity-packed performances in New York and LA since 2002.

At the time, Wlad fought up to three matches a year, so he rarely flew across the Atlantic to see me. An elaborate party on my milestone birthday, thrown by the man I’d fallen in love with, felt significant. In fact, I was relieved that even Wlad recognized it. This was a first because I couldn’t think of a time when Wlad had seemed genuinely interested in my work. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t care or if he underestimated how much energy and passion it took to do my job. I knew he cared about me, so the fact that he didn’t ask about my career seemed odd. It wasn’t like him—or was it? Our relationship was so new it was hard to be sure.

I always made sure to be interested in what he did, though. For example, each time Wlad was on the phone for business—which seemed like always—I peppered him with questions about what he was working on.

“You know I don’t speak your language,” I said to Wlad after he hung up the phone one day. “So do you want to tell me what was going on there? You sounded so happy.”

“Nothing, monkey,” he answered. “Just work.”

I sighed and went back to whatever I was doing. Wlad never gave me many details about his business outside of boxing; all I understood was that he owned and managed lots of businesses in Ukraine. I loved that he had this incredible drive, but I didn’t understand the mystery. If Wlad insisted on being on the phone for work when he was with me, at the very least, couldn’t he tell me what he was talking about? If he didn’t want to tell me, was there any harm in putting down the phone so he could be more present?

At the same time, I knew I struggled to manage my expectations. I always wanted people to show up for me the same way I showed up for them, and when they didn’t, I was crushed, angry, confused, or all of those emotions layered on top of one another. If I could treat someone a certain way, I had no idea why they couldn’t do the same. Of course, this is totally unreasonable. One person can’t control another or consistently get what they believe they deserve. Was it my responsibility to manage my expectations, or—like Mom—keep score when someone “owed me”? Neither sounded like an attractive option. The truth was, I just wanted to be closer to Wlad.

“Well, if you ever change your mind and want to talk about one of those ‘many chairs’ you sit in,” I said, letting my disappointment sink in, “let me know. I’m here.”

I looked over at Wlad, and all I saw was resting bitch face, and the bitch’s eyeballs were glued to his phone.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Knockout

I was worried about Jansen. In fact, I had been for a few months. He was almost seventeen years old, about to start his senior year at a fancy private school in LA. While he’d always been a happy kid, sometimes a darkness overcame him. At first, I chalked it up to teenage angst and the pressure of Mom and Dad’s endless divorce, which was now in its fourth year of legal wrangling and showed no signs of slowing down. Or it could have been his school, which was not the best fit for a creative soul like Jansen. But when I asked him if he was okay, Jansen insisted he wasn’t depressed. He was just upset with me.

“You’re not doing enough to help me succeed in Hollywood,” he said. “You’ve got this great career, and I’m just some high school kid.”

I was shocked. Jansen was constantly auditioning and landing great parts, from Nickelodeon films to voice work to a role in the ensemble cast of a Lionsgate film called The Perfect Game. The movie centered on a Mexican boys’ baseball team that became the first non-American team to win the Little League World Series in 1957, and Jansen nailed everything about his part, especially the accent. Trust me, accents aren’t easy, but Jansen made it look like it was.

“Jansen, that makes no sense,” I protested. “You’re so talented.”

“If only that were enough,” he said. “I should be more famous. You should be making me more famous.”

I shook my head. Jansen’s mind was so rich and fascinating it was almost otherworldly, and when he put that big brain of his toward something, he made it happen. Yet he believed that I was the person who held the keys to his success?

“Here’s what I think,” I said to Jansen. “Doesn’t it feel good to get roles because of your talent rather than because your sister is famous? Because that’s what you’ve done. You are where you are because you crushed every audition and every part. I want you to succeed on your own merits rather than to take the easy way out. And the easy way involves me pulling favors for you, which I’m not even sure I can do.”

Jansen wasn’t having it. “So, you’re saying other actors don’t help their siblings out?”

I shook my head again. I was friends with several actors who were siblings, and I can promise you most of them were equally talented as each other. “I have no idea,” I answered. “But I don’t care how many names you throw at me. If you don’t nail an audition, or if you don’t have what it takes, there is nothing in the world you can do to become famous. It’s not going to happen.” Then I paused. “And you, Jansen, have what it takes—if that’s what you want.”

Jansen looked down, and I could see the darkness returning.

Then I realized something. This conversation wasn’t about acting or how I could help Jansen advance in Hollywood. It was about being famous. Jansen wanted to be a celebrity, like I was, because that’s how I got attention. Jansen associated fame with love, and if he got adoration from strangers, he believed he could be happy and successful in life. In fact, I was pretty sure he thought it was the only way to achieve true, lasting peace of mind.

“Do you just want to be famous?” I asked him, half afraid of what his answer would be. “Are you jealous of me because I am?”

Jansen shrugged, and I knew what his answer was. I looked down and felt my stomach turn, finally knowing the truth. My baby brother was trying to be an actor for all the wrong reasons. That was a surefire recipe for unhappiness.

I called Dad and told him my concerns right away.

“I don’t think Jansen’s heading down a good path,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Dad asked. Dad had such a huge soft spot for Jansen that I was sometimes convinced he was his favorite child. In fact, Dad had once mentioned to a friend that he’d gladly take one me and ten Jansens. I didn’t take it personally. Jansen was a sweetheart, and I was tough.

“I just don’t know what’s going to happen to him after high school. He needs focus and discipline. Part of me thinks you and Mom need to put him in military school now, when you still have say over him. He needs it.”

Dad laughed, but I could tell he took me seriously deep down. Jansen was a sensitive, gentle soul, and that made all of us protective of him.

I decided to change the subject. “Just think about it. But in the meantime, do you want to go to Frankfurt to watch Wlad fight? Jansen can come, too.” Wlad had been training all summer for a fight against a Nigerian boxer named Samuel Peter, and it was set to take place on September 11, 2010. If he won, he’d hold on to his heavyweight title. This also marked the first time Wlad had asked me to sit in the front row in what was dubbed the Golden Circle. He had a superstition that if I was too close to the ring, he’d be so distracted he’d lose, so he’d first seated me in a box, then later the second row. Sitting in the front row was the boxing equivalent of a sorority girl getting to wear her man’s fraternity pin.

“A trip to Germany with my kids?” Dad said. “I’m in.”

In my mind, a little time away would do both Dad and Jansen a world of good. Dad had decided to stop being a golf pro because golf pros are a dime a dozen in LA, so he didn’t have enough to keep him busy. With Mom still living in my condo, he was living alone in an apartment close to Jansen’s school, and all his best friends were back in New York. As for Jansen, I wasn’t sure what was in the cards for him after high school. His grades were fine, but I didn’t get the sense that four more years of studying and tests was what he wanted. And after our conversation, I knew acting was fraught with peril.

What I hadn’t admitted to Dad was that this trip to Germany was as much for me as it was for Dad and Jansen. While Wlad was training in Germany all summer, I’d been in Michigan filming Scream 4. Wlad was like a horse with blinders on when he trained for a big fight, and—except for my party—there hadn’t been much space for me. Even though I’d flown to Germany as often as I could, our time together hadn’t been what I hoped. There were too many people around Wlad speaking a language I didn’t understand and too many dinners where I felt invisible. At those dinners, wine became my best friend. And, as Vitali had said, there’s nothing Ukrainian men dislike more than a drunk woman.

Boxing is warfare on a micro scale, and every time I attended one of Wlad’s matches I was reminded that, sometimes, humans don’t act like they’ve evolved past the days of the gladiators. When you’re sitting ringside, the lights are blinding and the room echoes with the squeak of shoes, the collision of flesh and muscle, and unrelenting screams from all sides. The spectacle entranced me, but it also sent my nervous system into overdrive. Even in the best seat in the house, I was surrounded by people screaming obscenities about the man I loved, cheering for more blood and willing the other fighter to hit him so hard his brains would come out of his ears. I loved that Wlad enjoyed what he did, but the energy in the arena was worse than a room full of paparazzi.

“Are you prepared to stop me from fighting with that rowdy asshole behind me?” I asked Jansen.

“You mean the one who just screamed ‘Kill Wlad’?” he joked. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

Wlad took a hard hit to his head in the first round, then fought back with a massive right-hand blow late in that same round. Wlad was typically a defensive fighter, but he started to go on offense, with hard hits that left Peter reeling. Almost every time his opponent got close, Wlad was able to stop him.

Dad and Jansen were in heaven. When people weren’t talking shit about Wlad, I was too. After all we’d been through as a family, letting them into this new world of mine was a gift.

In the tenth round Wlad landed an uppercut, then a left hook. Samuel Peter went down, and the referee called the match. It was lights out for Peter and a huge win for Wlad. He would remain the heavyweight champion of the world.

“He did it!” I screamed as I jumped up and down, then turned to Dad and hugged him. Jansen had a look on his face like he’d just watched a spaceship full of aliens land in front of him, so after I let go of Dad I punched Jansen on the arm.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Don’t do that.”

“Just wanted to make sure you were still conscious,” I answered. Then I looked right at him. “Thank you for being here. It means everything to me.”

Jansen smiled. To me, there was nothing better than seeing my little brother happy.

After Wlad cleaned up, formally accepted his belt, and spoke to the press, he walked down the steps and out of the ring, and I greeted him. As I looked up at him, beaming, to give him a kiss, I noticed there was still a reporter standing near him, anxious to get a few questions in. I stepped back to let him make his move, but Wlad pulled me close.

“Just wait, please. I only take orders from one person,” he answered. “She is my tiny terror.”

Then he leaned down to kiss me, and I felt—for the first time in months—like we might just make it as a couple. I was officially part of Wlad’s inner circle, and now Dad and Jansen were, too.

TWENTY-NINE

Nashville

“What’s a nice lass like you doing in a bar like this?” the bartender asked me.

It was July 2, 2011, and I was in Ireland for the European Music Awards. Wlad was in Hamburg, and he was about to fight a British boxer named David Haye, who I absolutely detested. Haye loved to talk shit about Wlad and Vitali and even once wore a T-shirt with a cartoon of himself holding Wlad and Vitali’s bloody, decapitated heads. I love a good rivalry and a good T-shirt, but this was terrible sportsmanship. I couldn’t wait to see Wlad dominate him in the ring.

There was only one problem. Boxing might have been hugely popular in Ireland, but I couldn’t find the fight anywhere—including on my hotel TV.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to the bartender, “but can you please turn on the fight? It’s David Haye versus Wladimir Klitschko, surely, you’ve heard of it.”

The bartender winked at me. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” he said. “But for you, I’ll turn it on.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, then sat back and waited for the action to start.

Wlad and I weren’t together. We’d broken up a few months after his fight against Samuel Peter, when it became clear that having a long-distance relationship spanning two continents was nearly impossible. Wlad and I had never experienced the minutiae that rules a couple’s life together, like making dinner, paying bills, or fighting about who does the dishes. With an ocean between us, it felt like we were living two separate lives. In most ways, we were.

In the months since the breakup, I had started dating a wide receiver named Scotty McKnight, who I’d met at a pre-Oscars party in February. He was quarterback Mark Sanchez’s best friend, and he was muscular and handsome, with dark eyes and thick eyebrows that put Jansen’s to shame. In a happy coincidence, right after we started dating he was drafted to Dad’s beloved NFL team, the New York Jets. The perpetual underdog Jets had always been my favorite, too, so dating one was like satisfying a childhood crush.

I was very much in love with Scotty and his family, but I still had a strong friendship with Wlad. Scotty understood this; he was one of the rare guys who was confident and kind enough not to feel threatened. There was no competition between the two men—Wlad and I were just friends—but he always had a place in my heart, and what we had meant the world to me.

“Hey, look at the big fella!” the bartender said as he poured me a pint. “The big guy’s got one hell of a punch!”

“That’s my ex-boyfriend,” I said.

“No kidding?” the bartender replied. “A wee thing like you? Well, this one’s on the house.” He slid the pint of beer toward me. “I hope your big fella wins.”

Twelve rounds and two black eyes later, Wlad won by unanimous decision. My heart was full, but it ached that I wasn’t there to cheer him on in person.

After Heroes, I’d been itching to be in a new television series. In March 2012, ABC announced that I’d been cast as troubled bubblegum pop country star Juliette Barnes on a show called Nashville. The creator, writer, and director was Thelma and Louise screenwriter Callie Khouri.

I loved the script and the character of Juliette. She was tough, sassy, devious, and someone that I could really sink my teeth into. I also loved that I’d get to sing, a muscle I hadn’t been able to exercise much in public. I thought the show held so much promise, but some critics thought the venture was risky. We were a bunch of Hollywood outsiders landing in a city that had defined itself without “foreign” influences, and there was a good chance the show wouldn’t ring true.

We recorded the music separately from the scenes where I sang, and my first session in the studio was for “Telescope,” a sassy, fast-tempo song with the kind of energy that gets an audience clapping. On the morning I was due to head to the studio, I woke up feeling like I was on the brink of death. My palms were sweaty, my body was shaking, and my guts roiled inside my body as if I was going to throw up at any second. I knew these symptoms all too well. Nope, I didn’t have the flu. It was my old enemy: stage fright.

“Hi, just so you know, I’m not properly trained,” I said to the producer who’d come to the studio to oversee the recording. “So you’re going to have to bear with me while I warm up. I’ll get there, I promise.”

“I know you will, Hayden,” he responded.

It didn’t help. As I started singing, my anxiety got worse.

I’m not sure how I made it through the first five minutes of recording, but when I stopped to take a break, the producer and engineers assured me I’d done an excellent job. Or maybe they were just kissing my butt. Just before I was ready to start up again, however, the producer interrupted me.

“In about ten minutes a few others from the team are coming to hear you record. Pretty much all the higher ups. Are you ready?”

My body began shaking twice as hard as it had before. “Excuse me,” I said, and I ran to the bathroom, where I almost threw up.

Somehow, I made it back into the studio without having to call 911, and I recorded the entire song in front of everyone who’d hired me and had the power to fire me. It was a miracle. A total fucking miracle.

When the pilot aired on October 12, people went nuts. Callie and the writers had positioned the pilot so that each character encountered a central, critical drama right off the bat. For example, “The Queen of Country Music” Rayna Jaymes—played by Connie Britton—gives up her lucrative record contract because she wouldn’t agree to be the opening act for Juliette Barnes. At the same time, she’s blackmailed by her father into supporting her husband’s political ambitions. It was like Guiding Light gone country and audiences lapped it up.

What also hit the audience right was Juliette. My character wasn’t intended to be the show’s star—not even close. That honor went to Connie, whose Rayna Jaymes was in the twilight of her career, facing a dramatic turning point thanks to yours truly. Juliette wasn’t necessarily Rayna’s enemy, but she was the antagonist. I threatened Rayna’s career, but I was never supposed to outshine her. That was the whole point. Women of a certain age in any entertainment sector can tell you that championing a twentysomething blond, bubblegum star over an older, more established veteran is a bad idea. Rayna Jaymes had earned her stripes, and Juliette hadn’t. That was the way it was supposed to be.

Unfortunately, after the pilot, it was clear that my billing had gone way up. I went from maybe number five in terms of importance to nipping at Connie’s heels.

I was deeply uncomfortable with this development. I was twenty-three years old, and Connie was in her forties with three Emmy nominations under her belt. She was also a new mom. This should have been her time to shine, and while it was in many respects, I was terrified of making Connie worry that I—not my character—was trying to compete with her. During the filming of the show’s promotional scenes where we both appeared onstage, we were directed to saunter toward the mic stand and—at the same time—reach to grab it. This would insinuate our characters’ rivalry. I always made sure to grab the mic under Connie’s hand, showing her I came in peace and with respect. I don’t know if she noticed, but I did; I was not going to step on the toes of Rayna Jaymes or Connie Britton.

Nashville was a hit, and ABC greenlit a whole season. It was time for me to move for the second time in my life, to a town I probably couldn’t have found on a map before I filmed the pilot. There were Southern accents, country music, and well-manicured, grassy lawns with sensible, stately brick houses as far the eye could see. I found a house close to the Nashville set and moved in with Allie, who was still my heart and soul and the person I told everything to. She wasn’t going to be my “assistant” this time, but rather my best friend, support system, and social life.

Thank God Allie was there. I’d been in LA since I was sixteen, and now I was twenty-three. Nashville had come calling, and it was time to turn the page on my life in LA.

THIRTY

Off to a Rocky Start

The Nashville set wasn’t what I expected. Far from it.

“I guess I thought we’d all be friends,” I said to Allie one day when we were sitting by the pool at the house I was renting. “You know, cast, crew, directors, all one big happy family. But it’s not like that at all.”

“Well, that’s why you have me,” Allie answered.

When my Nashville castmates and I finished filming at the end of the week, I assumed we’d all decompress over drinks or dinner. This had been my experience when I was on Heroes. Instead, the opposite happened: the entire cast and crew scattered. For example, Connie went home to her son, and Charles Esten—who played country musician Deacon Claybourne—drove away to spend the weekend with his wife and three kids. The exception was Jonathan Jackson, who played singer-songwriter Avery Barkley. He lived with his wife, Lisa, and their kids about twenty miles south of Nashville in Franklin—a town that’s home to dozens of country music stars—and they sometimes invited me over for dinner. Not wanting to make the long drive home, I often crashed in their guest room, grateful for a warm bed and a good friend who’d offered it to me.

But other than Jonathan, I wasn’t close to anyone on set. I couldn’t figure it out. We were all new faces in a strange town, yet we weren’t growing into friends.

“That’s why I’m thankful for you every day,” I said to Allie. “If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Allie wasn’t tied to the set like me, so she got to explore town and meet people for both of us. In Nashville, a lot of people work in entertainment, but a lot of others don’t, so Allie started to collect a random assortment of friends. There were hairdressers and bartenders and young lawyers, most of whom were single and all of whom were looking for a good time. I’d broken up with Scotty, so I was right there with them. We had pool parties and nights out drinking and dancing, with an emphasis on the drinking part. Nashville was a drink all night, crash into bed, then take a nip of the hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you in the morning kind of place. I was twenty-three, and I could roll with it. I also have the tolerance level of an elephant, so hard partying didn’t hurt me. Alcohol didn’t become my enemy till after Kaya was born.

But when the weekend was over, it was back to the lonely set, where I’d started to feel that the writers’ priorities were just a little bit off.

I remember the first time I saw John Q, a 2002 film starring Denzel Washington, about a man who takes an emergency room hostage when he learns that insurance has denied his young son’s heart transplant. I couldn’t believe how well he projected pure, unadulterated emotion, as if he was experiencing his character’s feelings.

“Oh my God,” I said to Mom, who was watching it with me. “He’s crying like it’s his own son dying, in real life. Denzel is about to rip my heart out.”

Mom nodded. “That’s it right there,” she answered. “It’s what I’ve always told you about getting your emotions on the table in a scene. That man is not phoning it in.”

In my mind, Denzel Washington’s performance in John Q set the bar for male actors mustering up those trigger tears Mom always talked about. Most actresses have no problem breaking down and producing emotions, but male actors seem to struggle with it. Denzel most certainly did not, and after his John Q performance, an actor just couldn’t fake tears and get away with it. Not everyone can be Denzel, but with a lot of training, I believe that any actor can learn to connect with their emotions and project them into a scene. Mom was right—phoning it in should never be on the table.

There’s only one catch: to bring emotion to a scene, the script has to be good, like John Q was. A lousy script can rip the heart, soul, and guts right out of a scene.

Not long into the first season of Nashville, I watched as the writers pulled back their scripts and rewrote them to make certain characters more likable. Connie had built her reputation as the tough but fun wife and mom on Friday Night Lights, but Rayna Jaymes had more of an edge. For example, she wasn’t always nice to her husband or father, and sometimes she got a little controlling around her daughters. She also wasn’t the best influence on Deacon, her ex-boyfriend and songwriting partner, and some fans wondered if Rayna was one of the reasons Deacon struggled with his sobriety. In my mind, the fact that she wasn’t perfect and could be kind of a pain in the ass made Rayna human. If you didn’t like her, so be it. She’d been through a lot in life, and she was who she was.

But the writers often seemed dead set on making Rayna likable. More than once, I read a script the night before, then discovered the next day that someone had rewritten it. On the cutting room floor lay all the emotion that make a character and a story real.

It was the first beef I had with Nashville’s writers, but it wouldn’t be my last. That would happen soon, when I realized they were modeling the script after my life.

THIRTY-ONE

Take Two

“I felt like I was back in that middle school cafeteria, looking for a seat,” I said to Wlad the night after the 2013 Golden Globes, where I’d been nominated for Best Supporting Actress in a Drama.

“Why is that?” Wlad asked.

“I just never feel like I belong at these award shows. Even though I put the work in.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Wlad answered. “What would be worse is if you walked in feeling like no one else deserved to win but you. You’re being humble.”

I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath, feeling a sense of ease radiate through my whole body. Wlad and I were officially back together and talking on Skype almost every day. He was always a comfort to me, and I needed that, especially after the Golden Globes. I hadn’t taken home the award in my category—Maggie Smith had, for her role on Downton Abbey—but that wasn’t the issue. Maggie more than deserved to win. I’d been a nervous wreck at the Globes because I was terrified that if I won, I’d get onstage and forget all the people I was supposed to thank. Forget stage fright. This was more like stage heart failure.

“When you have a break from filming, why don’t you fly to Germany?” Wlad asked, changing the subject. “We can take a vacation after my training.”

“I’d love that, Wlad,” I said. “The sooner the better.”

Wlad and I fell back into our familiar, two-continent rhythm. A trip to Germany led to a trip to Venice, then a cruise in the Adriatic, with stops in Croatia. Nothing was off-limits for Wlad, especially when it came to me. If I was happy, Wlad was, too.

One day in the summer of 2013, while I was on hiatus from Nashville, and had traveled to Croatia to meet up with Wlad, he walked up to me looking as happy as he’d been doing tricks at Magic Castle.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, motioning with his hand for me to follow him.

“You’re scaring me,” I answered.

Wlad approached me and scooped me up in his arms. “Oh, be quiet. You’re going to love it.”

Wlad carried me outside and toward the shore until I started squirming so much he had to put me down. As we got close to where boats were docked, he put both of his hands over my eyes, then held on to me to ensure I couldn’t escape.

“You can’t look yet,” he said. Then I felt his hands moving away from my eyes. “Okay, now! This is our vacation!”

I opened my eyes and started screaming—but it was in terror, not surprise. Sitting about fifty feet out in the Adriatic Sea wasn’t a yacht or a grand, beautiful sailboat that was going to take us on a sunset cruise. Instead, there before us was a freaking pirate ship. It had three masts with multiple sails—one of which had a skull and crossbones on it—a wide open deck, and porthole windows in the sides. There was the requisite plank, a hideous carved figurehead of God knows what on the front, and wood everywhere. I practically got a splinter in my eyeball looking at it. I had no idea what possessed Wlad to rent a pirate ship, but the last thing I wanted to do was be Jack Sparrow’s wench for a week.

“You like it?” Wlad asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, thank you so much, honey. It’s great. I never thought I’d head out to sea on a really old pirate ship that people probably died on.”

Wlad laughed, and I softened up a bit, remembering that for him, laughter was always an honest expression of joy and something he never faked. “I love you because you tell me the truth, monkey,” he said. “Now let’s get on this boat and sail.”

And sail we did. Out on the high seas, the captain and her first mate.

“You know I had a parrot growing up,” I said to Wlad after a few hours of sailing.

“You did?”

“Oh, I did. And it talked in full sentences. Once it heard my parents talking shit about one of our neighbors, and when the neighbor came over, the parrot said, ‘George is an asshole. George is an asshole.’”

Wlad burst out laughing, and I did, too.

When the pirate ship docked later that night, I lounged on the deck and began to dream about what a life with Wlad might be like. We were still unsure how to navigate two continents and two demanding careers, but it didn’t matter when we were together. He was stoic, and I was his tiny terror. I liked to talk, and he was there to comfort me. He was the yin to my yang, two puzzle pieces that looked different but fit right together. I made life come alive for Wlad, and he made me feel secure. With Wlad, I was entirely at home, and I was never, ever lonely.

At least that’s what I told myself.

I looked over at Wlad, who was seated comfortably on a deck chair, staring into his phone. There he goes again with that phone, I thought. He is always on his phone. I tossed a grape at him to get his attention, and when it bounced off his chest, he scowled.

“Monkey, you know I have to take care of business.”

“Fair enough,” I answered. “I know this pirate ship doesn’t pay for itself. But I miss you.”

Within five minutes, he was on a call, speaking Russian and going over ideas and plans and details I’d never know about. I might have known Wlad’s personality inside and out, but in so many ways, his world was a mystery to me. Suddenly, that familiar feeling of loneliness and exclusion crept back in, like I was in middle school or at the Golden Globes. It didn’t feel good.

We eventually made our way back to Hamburg, leaving the pirate ship docked at its port. Vitali and Natalia were there with their kids, and I wasn’t just happy to see them, I was also relieved. It had been months since I’d seen Natalia, and I’d thought about her often. I also didn’t know anyone in Hamburg, and I thought she and I had a real chance to become friends.

At dinner one night, I sat silently, my second drink in front of me. Tipsy and irritated with Wlad for leaving me out of the conversation, I started to regret the fact that I’d even come on this trip. People have been sending me movie scripts for months, I thought. But I put my everything on hold to be here with Wlad. I knew that if I signed on to films between seasons of Nashville, I could take my career by the horns and steer it in a different direction—in any direction. I could become someone other than Juliette Barnes. Producers wanted me, and so did fans.

Instead, I’d chosen Wlad and a pirate ship.

I looked over at Natalia, and she seemed as left out as I felt. I sipped my drink and listened to the men speaking Russian, and I decided to interrupt them with a joke. They laughed, but not like Wlad laughed, in that genuine, joyful way. So, I went back to my drink. Drinking eased the tension, quieted my nerves, and made the time pass more quickly.

Natalia turned to me. “After this dinner is over, let’s go upstairs, away from these men.”

Thank God, I thought.

An hour later, Natalia and I walked upstairs to the third floor, where Natalia and Vitali had a private apartment. Natalia opened a cabinet and took out a bottle.

“It’s whiskey,” she said.

She poured me a glass, followed by her own, then walked to the couch to sit next to me. Once again, I took in how gorgeous she was. Some Ukrainian men have a hardness to their faces, but the women are contoured, soft, and stunning. Natalia’s defining features were her delicate nose, high cheekbones, and full lips, and her intense, sparkling eyes made it clear how powerful her spirit was. She was confident, talented woman, and I felt so grateful to be with her. Natalia placed the bottle of whiskey on the table in front of us, and within about three seconds, we were laughing.

“What is it with those men?” I asked. “Like, do they just expect us not to talk? In my family, the women love to speak their minds.”

“Never mind the men,” she answered, smiling and pouring me another small glass of whiskey. “This is our time.”

I raised my glass. “Here’s to us. See? Women can toast, too.”

We clinked glasses, and Natalia inched closer to me.

“I like you,” Natalia said. “I like that you speak your mind.”

“Sometimes too much,” I answered.

Natalia smiled, and then we nestled back into the couch cushions, feeling the warmth of real connection.

THIRTY-TWO

The Missing Piece

The second season of Nashville started much like the first. We’d film all day, then I’d go home and pass out, exhausted. Allie was still living with me, but we’d started to drift apart. I’d become close to a different group of people in Nashville, and Allie had a new boyfriend, who she was getting serious with. In a few years, they’d get engaged, and she’d start to plan a mountaintop wedding that was going to include her skiing down a hill in her wedding dress, right up to her future husband and all her bridesmaids. I tried to talk her out of it—no one wanted to see her do the pizza pie over her veil and break her leg—but she insisted. Believe it or not, no one was hurt, and Allie skied away a married woman.

You’d think that Allie and I would find comfort in the fact that we were both moving in mature, sensible directions—even if it meant we saw less of each other—but the opposite happened. I was working so much that I was often in a bad head space, unable to be the kind of friend I prided myself on being. I didn’t want to drag Allie down, so instead I pushed her away emotionally. I hardly brought up anything that wasn’t superficial. This hurt her, and she pulled back as well. Allie finally decided to move out, and we didn’t speak for almost a year.

I told myself that I had Wlad and a new group of friends in Nashville, and that was enough. But I was lying to myself. When Wlad came to Nashville on his breaks from training, he had next to nothing to do while I was at work. He tried to fill up his time with emails and phone calls, but that didn’t satisfy his workaholic tendencies. Wlad was a boxer, and he thrived on being in the middle of all the action, jacked up on adrenaline and cheers. I might have been a handful, but I was no heavyweight boxer, throwing punches for twelve rounds in a fight I’d spent months preparing for. Wlad didn’t feel stimulated or grounded, and I didn’t blame him. No one can solve another person’s problems, be their “missing piece,” or make them happy 100 percent of the time.

But I wanted to. If Wlad wasn’t happy, I had to be doing something wrong. Surely, I thought, there must be something about me or the situation that I could fix. I was letting down the man I loved more than anything in the world, and disappointing another person was far and away my worst fear.

Just being in love wasn’t enough. If we didn’t have a common home or language or purpose to keep us together, we had to find something to tackle together. If we didn’t have excitement and expectation and a great, big goal, I worried we were doomed. And I couldn’t lose Wlad the way I lost Allie.

That’s about the time I convinced Wlad to propose to me.

After five years of legal wranglings, separation agreements, and stalled negotiations, my mom and dad still weren’t divorced. I tried as hard as possible to stay out of it, but my family had always lived on top of each other emotionally, and they needed me. I also agreed to give both of them some money to make their lives easier, and that pulled me in even more. A big part of me worried that my generosity was allowing their divorce to drag out, though, and I thought if I exited the scene, maybe they could wrap things up. Or, maybe not. I was so close to the situation it was hard to be sure.

I decided I had to talk to Wlad about it. He was sensible with money, so surely, he’d know what to do.

“What would you do if you were me?” I asked, looking into my phone, where I could see Wlad in his gym in Hamburg. “Would you give them money to help end this?”

“I would continue to help,” Wlad answered. “That’s what families do.”

I sighed. “All this legal fighting is starting to make me lose faith in marriage. If this is what it all comes to, what’s the point?”

Wlad smiled. “Don’t lose faith, kukolka. Their marriage created you. It was worth everything.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Despite this mess, I believe in marriage. It worked for your parents.” Wlad’s dad had passed away in 2011 after a long battle with cancer, which was caused by his work cleaning up Chernobyl. I’d seen him suffer through his illness, and I admired how lovingly Wlad’s mom took care of him.

Wlad looked away, like he was distracted by the memory of his parents together. “Hayden?” he asked. “Would you ever marry me?”

“Excuse me?” I yelled, almost dropping the phone. Wlad had told me he never wanted to get married. I was also unsure whether he’d asked a hypothetical question or delivered an actual marriage proposal. If Wlad was asking me to marry him, it was the most half-assed proposal I’d ever heard.

Wlad cleared his throat. “I asked if you would ever marry me.”

“Ever? Or now?” I asked. “I mean, are you proposing to me on Skype? Is that what’s happening?”

Wlad screwed his face up and looked away. “I think so. Do you want to get married? Because…”

I refused to play this awkward game of chicken a second more than I had to, so I cut him off.

“Yes, Wlad, I would like to get married to you. I accept.”

We set a date and chose a location: December 31, 2013, in Bali, with the festivities spilling over onto New Year’s Day. With Wlad’s blessing, I designed my own ring: an emerald-cut diamond on a split rose gold band lined by pavé diamonds. It was gorgeous, and I loved it. I also called up my dream wedding dress designer, Georgina Chapman, who was founder of the fashion label Marchesa. She and I set up a time to meet, and she promised to have a book of fabrics for me to choose from. Wlad and I batted around flower and design ideas, and we talked about bridesmaid dresses and what kind of ties the groomsmen should wear so they would complement Wlad in his Armani suit. I still wasn’t a girlie girl, but I did love weddings, and this was going to be the wedding I’d dreamed of since I was little, with dancing and speeches and my whole family together, celebrating the beginning of my new life.

After we broke our engagement news—but not the wedding details—to the press, my former publicist lined up a photo shoot for the spring 2014 cover of Brides magazine. The editors promised it would be classy, and it was, with me dressed in a strapless, beaded wedding gown designed by Naeem Khan, holding a bouquet of lilacs and roses. I gushed about how sweet and simple Wlad’s proposal had been—gritting my teeth the whole time because I knew I was stretching the truth—but I told myself that I didn’t need Wlad to get on bended knee or treat me like a princess. I needed stability, not fireworks. I just wanted this man in my life, not all the things he could shower me with.

In the midst of our planning, Wlad and I took a vacation on a boat with two friends of ours, a married couple who would later become Kaya’s godparents. The husband was a photographer, and he spent much of our days taking pictures of the scenery, the food we enjoyed, and his wife. A few days into the trip, I took notice as he lifted his camera toward his sightline and began searching for the right angle, adjusting the lens for the perfect light. As he paused, then snapped a few photos, I realized how present he was. He wasn’t distracted by the sound of the water rushing past our boat or bothered by the fact that his wife and I were opening a bottle of wine. He didn’t mention all the emails he hadn’t answered or the social media post he hadn’t checked. He was in the moment, enjoying it with his friends and the partner he’d chosen to spend his life with.

I looked over at Wlad, and his face was once again buried in his phone.

For the rest of the trip, Wlad and I bickered about how unavailable he was, with me arguing that he needed to spend real time with me and him arguing that he couldn’t leave his work behind. I pleaded with Wlad that it made no sense for me to neglect my career for a vacation while he spent all his time working on that same vacation. Wlad wasn’t in the moment—at least as far as I was concerned—and I needed him. So did our friends. All I wanted was the man I loved, and my heart was screaming that he wasn’t with me.

After the vacation ended, we said goodbye to our friends and returned to Germany. We still hadn’t resolved our differences. Just like my parents, neither of us felt validated by the other person. Even worse, we both felt ignored, misunderstood, and unloved.

Not long after we returned, Wlad and I went out to lunch.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said over appetizers.

I put my fork down. “When someone says they need to discuss something, it’s never good,” I responded. “So spit it out.”

Wlad hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I think we should postpone the wedding.”

Searing pain shot through my body. Suddenly, I imagined my wedding, with me walking down the aisle under a moonlit sky, surrounded by the people I loved most in the world, who I’d finally found a home with after years of feeling marginalized. I imagined looking into Wlad’s eyes, holding his hands as he promised to love and protect me for the rest of my life. I thought of his family, who he’d welcomed me into after mine was destroyed. I remembered Natalia and Vitali and their children, and how they’d accepted me despite the fact we were from different worlds. Then I felt the pain settle into my heart, and I closed my eyes as all the beauty and joy in my life disappeared right then and there.

“Okay,” I answered, opening my eyes and shrugging. I didn’t have anything else to say, nor did I have an ounce of fight in me. Wlad’s words had ruined everything, and accepting my fate with a straight face was the only way I knew how to hold on to whatever shred of dignity I had left. I didn’t even ask why he’d put our wedding on hold. The who, what, and why didn’t matter because they were buried under too much pain. There was nothing Wlad could do or say that would pick up the pieces of my life and put them back together.

Later that day, Wlad took me to the airport so I could fly back to Nashville. As we entered the terminal and headed toward security, Wlad stopped, then turned to me.

“Let’s do it,” he said emphatically.

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Do what?”

“Get married.”

Once again, I felt my chest tighten, then pain radiate through every nerve in my body. My skin felt raw and itchy, and my hands began to quiver. I thought I couldn’t feel more humiliated than I had at lunch, but here I was, swimming in shame. First Wlad had uninvited me from his family, and now he wanted me to forget he’d ever crushed my hopes and dreams.

“No,” I answered. “That’s not going to happen.”

Then I turned around, walked away from him, and entered security so I could get on my plane and leave my broken life behind.

PART THREE

THIRTY-THREE

Potted Plants and Pregnancy Tests

“Girl, what is going on with you?” my friend said as we made our way through the aisles of the grocery store near my house. It was a few months after Wlad had “postponed” our wedding and a couple of weeks after he’d come to Nashville with the goal of making things right. Seeing him was bittersweet. I was still bruised, but I’d swallowed my pride and forgiven him, and now we were inching our way back into our familiar, cross-continental rhythm.

“Nothing’s going on with me,” I said to my friend. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She cocked her head and stared at me like I was crazy, then pointed into my shopping cart. It was full of comfort food, vitamins, potted plants, and herbal tea, all of which I rarely bought and none of which I needed.

“With the exception of those snacks, it looks like you’re about to go on a health kick,” she said. “But that doesn’t explain the extra-large container of pickles you’ve got in your refrigerator.” Suddenly, she stopped short in the aisle. “Wait. Are you pregnant?”

I stopped as her words sunk in. I had been more tired and on edge over the last few weeks, but I’d attributed it to work and the heartbreak over Wlad’s flip-flopping. Then I remembered the weekend he and I had just spent together. Caught up in the excitement and spontaneity of makeup sex, we hadn’t been as careful as we usually were. Now, here I was, buying potted plants and folic acid.

“Might as well buy a pregnancy test, just to be safe,” I said, in a bewildered state of shock and delight. Then I maneuvered my cart toward the pharmacy area, suddenly sure of the fact that nothing about my life was ever going to be the same.

“We need our baby’s home to be very safe and secure,” Wlad said, smiling and putting his arm around me. I was a few months into my pregnancy, and Wlad was counting the days. He was a natural with Vitali’s three kids and had always wanted to be a dad.

“It is gorgeous,” I answered, looking at the house I was about to move into, “and I can promise you no one is breaking in because this place is sealed up tighter than a bank vault. I just wish you could be here with me in it. Like, all the time.”

Wlad and I had just purchased a five-bedroom, four-bathroom house in the Green Hills section of Nashville. It wasn’t much bigger than the house I’d grown up in, but we’d retrofitted it with security features that made the White House seem slack in comparison. All the rooms upstairs were separated by thick, wooden doors with interior iron plates that locked into the walls and floor when we closed them. When all those doors were sealed up tight, the only way to open them was if Wlad or I scanned our palms on a panel next to our bedroom. If we chose to, we could also lock down both the master and Kaya’s bedroom windows with metal grates, and if we didn’t, no worries. Our black ops security guard had installed bulletproof film on all the other windows in the house, and he planned to live in the apartment above our garage.

Wlad and I weren’t being paranoid. Vitali was now the mayor of Kyiv, and there were plenty of people out there who wanted to destroy him and his family. As a public figure, I was also vulnerable to obsessive fans—something I’d experience ten years later, when I had a stalker who the FBI investigated and ultimately sent to prison. Finally, we lived in a state where pretty much anyone and everyone could own a gun—and much of the population did.

I loved that house, but it was a fortress, and Dad lost his mind the first time I told him about it.

“This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” he said. “How are you going to get out if there’s a fire? No one can get in or get out with bulletproof windows and metal grates.”

Now that I think about it, he had an excellent point. But it was too late. Wlad was insistent that we needed a secure house, and I was right there with him given how much time I’d be there alone. Now, he and I were about to move in, and it was where we were going to raise our baby—at least when Wlad wasn’t back in Germany or Ukraine. That was the issue that was currently plaguing my mind.

“Wlad, how often do you think you can visit?” I asked. “I mean, so far, so good with this pregnancy, and I can go to all my doctors’ appointments alone or with a friend, but I miss you.”

“I’ll come back as much as I can,” Wlad answered as we made our way around the house toward the pool in the back. “Every few weeks for sure.”

“Okay,” I answered, doing my best to hide my disappointment. No matter how often Wlad and I saw each other, the fact that we didn’t see eye to eye on what “home” was practically killed me. For me, home was with Wlad, but it was better in a country where I could work and have my own friends, not to mention my family. For Wlad, home was with me, but it was in Europe. That’s where his family and his career were. I wasn’t sure we’d ever be on the same page, but I was determined to push through. Especially now that we had a baby coming.

“You can come see me when you’re not working, too,” Wlad added. “We’ll make it work.”

I smiled and stared at our pool, then back at the house that I hoped to hell Wlad and I could make a happy place. Then, suddenly, an old familiar worry crept back into my brain. While Wlad had been in town, we’d spent weeks buying pregnancy books, talking to our interior designer, and picking out wallpaper patterns. We’d installed three custom-made saltwater fish tanks in our house and stocked them with gobies, sea anemones, tropical fish, and a stowaway mantis shrimp I named Sebastian. We’d spruced up our pool deck with patio furniture and stocked the fitness room with machines and weights. Yet never once had we talked about our wedding. We were determined to be together, but somehow, we couldn’t get close to crossing that line.

A few weeks later, it was the middle of spring, but it was hot as blazes. It happens that way in the South sometimes. March will be cold, April will be gorgeous, and then by May, you’ve got the AC cranking full blast. I decided to invite a few friends over to my pool, and one of them was Allie. After not talking to me for a year, she was back in my life, and I was so relieved. I’d really, really missed that girl.

“I haven’t told anyone who’s coming that I’m pregnant, okay? Luckily it’s early, so I’m not showing,” I said to Allie while I was putting out cushions on the pool deck chairs. “Pretty much the only people who know are you, Wlad, and my family. I just don’t want it getting out because…”

“The paparazzi!” Allie interrupted. “I get it. Pretty soon they’ll be talking about how fat you’ve gotten.”

I started to laugh even though it wasn’t all that funny. The paparazzi still hounded me after all these years, even in Nashville. The summer before, a tabloid had even published a photo of me in a swimsuit and placed a headline over my crotch that read “fat vagina.”

“Yeah,” I said. “They love a chunky Hayden. Just wait and see how fat my vagina’s going to be when I’m super pregnant.”

Allie laughed, and then I laughed more. It was so good to have my friend back in my life.

“Not to change the subject from my vagina or anything,” I added, motioning for Allie to follow me, “but I want to show you something.”

A few weeks before I’d placed a three-foot-high speaker at the far end of the pool, in a covered area, and connected it to my sound system inside. Within days, a robin had assembled her nest on top. It was far away from the part of the pool where most people would spend their time and toward the back of the speaker, hidden from view. I loved to watch her gathering twigs, grass, and trash, weaving them together to make a home for her babies. When she finally laid three perfect blue eggs, I was thrilled. Those robin eggs had put my own pregnancy in perspective, and instead of being shocked and overwhelmed by the sharp turn my life had taken, I was starting to get excited.

“Look at those eggs!” Allie squealed.

About an hour later, my friends started to arrive. When they walked out toward the pool, I pointed to the speaker and warned them not to get too close. Then I unplugged it and isolated the party on the other side of the pool. I started to pass out drinks, trying to hide the fact that mine didn’t have alcohol, and then I circulated around the small crowd. It was both energizing and comforting to be outside on a gorgeous day with my best friends.

Suddenly, I heard my friend Ben screaming at the opposite side of the pool.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” I asked, turning around to look for Ben. He was standing next to the speaker, and he was pacing back and forth.

“‘There’s a problem!” Ben yelled as I ran toward him and he motioned toward the speaker. “It’s your robin,” he said, clearly out of breath. “I have no idea what happened. I didn’t touch anything, I swear. But I am so, so sorry.”

I looked toward the back of the speaker and noticed the nest wasn’t on it anymore. Then I peered over the edge, down to the pool deck. There was the nest, lying on the deck with its twigs, grass, and leaves scattered all around. The three blue eggs were smashed into pieces, and bits of blue shell surrounded three tiny bodies that were curled into the fetal position. Off in the distance, I heard chirping. I looked up, and there was Mama Robin, flying over us in circles.

It’s okay, Mama, I said, comforting myself as much as I was reassuring her. It’s not your fault. Believe me, it’s not your fault.

THIRTY-FOUR

Close Call

The paparazzi wanted a great big Hayden, and I delivered. I was five foot two, carrying a six-foot-six man’s baby, and while many women’s pregnancies show just around their bellies, my entire body joined in the game. I put on forty pounds by my eighth month (mind you, a totally normal weight gain) and they spread from my face to my chest to my belly to my ankles. There are women who radiate health, joy, rainbows, and unicorns when they’re pregnant, and then there was me. I felt like I’d eaten the rainbows and unicorns and was going to vomit them up every single day.

There was no way the writers on Nashville could work around my pregnancy, so they made it part of the plot. In season three, Juliette found out she was pregnant after she cheated on her devoted yet boring boyfriend, Avery, with the handsome, exciting, and much older Deacon. Because of that, she couldn’t figure out who the father was, leaving a massive cliffhanger for the next few episodes. I thought the whole plot worked, but that may have been because I’d grown up on soap operas, where everyone and their mother can’t figure out who the father of their baby is. Regardless, fans and critics loved Juliette’s pregnancy, figuring it was just one more twist in a twisty plot that kept twisting. I hated it, though. Juliette’s difficult, unexpected pregnancy was clearly the product of Nashville’s writers rejiggering my personal life and making it a plot device.

Years before, my friend and Kaya’s future godmother, Lisa, had adopted a gorgeous white pit bull called Kaya. I always loved that name, so when I found out early in the summer that I was having a girl, Wlad and I settled on it. (No, Wlad, I didn’t name her after Bob Marley’s album, Kaya, where “kaya” really means “weed.” But I’m glad you believed that for all of five seconds.) Kaya was due in December, so my assistant and newest best friend, Lanie, decided to plan and execute a Halloween-themed baby shower in Miami. Wlad couldn’t be there, but his guilty conscience made him more than generous, so he rented a massive house and a private jet and lined up a chef to feed us for the weekend. Lanie bought decorations, party games, and a set of golden temporary tattoos that were trendy at the time, and I planned out elaborate drink menus, not caring if I couldn’t party with my friends. After feeling sick, tired, and bloated for most of my pregnancy, I was ready to let loose with the friends I loved most in the world, and this shower was as much for them as it was for me.

A few days before my shower, I made a routine visit to my ob-gyn. As I lay back on a table, the doctor squeezed gel on a sonogram wand, exactly as he had during every visit before. Then he placed the device on my belly and moved it around slowly. I could feel Kaya’s body push against it, and I could see her little arms and legs kicking on the ultrasound screen.

“Whoa, she’s really moving,” I said. “Only a little longer, baby girl.”

All of a sudden, my doctor frowned as he positioned the wand on one particular spot.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked.

My doctor moved the wand around my belly a few more times, then set it down.

“We need to talk,” he answered. “I don’t want you to worry, but there may be something going on.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I just saw her wiggling all over the place on the ultrasound.”

My doctor moved from the foot of the table to the side. “We’re going to have to confirm this with a radiologist, so I’m going to give you a referral. But, to me, it looks like your daughter’s arms and legs aren’t growing as fast as the rest of her body is. Again, I’m not the final word. That comes from your radiologist. But I always prefer to be honest when something looks off.” My doctor smiled and patted my leg. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

I turned and put my feet on the ground, then slowly untied my hospital gown. If I stood up too fast, I worried I might pass out from shock.

“So what are the chances there’s something wrong with her? Fifty-fifty? One in ten?”

“I can’t answer that,” my doctor said. “But the radiologist will be able to.”

I sighed and closed my eyes as the memory of the robin’s broken eggs flooded my brain.

I didn’t tell anyone about the sonogram except for Wlad and the friends I’d known the longest. I didn’t want to ruin my own shower just because I was tied up in knots, and I also didn’t want anyone to spend the entire trip worrying about me.

“The show has to go on,” I said to Wlad, putting my natural optimism front and center while at the same time exercising my people pleaser muscles. “People are counting on me.”

My friend Lisa and I decided to run some last-minute errands the day before our flight took off. Just after breakfast, I lowered my big body into the driver’s seat of my car, passed through my house’s gates and onto the road, and sped onto the ramp leading to a stretch of Nashville’s I-40. As I merged into traffic, I noticed a pickup truck riding high a few cars ahead of us. A tarp semi-secured by rope flapped from the back, lifting down and up as it exposed a massive pile of junk underneath.

“Let’s get around this,” I said to Lisa, sensing danger and putting on my turn signal so I could move into the middle lane.

“We’re never making it to the store at this rate,” Lisa said, taking the words right out of my mouth.

Traffic slowed, then sped up, and soon we were going about forty. I didn’t want to get too close to the junk-filled pickup, though, so I hung back. It slowed down, too, and before I knew it, it was right in front of us. A few minutes later, the tarp blew up again, and I noticed a long metal object poking out. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but I didn’t feel right, so I put on my turn signal, anticipating when I could make my move.

All of a sudden, a long, pointy shovel propelled itself out of the back of the truck and began soaring through the air like a football. Its blade stood straight up, then immediately flipped so its handle was on top. Time slowed to a crawl, and I watched the shovel spin upside down once, then twice. Lisa was silent. But my brain lit up and caught fire.

If there’s anything Mom taught me to do, I thought, it’s drive like Mario Andretti on steroids. Let’s do this.

My survival instinct kicked in, and I began judging the seconds we had left. One second to look in the rearview mirror. Nope. I couldn’t slam on the brakes because there was a car right behind us. Two seconds: scan to the right, then left. Forget it. There were cars on both sides. Three seconds: the shovel flipped handle down, swinging just a little bit closer, then lower.

Now!

I jerked the steering wheel right as the car next to me inched forward, and we moved halfway into the right lane as Lisa and I both lurched to the side in our seats.

“We made it!” I shouted as the shovel clanged onto the road just behind my car and my heart started beating again. “We’re safe!”

I was lying to myself. Maybe Lisa and my car were out of danger, but I had a few reasons not to feel that way.

THIRTY-FIVE

Hawaii

“I’m going to Hawaii when this is over,” I said to Wlad while I was at my shower. “I know it sounds crazy, but after I found out about Kaya’s bones not growing, this little voice in my head told me to go there. Hawaii has always felt like a Mecca for health and healing to me.”

“What did your doctor say?” Wlad asked, knowing I was far into my third trimester.

“He okayed it,” I answered. “Believe it or not, this possible issue with Kaya doesn’t make me high risk, and I’m not thirty-six weeks along yet. He just advised me to leave soon.”

Wlad was training and couldn’t join me for a few weeks. Mom and I had been distant lately, so I didn’t invite her. After I’d told her I just wanted her to be my mom (not my stage mom), I’d felt the need to draw some difficult boundaries between us. So Lanie and I packed our bags as soon as we returned to Nashville. I couldn’t stand to spend another day of my pregnancy alone, and I was relieved she could be by my side. As soon as we landed in Kauai, we met up with my friend Luana and settled into a house for what we expected would be about six weeks before Kaya’s birth. Our days would be full of doctors’ appointments, rest, and relaxation, and—if the paparazzi didn’t find us—some sand and sun. Desperate to prove that I looked like a whale, I knew they’d stake me out near the beach. (Spoiler alert: they did.)

Within the first few days, Lanie escorted me to the radiologist so I could find out if my baby’s bones had grown. I tried to put on a brave face, but I was terrified. If Kaya’s arms and legs didn’t match up to the rest of her body, I didn’t know what kinds of hurdles she might face in life. Wlad and I didn’t care what our baby looked like; we just wanted her to be healthy. But for two parents who faced challenges as kids, we also hoped she could travel an easy road. Life is complicated enough without physical struggles.

The news that met me at the radiologist was good and bad. Babies grow fast in the third trimester, sometimes catching up to lags in development or sorting out issues that have kept their parents up at night, and that was fortunately the case with Kaya. In the time it had taken me to celebrate my shower and fly to Hawaii, Kaya’s arms and legs had sprung into action caught up with the rest of her body.

It was her head that was now an issue. The radiologist said—in no uncertain terms—that it now wasn’t growing as fast as it should be. Kaya had a condition called microcephaly, and she might be born cognitively impaired.

“The hospitals here are good, but you need the best,” the doctor said. “I recommend you see a doctor in Oahu.”

Lanie and I didn’t waste a minute. We packed up once again, rented a new house, and booked a flight to Honolulu. It didn’t matter if I was ready to raise a child with a disability. We only had a few weeks, and fate had dictated that Oahu was the place where I’d meet my baby girl.

“I don’t want you to think I’m crazy,” Wlad said on the phone, “but in Ukraine, there’s something we do for good luck.”

It was the night before my first follow-up radiology appointment in Oahu, and Wlad was still in Europe training for a fight. He expected he’d be able to fly to my side in the next few days, but it wasn’t soon enough for me. With every passing moment, the hurt I felt without him became more acute. Hearing his voice was comforting, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from wanting to crawl in a hole and stay there forever.

“I’m scared,” I said. “And not about whatever you’re about to say. Though that scares me, too.”

Wlad cleared his throat. “Just listen. This is an old Russian tradition, and I need you to do it before you see the doctor. What you have to do is find a tree, get down on your knees, and hold it with both of your hands while you bow your head. Then, thank God for everything he has given you and pray for what you need.”

“Ooookay,” I said more than a little skeptically. “You’re telling me I need to hold on to a tree because it will give me good luck?”

“Yes,” Wlad answered. “Don’t laugh. Just find a tree and pray.”

The next day, I walked slowly through the glass doors of the doctor’s office, checked myself in, and found a seat. As I looked around me at the other pregnant women in the waiting room—all of them a thousand times happier and more relaxed than I felt—a feeling of terror washed over me. It wasn’t about Kaya, either. It was because I’d forgotten to find a tree to pray over. I’d been so nervous getting ready for this appointment and so distracted as Lanie drove me through to the hospital that Wlad’s superstitious ritual had flown directly out of my brain. Now it was too late. If Kaya had microcephaly, I had to accept it because it was just the way it was going to be. No amount of good luck or strange Ukrainian plant ceremony was going to fix her fate.

I looked up and saw something. In the far corner of the waiting room, tucked near a few empty chairs, was a tiny, shriveled potted tree. It was barely upright and probably half dead, but it didn’t matter. It was a tree, and it was all I had.

Screw it, I said to myself as I held my back with one hand and hoisted my body off the chair with the other. I don’t care how many people are looking, that’s my tree.

I waddled over to the tree, then lowered myself down to the floor and onto my knees. I placed both of my hands on the skinny trunk, then leaned my forehead against it. I can’t imagine what the other people in the waiting room were thinking, but I didn’t care. This was life or death, and this pint-sized half-dead tree was vital for my sanity and our baby’s survival.

“Dear God,” I said quietly, “thank you for my parents, my brother, Wlad, and my grandparents. And thank you for all the animals I ever loved in my life. Now, please God, please let my baby be okay. Amen.”

“She’s just not coming out!” I screamed a few weeks later as I lay in a hospital bed with Wlad at my side. I was on hour fourteen of labor with Kaya, who the radiologist in Honolulu had determined—in no uncertain terms—didn’t have microcephaly and was 100 person fine. (Thank you, itty-bitty tree!) I’d just spiked a fever, and sweat was pouring down my face as I waited for the antibiotics in my IV drip to lower my temperature.

“We’re going to need you to push a little more,” a delivery nurse said. “Just keep trying.”

“I’m too small,” I protested. “You’re going to have to break my hips, I swear to God.”

The doctor who was standing next to the delivery nurse cleared her throat. “Just one more push. If that doesn’t work, let’s talk about a Cesarean section.”

I knew childbirth wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but it was without a doubt the hardest thing I’d ever done. No amount of bearing down, breathing, or pushing was making Kaya come closer to leaving my body. I also felt like someone was sticking a knife in my lower back, which I later learned meant she was pushing into the bundle of nerves at the base of my spine. I was exhausted, with no strength to keep pushing. A C-section felt inevitable, and I didn’t care one bit.

“I’ll sign the consent forms now, please,” I said. “I just can’t do this anymore.”

A few minutes later, the hospital staff placed me on a stretcher and wheeled me into an operating room. With an IV in my arm and an epidural in my back, I looked up at Wlad. He was wearing a surgical mask, but I could see his eyes.

“You’re doing resting bitch face,” I said.

“Well, just keep looking at my RBF,” he answered. “It will keep you distracted while they’re getting our daughter.”

The doctor prepped me while an anesthesiologist stood next to me. Within minutes, I could sense that I was in surgery, and not long after, I heard cries. It was Kaya, finally. The doctor lifted her up and carried her over to me, and I started to tear up.

“Oh my God, she looks like my Poppa,” I said to Wlad. What I didn’t say was that she didn’t resemble the young, stunningly handsome version I’d seen in pictures. She looked like the Poppa I knew and loved, who was in his eighties and had seen some tussles.

The pediatrician handed Kaya to Wlad, and he lowered her down to me so I could look closer at her.

“She has your mom’s dimples,” he said, putting his finger on her tiny chin.

“She does,” I answered. “And look at those blue eyes…” I stopped short, struggling to get the words out and suddenly too tired to keep talking.

“Now, I know you want to hold her,” Wlad said, oblivious to the fact that I was fading fast. “Can I place her on your…”

The doctor interrupted. “Code crimson! Everyone step back.”

A nurse came between me and Wlad, taking Kaya in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Dad,” she said. “But we’re going to need you out of the room immediately.”

I remember everything that happened on that table. Even though a sheet hung between my upper and lower body, I saw nurses moving frantically, picking up objects and moving them to the side. I saw Wlad hustle out of the room, looking back at me with terror, and I heard the door click shut, sealing me into the sterile operating room. I felt the pressure of something being stuffed inside me, and I heard vacuuming, but with liquid, like you’d hear at a car wash or the dentist’s office. I later learned it was the sound of nurses sucking blood out of my body cavity, then using rags to mop up what had spilled out.

I closed my eyes and started to pray. Please, God, please let my daughter be okay. Don’t worry about me. If it’s my time, just take me.

I don’t know if it was the drugs I’d been given or divine intervention, but suddenly, a sense of calm flooded my body, and I was no longer afraid of dying. I knew everything that would transpire after I’d bled out was going to be fine. I’d done my job having the baby. I’d lived a good life, and I’d tried hard to be a good person. My family loved me, and I’d loved them. Wlad was going to be a great dad, even if he had to do it without me. I’d miss being a mom, but it was okay. Wlad could handle this.

Now, I thought, just let go and surrender…

I turned my head toward the anesthesiologist, who was next to me holding a giant shot.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“It’s the good stuff,” he answered. “Now, you’ve got about two minutes before you start feeling what’s going to happen to you. Trust me, you do not want to feel that.”

Then he stuck the needle into my IV line, and I passed out cold.

THIRTY-SIX

No Recovery

I was in surgery for three hours after Kaya was born. My blood wouldn’t clot during my C-section, so doctors had to close up the blood vessels in my uterus to prevent me from bleeding out. I had seven transfusions and ran a fever the entire time. My uterus had become infected, and the antibiotics I’d been given during labor hadn’t been strong enough to lower my temperature.

When I woke up in the recovery room, I was exhausted, disoriented, and racked with pain. Wlad was in the room, holding a sleeping Kaya, and he brought her to me and perched on the edge of my hospital bed.

“She’s so little,” I said, noticing her delicate fingers. “How did I get so big if she’s so small?”

Wlad smiled. “She’s eight pounds and twenty-one inches long. That’s about half the size of you.”

Between waves of burning pain, I cracked as much of a smile as I could manage.

“You need to rest, so I’ll hold her,” Wlad continued, pulling up a chair so he could sit next to me with Kaya.

If I hadn’t been so weak, I would have taken her in my arms and tried to nurse her, but I didn’t have the energy. The anesthesia was still wearing off, I was exhausted from over half a day of hard labor, and my body was adjusting itself to seven pints of new blood and who knows how many stitches. I watched Wlad rock her gently, putting a pacifier in her mouth as she started to whimper, and then placing her back into her hospital bassinet so she could sleep. The nurse soon came in to take my vital signs, and when she asked me if I was okay, I nodded my head.

I wasn’t okay. Kaya was gorgeous, with blond peach fuzz covering her head and wide, pink lips that curled up as she slept, but she seemed like someone else’s baby, not mine. I had always heard that mothers feel an instant rush of love the moment they lay their eyes on their baby, but I felt nothing. Kaya was just there, and now I had to figure out how to bond with her. It felt like an insurmountable task, and I was only on the first day.

About a month later, I walked into the bathroom, where Wlad was giving Kaya a bath. After we left the hospital, her first bath had been in his hands, which were so big they easily doubled as a Kaya-size bathtub, but now she was reclining naked in what can only be described as a long, plastic dish. She was waving her chubby arms and kicking her little legs as Wlad rubbed soap onto her belly.

“That thing looks like a plastic La-Z-Boy,” I said, taking in how sweet and gentle he looked with her. “She seems so happy.”

Wlad smiled, and I watched his eyes travel down to where her diaper had been. As his face fell, I knew he’d realized that it was going to take some real muscle to scrape away the poop that had accumulated in her skin and fat folds.

“Look, Mama is here!” Wlad said to Kaya as the thought of washing her nether regions receded. Then he turned to me. “You can finish the bath. A baby needs her mother.”

I rolled my eyes, but not so Wlad or Kaya could see. Wlad was a few days away from leaving for Germany so he could train for a fight at the end of April, and I wasn’t sure how much I’d miss him. The reason was that—even when he was present—I felt like I was raising Kaya alone. Wlad was helpful, but overall he seemed to be taking traditional parenting roles a little too literally, seeing the mother as what a baby needed first and foremost. I didn’t understand it. My dad had always gone above and beyond with me and Jansen right from the start. “In the first few months,” Wlad had said not long after she was born, “a baby needs milk and a diaper. They need their mama. When they have a personality, they need papa.”

I completely disagreed. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the mental or physical energy to argue with him.

I took Kaya out of the bath and wrapped her in a towel, and her head bobbed forward and nestled in the crook of my arm. God, I hope that didn’t hurt her, I thought, suddenly convinced she was broken. I remembered what my doctor had said the last time I’d seen him, when I told him how much I worried about her. “After all you went through before she was born and during the birth, she’s fine. You don’t have to panic anymore.”

But it wasn’t panic that was sitting in my chest. It was nothing. A total blackout of emotion, like my soul was dead. I wasn’t myself, yet the problem was I didn’t know what I was supposed to be.

I put Kaya in her bassinet and walked into the living room. Wlad was sitting on the couch holding his phone.

“It’s a good thing you’ll have help when I leave for Germany,” he said. We’d hired a full-time nanny, and she was doing a great job helping me meet most of Kaya’s basic needs. “I’ll be back when you and Kaya really need me.”

“Okay.” I smiled, but it didn’t mean I was happy. Quite the opposite. I felt terrible.

Ever since Kaya’s birth, all my natural optimism and pep had vanished. The three months I planned to take off seemed like an eternity, with long days of nothingness stretching before me. When Kaya cried, I struggled to soothe her, feeling desperate, inadequate, and out of control. When I took her out in her stroller, walking seemed pointless. If I turned on the TV to relieve the boredom, I never smiled or laughed. Television reminded me of Nashville, and on Nashville, I had no friends. If I went outside, it was gray, and that was because it was January, the month when everything’s dead. Now Wlad was leaving, and my anger had morphed into resentment. Small slights that had never rocked me before no longer slid off my back. God, I’m still so angry that Wlad left me all alone to finish Kaya’s bath, I thought. What kind of father does that?

I used to be a fierce lioness, ready to fend off anyone who crossed me or made me feel like less of a person. Now I was anxious and afraid about everything and around everyone, including myself.

A few days later, Wlad left town, and I was so lonely and depressed that I called Luana back in Hawaii for moral support. She’d been an angel when I was there before Kaya’s birth, and—as a mom herself—I knew she’d be able to help me navigate the minefield of emotions that new motherhood can bring.

“So,” she asked. “How’s mom life?”

“Not great,” I answered. “Wlad’s gone, so it’s just me, our nanny, our black ops security guard, and all the friends I don’t have at the set.”

“Hayden,” she said sweetly. “I know it’s hard. When do you go back?”

“In about two months. Big, fat Juliette Barnes, carrying twenty extra pounds. I can’t wait to see how they’re going to work that into the plot.”

Luana laughed. “Oh, be quiet. You look great. You’ll start training soon, and you’ll get your body back. You’re so young.”

I winced. When I went back on set, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fit into any of my costumes. And while I loved Nashville’s costume department and had never felt any shame being half-naked around them, I couldn’t stand the idea of their hands all over me during fittings. It had been bad enough standing in my bedroom, looking at my fat, bloated body in the mirror. Now I was going to have to do that in front of other people.

“Luana, I’m having an issue,” I finally said, deciding to get straight to the point.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I’m just not happy. And when I say ‘not happy’ I really mean miserable.”

I could hear Luana sigh. “What do you mean? Is it Wlad?”

I looked down. “Yes, sort of. He’s back in Germany doing his thing, and he has to be there because he has a fight in a few months. But it makes me feel like I’m raising this baby alone. I also don’t love my life right now. I love Kaya, but… I don’t know. I thought having a baby would be this miraculous experience. It’s not. It’s hard.”

“Honey,” Luana said, “I didn’t bond with my daughter right away. It’s natural. It takes time. You have to get to know her.”

I paused and thought about what she’d said. Maybe I did just need time. Maybe I was overreacting and rushing what was a totally natural process. It takes nine months to grow a baby, so maybe it takes that amount of time—or even longer—to grow a mother.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “You know me, always wanting to be fun and spunky. I live to make everyone happy.”

Luana laughed. “I’ll love you no matter how boring and unhappy you are. I’ll love you even if you have a fat vagina.”

I laughed, and suddenly I felt a rush of something I hadn’t experienced in over a month. It was euphoria, cutting through the numbness. With one rush of dopamine, I’d wiped out my anxiety and replaced it with all the light I’d been struggling to find. If I could have more of that, I knew I could be myself again.

A thought hit me. I’m an actor. If I can manufacture tears, I can manufacture happiness. Then I remembered the line that Wlad loved so much he made it his email signature: If you control your mind, you control everything. I was tough, and I was in control. More than that, I was a fighter. If millions of women around the world could be mothers, I could be one, too.

There was just one issue: I needed more of those happy hormones. Dopamine, serotonin, and endorphins were the gas that could power my engine and push me to be myself again. But just how was I going to get them?

I looked around my kitchen and saw a bottle of wine on the counter, unopened.

“Luana,” I said, “I love you. Can I call you later?”

“Of course,” she answered.

Then I hung up the phone, grabbed a corkscrew and a glass, and poured out so much wine the glass almost overflowed.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Back to Work

Brrringg… !

It was 6:00 a.m., and my alarm was ringing so loudly it might as well have been a jackhammer pounding into my skull. I slapped the snooze button and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. The night before was hazy, but I was sure it was like all the other nights since I’d gone back to work: come home, eat dinner, FaceTime with Wlad and blow kisses to Kaya when she was with him. Drink a bottle of wine, feel the euphoria blanket me like warm water, washing away all my anxiety, self-doubt, and fears. Drift into unconsciousness. Wake up and once again face the doom.

I was glad Wlad wasn’t there so he couldn’t see how many bottles I threw out with the recycling. Thank God he’d hadn’t seen our pantry, where I stashed the three-ounce bottles of Fireball you can buy at gas stations. One swig of Fireball burned my throat, then sent heat down my chest, into my arms, and through my torso. My shoulders relaxed and my heart swelled as I welcomed the bliss, then the nothingness. Addicts aren’t patient people. We want and need instant relief. Well, whoever invented Fireball sure knew the meaning of “instant” because the second I felt that burn, the anxiety was gone.

Brrringg… !

I rolled over and wiped my eyes, and a dull pain seized my head. My stomach turned over, and I sat up, feeling the room start to spin.

Oh my God, I need a drink, I thought. If I get a drink now, I can get out of bed and make it to work.

My hands were shaking as I reached into the drawer in my bedside table to grab a bottle of Fireball. There was nothing there, so I got up and ran to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet. Nothing. I walked into the hall and headed toward the kitchen. It was right about then that I stopped.

It’s 6:00 a.m., I thought, and I’m trying to get drunk.

The first thing I’d thought of when I woke up was alcohol. Not my child, not my job, and not the rest of my life. I needed a drink to function—at 6:00 a.m.—and that was fucked. If I didn’t get some help as soon as possible, I was fucked.

When Kaya was four months old, between season three and four of Nashville, I went into treatment for the first time, leaving her with Wlad. It was a hugely expensive facility devoted to one-on-one care, and I had a doctor and an army of experts ready, willing, and able to cater to my every need. Trust me, it’s easier to detox and recover when you’re being treated like a queen, but it was too far from the real world to give me perspective. I didn’t have companions to share stories with or people who understood what I was going through. I didn’t have group therapy or twelve steps. I left clean, sober, and with an official diagnosis of postpartum depression, but I also went home in denial. The idea that a little liquid could take me down or rule my life seemed impossible for a tough girl like me.

When season four of Nashville began filming in August 2015, I was hopeful. So was the cast and crew. But it wasn’t long before the anxiety crept back in, then overtook me. As a child, my nerves had pushed me forward to prove myself and reach higher, and powered by adrenaline, I’d mostly done it. But what I was feeling wasn’t nerves. It was anxiety, the hulking monster that sits in your chest and erases your confidence and motivation. Anxiety buzzed inside me like a fluorescent light, keeping me reactive, on edge, and full of dread. To help me cope, I had meds, the really powerful kind they’d prescribed me in treatment. They kept me from cracking, but they had a catch: if I didn’t take them, I couldn’t sleep. If I did, I slept too much. I’d walked into rehab addicted to one substance, and I’d walked out, completely dependent on something else.

One day early in season four I arrived on set bleary-eyed, still shaking off the effects of my meds the night before. I’ve never been a morning person, but on Klonopin, I was a zombie. I couldn’t go on set like that, so I decided that before my hair and makeup artists showed up, I’d put my head down for a nap.

Two hours later, I woke up in the hospital.

“What happened?” I asked, my eyes darting from one end of my room to another. “I have no memory of coming here. Did something happen to me?”

A kind nurse who was about to take my vital signs spoke up. “Someone at your work found you asleep on the sofa and couldn’t wake you up. So, she called an ambulance.”

“Am I okay?”

“You’re fine,” she answered, smiling. “Right now, we’re just monitoring you. You can probably go home soon.”

I went home that night and came to work the next day, but the cast and crew felt the effect. Because of me, we missed an entire day of filming.

Every day after that was a juggling act. I gave up the Klonopin, and I went to work bloated, exhausted, and jittery. Every day I ran home, desperate for a drink. I’d switched to vodka, thinking no one could smell it on my breath, but I was fooling myself. Vodka smells like vodka. I’m sure everyone knew what was going on, but no one said anything. When you’re an actor managed by a team who depends on you, people prop you up out of allegiance, blind trust, or a fear of getting fired. Some call that support, but at times, I’ve called it enabling.

If you’re a writer on Nashville, you can even call it an award-winning drama. That’s because during the better part of season four, my personal problems were writing the script. Juliette Barnes had postpartum depression, an alcohol and pill problem, and a divorce on the horizon. She was erratic, an absentee mother, and fought with everyone—including her fans. Every time I read the day’s script, it was like I was looking in a funhouse mirror, seeing a distorted reflection of myself. I can’t tell you how lost this made me feel. On every show, commercial, and movie I’d done, I could draw a line between my character and myself. Now, at work, I didn’t fall into another world that was distinct from my own. I dove headfirst into my own hell. I was suffering from debilitating anxiety and an addiction I couldn’t shake, and I had to live through it twice. First at home, as Hayden, and then in front of millions, as Juliette.

Something had to give, and I was afraid it was going to be me.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Falling Apart

“I’ve been to treatment twice, and I’m still not myself,” I said to Wlad during one of the weeks he came back to Nashville. About a year after my fancy stint in treatment in Europe, I’d landed a much more standard facility during Nashville’s season four. The producers had no choice but to write me out of the script temporarily—something that killed me because I’d always prided myself on my professionalism—and I issued a press release about where I was going and why. My fans and the press were hugely sympathetic—and I’ll always be grateful for that—but a part of my career I’d come to depend on suffered. Neutrogena canceled my long-standing contract, and it was yet another blow in a year that had given almost nothing else.

“I don’t know what to say,” Wlad answered, firmly screwing on the RBF I’d grown to resent during conversations like this. “I don’t know why you’re so unhappy. We have a nice life. You have a nice life.”

I sighed. “The problem isn’t about what is or isn’t wrong in my life,” I said. “The issue is I have everything I’ve ever wanted—a great job, a baby, friends, you… and yet I’m still unhappy. I have postpartum depression, Wlad, and it sucks.”

“What do you need from me?” he asked.

For once, I didn’t have an answer, so I just stared at him. Then I broke down and started crying. Wlad and I were at an impossible point. He’d fallen for my innate happiness and energy, and I wanted more than anything to get back to that place. But I didn’t even know where that place was anymore, nor did he.

“I want to help,” he answered, looking away because he knew he was about to piss me off. “But it’s up to you. You have to remember the good things like your daughter and your talent. You have to work hard to be happy. Your happiness is a choice.”

“So that means you think my depression is a choice?” I spat back, so angry I couldn’t see straight. “You think I’m choosing this for me and for our daughter?”

Wlad looked down. “I don’t know, monkey, I don’t know. All I know is that you have to be strong to get through this.”

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure I could be. I simply didn’t have the energy or the willpower to do anything but get up and go through the motions. I knew it was hurting everyone around me, but I’d hit a wall of negativity, and it was penetrating the fabric of my being.

To make matters worse, I was positive Wlad and I were falling apart. We were raising a toddler together across two continents, and the distance was too much. Wlad wanted to be with Kaya in Europe, and I needed her to be with me. I was tied to a set ten hours a day, ten months a year, and Wlad’s heart, soul, and body were tied to boxing. Chances were that he’d be retiring soon, too, and what he’d choose to do with his life after that was anyone’s guess. But I’d bet a million dollars that whatever he did, it would be entirely in Europe.

Just to get all the bad feelings out in the open, I decided to go for the jugular.

“I guess we’re not planning a wedding anymore, are we?” I asked. I still had a ring on my finger, but marriage was a subject that hadn’t come up for months.

Wlad looked down. He didn’t need to say anything because the silence spoke volumes.

Since Kaya was a baby, Wlad and I had split our time between Europe and the US. If I couldn’t travel because of work, Wlad would take Kaya alone to Germany or Ukraine, and I’d join them as soon as I could. But because Kaya only had a US passport, the clock was always ticking on her visits. After ninety days, she had to come home with me.

In 2017, when she was three, Kaya received her Ukrainian passport and traveled to Kyiv with Wlad. I planned to join them as soon as I had a break from filming Nashville’s last season, and after a short visit, I’d take Kaya back home with me. Wlad would stay where he was, not because he had to work but because our relationship had faded away along with the miles between us. I prefer big, explosive breakups rather than slow, painful fizzles, but Wlad’s nature was to take a struggle all the way to the twelfth round. It was what it was, and there was nothing I could do. I told myself a broken family was better than no family at all.

I boarded a plane with my dad and a sober coach who had been assigned to me by the Nashville producers. My relationship with Mom was fractured, though our love and dependence on each other still bubbled underneath every interaction we had. But I needed as little stress as possible and a solid, unwavering team, and Dad was a help and a comfort. My depression and anxiety flared up any old time, and with all the pressure and grief that came with seeing Wlad, two people on my side was a whole lot better than one.

After the long transatlantic flight, we landed in Kyiv and made our way to our hotel. I dropped my bags, took a nap, then showered and got ready to see my baby. It had been a few months, and I missed her so much it was like I’d lost my heart and my soul.

Just then my phone started vibrating, and I looked down at it and saw it was Wlad.

“Are you in the lobby?” I asked.

“Close. I’m in the restaurant near the lobby. Please come join me, and we can have a cup of coffee and talk before we go see Kaya.”

“Be right down,” I answered, and within a few minutes, I was facing my ex-partner and the father of my child. Little did I know he was minutes away from ripping my heart out of my chest.

“You’re being weird,” I said after I sat down. “What’s with the crossed arms? I’ve known you since I was nineteen, and I can read you like a book.”

Wlad paused and looked down. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “But I need you to sign these papers.” Wlad slid a stack of papers—translated into both English and Ukrainian—across the table to me.

“What are these?” I asked, laughing. “Should I call my lawyer or something?”

Wlad didn’t smile. I looked closely, and the words I saw on the page might as well have slapped me in the face.

“Are these custody papers?” I whispered, fearing that if I spoke up, I might scream. “Are you suing me for custody of Kaya?”

Wlad nodded his head and looked down again.

“What the heck, Wlad? What is going on?”

“I want full custody,” Wlad answered. “I worry about Kaya when she’s with you.”

My jaw clenched, and my body tensed up like it was about to spring into action. In a traumatic moment, people either fight, fly, or freeze. I’ve always been a fighter. I will battle till I’m black and blue for anyone I love, and I will fight like hell for myself. My daughter was on another level. I would fight until I’m dead for her.

“You have got to be kidding,” I hissed back. “She has amazing nannies and is surrounded by people who love her. She has friends, and she’s about to start school a year early because of how smart she is and because I made the effort to get her into a great place. You know as well as I do that I’ve struggled with alcohol, but I have never been drunk and alone with Kaya in my care, ever. Besides, how can you possibly know what kind of mother I am if you’re not even there? You have no idea what I do every day.”

Wlad looked me straight in the eyes. If it’s possible to feel warmth from someone who’s just ruined your life, that’s what he was going for. “I don’t want to hurt you, but your friends have called me. I’ve talked to your friends about how you’re living your life.”

I felt my stomach turn. “What friends?!” I answered. “Who would say such a thing? And what did they say? They’re lying! Wlad, I am not signing anything.”

But Wlad didn’t flinch. He simply slid the papers across the table as I erupted into tears.

THIRTY-NINE

In an Instant

I remember every second of that day. Every fucking second. No mother could forget a single thing about the day she signed her child away.

We were in a nondescript restaurant, in the back, behind curtains. My chair was soft. I think it was covered in velvet. Wlad wasn’t there, nor was Vitali. There was just my dad, me, and a bunch of men I’d never seen in my life. They were hard and unsmiling.

One of the men sat across from me. I clenched my jaw tight, willing myself not to shed one tear in front of these people. I heard a whisper, then a laugh. How dare they, I thought. It was the worst moment of my life, and someone was laughing.

I picked up the pen. My hands were shaking, so I gripped. Harder. Every muscle in my body was tight, and my face felt like it was on fire. I could not break down. I wouldn’t let them see me crack. Ever.

As my pen hovered over the signature line, my stomach fell deep into my pelvis, where Kaya had been only three years before. It was bleeding again, or at least it felt that way. The life was draining out of me every second I delayed signing the papers in front of me. I looked up, and there was a face I recognized: one of Vitali’s friends. He smiled, and I closed my eyes. Not one ounce of empathy from these motherfuckers. Not one bit of understanding that the person they’d signed their allegiance to had taken ten seconds to make Kaya, while I’d held her inside me for almost ten months.

I’d investigated all my options. I could sue Wlad for custody in the United States and Ukraine, but that would mean waging a years-long legal battle in two countries. Maybe I could afford that financially, but it would destroy me psychologically at a time when my heart and soul were weaker than they’d ever been. I was still in recovery. Not just that; I was at the beginning of my recovery.

I tried to understand Wlad’s motivation. Maybe he’d backed me into a corner, in a country where I didn’t hold the authority he did, because he knew he’d lose Kaya otherwise. Wlad understood that if I chose to fight and get on his level, I would start a fire so fucking fast that he’d have to run for his life. I was capable of giving him whiplash, and he knew it. Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned.

Then I thought of Kaya, my blue-eyed beauty with blond ringlets and a smile so sweet it could break your heart. I’d felt such fear as a child that I panicked during auditions, terrified of being judged. I’d also gotten trapped in a war between my parents, then had to find my way out alone. There were so many times—with the paparazzi, on sets, and even alone in my own home—when I hadn’t felt safe. Kaya’s life didn’t have to be that way. Being vulnerable could be a blessing, but not at the expense of personal security. Kaya needed to feel at rest, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Could I fight Wlad? Sure. Did I want to? Yes. But should I? No. I couldn’t do it to my Kaya.

I signed the papers, and Wlad got our child.

FORTY

A Kindred Spirit

On April 7, 2018—two days before we filmed Nashville’s last episode—the show’s cast and crew came together for a wrap party at a Topgolf downtown. We’d been through six seasons and two networks, and the network thought it was time to celebrate and reminisce. There was an open bar, tables of food, a dance floor, golf (naturally), speeches, and tears. Connie brought her son, Will Chase brought his girlfriend, and everyone spilled out to an after-party when the venue closed at midnight.

Or so I heard. When I’d received my invitation, I politely declined. I just couldn’t pretend that this chapter of my life was something to memorialize.

I’d packed a few suitcases and moved back to Los Angeles not long after I filmed my last episode. When I settled in, I contacted a real estate broker in Nashville and listed my house. For the first time in my life, that house got more press than I did, as if the fact that it was trading hands signaled my world was in the middle of a crisis. I give the press a lot of shit sometimes, but they were right on this one. Honestly, I was glad my house was the one getting the attention and not me.

I’d been away from LA so long that I wasn’t sure how soft my landing would be, especially because I was now single. But Jansen lived there, and I was beyond grateful he did. I needed someone who loved me unconditionally and knew what I’d endured. But I also knew that if we were in the same town, I’d take care of Jansen as much as he’d care for me, and that was because I was worried about him. A few years back Jansen had received an acting scholarship from Drury University in Missouri but had dropped out after less than a year. Now he was twenty-three, with a few acting jobs every now and then, but I knew his heart wasn’t in it.

The one thing Jansen loved, however, was making art. He’d started painting large, brightly colored canvases that were personal, chaotic, and punched you right in the gut. His paintings had a Vincent van Gogh quality—if Van Gogh were in technicolor. But we all know Van Gogh’s struggles, and sometimes I worried that Jansen’s paintings reflected something that was buried deep inside his brilliant brain.

Just like when we were kids, everyone loved Jansen, and he had a million friends. So, with no work, no plan for work anytime soon, no boyfriend, and no Kaya to care for, I figured I could use some direction. I also needed to distract myself with something other than drinking. The fact that I wasn’t with Kaya, was officially an addict, and no longer had the will to work was killing me. I’d done this all to myself, and it filled me with disgust. Self-loathing is one of the most dangerous human emotions, and when you’re down, you keep doing things to confirm where you’ve landed. You decide that instead of disappointing yourself by not getting back to the top, it’s easier to keep ruining your life before anyone else has the chance to. If I couldn’t get out of my own way, maybe I could lean on my brother. At the very least, he wouldn’t put me under a microscope or try to dissect me.

“Want to go out with my crew tonight?” Jansen asked me one day at the end of the summer.

I figured what the heck. As long as I didn’t drink too much, I told myself I’d be fine. “Sure,” I said, “where should I meet you?”

A few hours later, I walked into the Abbey, a massive, legendary West Hollywood LGBTQ+ bar and restaurant. All around Jansen stood a crowd of twentysomethings, some of whom I recognized and some of whom I didn’t. I waved hello to my brother, then made my way toward him. As I got close, I looked to my right and noticed a tall, sandy-haired guy about my age wearing a backward baseball cap and a T-shirt. He was handsome in an all-American way, with a charming smile that put me at ease right away. I hadn’t even met him, but I could feel his energy from across the room. It wasn’t the “there’s nowhere for you to sit in the cafeteria” vibe I’d gotten so used to in my life. This guy was clearly ready to be my friend.

“Forgive me for stopping you,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “But are you Jansen’s sister?”

“I am,” I answered, relieved to be identified as an actual human being rather than an actor. “But instead of calling me ‘Jansen’s sister,’ you can call me Hayden.”

He reached his hand out. “Well, I’m Brian, and it’s very nice to meet you.”

“How do you know Jansen?” I asked.

“I’m friends with his neighbor,” he answered, then motioned to a girl across the room.

Brian had drawn the vowels out when he said “friends,” a telltale sign of a Southern accent. Hearing that soft drawl was the first time I’d missed Nashville since I left. I shoved the thought away, though. Nashville was in the past, and I intended for it to stay that way.

“Are you from the South?” I asked.

“Yup,” he answered, then he smiled in a sly yet adorable way that melted my heart.

“Well, then, how about a drink?” I asked. “It’s on me.”

Brian smiled even bigger, and it was like seeing the sun come out in the middle of winter. I can get used to this good energy, I thought. And as I walked to the bar, I realized it was the first time in months I’d felt something other than despair.

My relationship with Brian moved at lightning speed from that night on. When you recognize a kindred spirit, sometimes that happens. Within a few days, Brian was sleeping at my house, and within weeks, he’d practically moved in. I’d spent the short time I’d been back in LA living in sweats or pj’s, trying to feel relief that I wasn’t obligated to be somewhere or do something for anyone. But those big, empty stretches of time were terrifying. I loved rehab because I could be in control of myself. But once I was out, it was all up to me.

With Brian in my space, I suddenly had a reason to get up in the morning and take off the leggings I’d been wearing for three days straight. I had a person who counted on me, who made me laugh, and who could fill up those long, boring hours with small tasks or easy conversation. Out of treatment, I had to learn how to trust myself again, but Brian made that a million times easier because he trusted me implicitly. Even when I was alone, I wasn’t lonely. I knew Brian would be coming back around soon to help me mend my broken heart.

Within a few days of knowing him, I looked up all three of Brian’s astrological signs, and I wasn’t surprised to discover that ours were the same but switched. My sun sign is Leo, while his is Taurus. My rising sign is Sagittarius, while his is Leo. And my moon sign is Taurus, while his is Sagittarius. I don’t expect anyone but astrology nerds like me to understand what that means, but trust me, it’s a big deal. My similarities with Brian were grounded on the earth and swirling up in the heavens, as if we’d known each other in another time and realm.

We rarely left my house, but Brian didn’t care. I needed time and space and had plenty of money in the bank, so I hid from cameras, my parents, and my team. When they called me, I let it go to voicemail because I was too distracted. Brian and I danced in my living room, played board games, and watched practically every Netflix series ever made. Brian could take anything apart and put it back together, and he immediately set out fixing things around my house. He painted the walls, swapped out a broken door handle, changed the showerhead, and ordered new sheets and towels for every bedroom and bathroom. The house wasn’t mine, but with Brian, it started to feel like it. We made love on those new sheets every afternoon, and I finally began to feel beautiful again. I also started to feel safe, loved, and cherished. It was like Brian and I were two best friends living together under one roof.

Brian was so easy to be with, and few things seemed to get under his skin—especially me. Despite multiple trips to treatment and an excellent therapist in LA, I still hadn’t processed everything that had happened with Wlad and Kaya, not to mention my anxiety and depression. I still couldn’t pinpoint when and how I started to feel so different any more than you can say the minute and second you fall asleep. When you sink into depression, it’s like a storm cloud has moved in, blocking out the sun, and you don’t realize how dark it is till you’re racing to find the light. Brian let me know that there was light. I talked about my traumas constantly, and Brian didn’t care. With one charming smile and a few wise words, he reframed my problems into issues that suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

During one of my last trips to see Wlad, I’d traveled to his house on the banks of the Dnieper River. As Wlad stood on the dock that led from his house to the water, I decided to sneak up on him and push him over the side. Unfortunately, he caught me right as I was upon him, and as he fended me off, my left leg went one direction while the rest of my body went the other. I fell into the river, and a searing pain shot up my knee. I soon learned I’d torn my meniscus.

Months later, back in LA, I stood in the shower hobbling on my bad leg while I tried to clean myself with a bar of peppermint soap. The pain, which never seemed to go away, was so distracting that I didn’t realize I’d soaped up parts of my anatomy that peppermint soap has no business touching. Suddenly, the burning between my butt cheeks overcame the pain in my knee, and I began howling. For what, I’m not really sure, but my yelling caught Brian’s attention.

“Are you okay?” he said, sticking his head into the bathroom.

“Peppermint soap in my butt! It’s burning!” I squealed.

Brian raced out of the room and returned ten seconds later holding a gallon of milk.

“Pour it on your ass!” he said, opening it, taking a swig, and then handing it to me. “It will help!”

As I said, Brian could fix anything.

Brian found humor in the silliest things, and he made me laugh—hard. I had no idea how badly I’d needed laughter, and feeling my heart swell and my chest expand as endorphins flooded my body was pure bliss. I was in love, and it was like a drug. At the lowest point in my life, Brian was everything I needed, all rolled up into one beautiful man.

It was just easy. The easiest happiness that I had come by in a long time.

Then, one day, when we were on our second bottle of wine—the bottle that suffocates all the magic and obliterates your defenses—everything changed.

FORTY-ONE

Witness

You never forget the first time someone slaps you. Nor do you forget the last. If I had any talent as an artist, I could paint every facial expression, bruise, and cut in colors that would bring the horror of those moments alive. I could paint his face, and how its contours shifted when he changed from the man I loved to someone I didn’t know. All those details are etched in my mind, like they’re happening now, in the present, and they always will be.

I’ve struggled with how to tell this because I don’t want to be a spokesperson for domestic violence. I never wanted to call myself a victim, but here I am. It’s part of my story whether I want it to be or not. So, I’ll lay it all out here: seven years of mental illness, addiction, rage, abuse, and pain in just a few pages. Don’t get me wrong, there were also good times—almost too many to count. But good moments usually don’t leave scars like bad ones do. I don’t remember all the dates and places, and I’d be lying if I said I remember every word. But I’m not sure those details matter. What counts is that you watch it happen. I’m making you a witness. Maybe, someday, what you’ve seen can help you save someone or yourself.

This is the beginning.

We open another bottle of wine and pour ourselves two big glasses. We’ll hit the vodka after this, and it’s always Tito’s. I’m back in my condo, sitting on my dining room chair, right where Dad’s place used to be, and we’re talking. It gets heated, like a game of one-on-one, with the kind of fast-talk banter we excel at. Brian and I could go on like this for hours.

I say something I regret. A chair scrapes against the floor, and Brian stands up, all six feet of him. He leans in toward my face and screams.

“What is wrong with you?!”

I flinch, and he keeps screaming.

His eyes are cloudy, like he’s sleepwalking, but he isn’t. He’s drunk. Too drunk. Am I sober? I’m so filled with panic that it feels that way. Brian has something in his hand—I think. It’s hard to tell with all the screaming. There is so much screaming.

I see a side plate on the table, and there’s a paring knife on top of it. The knife. I have to get the knife. I reach and grab it, then pull it toward me.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” I yell.

Brian’s face fills with rage—like I’ve never seen before. He gets angry, but not like this. Never like this. The knife’s too close to Brian, so I shift. He could grab it. There are a million ways I’d rather die than by a knife.

I lower my arm and toss the knife to the side, and it hits the wineglass. The crash is somehow worse than Brian’s screams.

CLAP.

I hear it before I feel it, the unmistakable sound of an open-hand slap. Then there’s burning on my cheek, like I’m on fire. There’s ringing in my head.

There’s silence.

The silence goes on forever.

A million thoughts fill my brain, but none of them are clear. I have no point of reference for this situation. If I could place it on a scale of one to ten, with one for pain and ten for joy, the number’s floating. It’s unquantifiable.

Brian walks away.

For days, I’m in an in-between place. We never talk about the slap. I cleaned up the glass and put away the knife. None of it happened, at least for me. If I think about it, it’s real. But it wasn’t real. I can play tough and will it away and it’s gone. Buck it up, then wipe it off the whiteboard and delete it from the tapes.

I love this man, and this wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him, not in a million years.

The slaps become hits.

One night he busts up my face so badly I don’t leave the house for weeks.

Another day he screams at me to run as far as I can in five seconds because I’ll need a head start before he throws the remote control at me. This is a man who doesn’t miss, I think. And he doesn’t. The remote control hits my face like it’s been thrown by a minor league pitcher.

He stands in the doorway of our living room, raging at me to give him my phone. He’s afraid I’m calling Wlad, and that I’ll tell Wlad about the abuse. I run up the stairs, and he follows me, hot on my heels.

“You’re not getting away!” he yells. “Give me the phone!”

I turn, slip, and fall on the steps. I look up, and there’s Brian. I raise my arm and hook it, right into his face. All that boxing I watched paid off.

I’m proud of myself. How strange it is to feel proud when you’re fighting for your life against the person you love.

Then punches rain down, hard.

My head hits the wall, and he’s straddling me, pinning me down using all his weight.

“Why did you hit yourself?” he screams as I struggle under him. “You’re all bruised, why did you do that to yourself?”

“Stop, Brian!” I yell, squirming and throwing punches that don’t connect. I break free and run to the living room toward the front door. I grab my keys and phone and consider calling 911. But I can’t. Then the public would know, and the public can’t know.

I slam the door behind me and run to my car. There’s a book and a bottle of water inside the glove compartment for times like this. My bedroom doesn’t have a lock, and I don’t want to go to a hotel. This is my home. So, I sit inside, waiting, where no one will ever know. If I can exist there, quietly, in this in-between, Brian will calm down.

I hear sirens down the street, and I know my neighbors called 911. Now the sirens are closer, then in my driveway. I slink down to hide, but this is out of my hands. The cops will question Brian, then me, and I’ll have to say the truth.

I hope Brian knows it wasn’t me who called the cops. It was our neighbor.

Brian’s booked on charges of felony domestic assault, and he pleads not guilty. He argues that I was the one hitting myself—not him—and he’d in fact recorded himself saying “Why did you hit yourself?” as I fully lost control. Later, he apologizes and claims he doesn’t remember what he did. When he’s sober, he always says he’s sorry. The judge slaps him with a restraining order. I love and believe in Brian so much that I’m convinced he can change, that this isn’t him, and we break it. And we’ll do it again.

Four months later, the district attorney drops the charges.

FORTY-TWO

All It Takes Is One Second

In February 2020, Brian and I took a Valentine’s Day trip to Jackson, Wyoming, and rented a house in Indian Springs, a gated community where the houses sat on parcels of land so large they looked and felt like mini ranches. There was fishing nearby, plus hiking trails and horseback riding, but I knew there was too much snow on the ground to do any of those things. So I decided to spend most of my time relaxing and reading, taking in views of the Grand Tetons, and trying to find some wildlife.

Brian and I had told 2019 good riddance. His arrest in Los Angeles had been in the news so much that he and I had mostly shut ourselves inside to avoid running into the photographers who had suddenly popped back into my life. I also didn’t want to deal with my family and friends, who called and texted constantly, worried that I was in a dangerous situation with Brian. I’d tried to keep as much as I could private, telling myself it was an internal battle, but my friends and family could sniff out my bullshit. What I never told them was that the abuse I’d endured didn’t feel as bad as the thought of being alone. Jansen also loved Brian—in fact, he’d practically moved in with us when we first got together—but even he thought we should break up if our dynamic was so toxic.

“But it’s not, Jansen,” I told him. “We’re great ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s just the other one percent that’s messed up. Besides, I’m a grown-up. I can make my own decisions.”

I didn’t add that he could take his free advice and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. No one in the history of siblings has enjoyed getting schooled by their little brother.

Early on in the trip Brian and I decided to go to a nearby steakhouse, where we’d have dinner and a few drinks. Midway through our first course, we were talking and laughing about everything from our hopes and dreams to what movie we wanted to watch that night. After dinner, we spilled out to a bar, and I told Brian I hoped to hell there was dancing.

“This is my vacation!” I yelled. “And on vacation I dance!”

God only knows how much we drank at the bar, but when we got back to the house around 2:00 a.m., we were both piss drunk. I don’t remember what either of us said. All I know was that at some point our playful banter turned hateful and our happy couple routine went to hell. There was teasing, harsh words, resentments, defensiveness, and all those things that make a drunken fight the most dangerous kind of fight to have. I know I let Brian have it; that’s what I do after I bottle up everything inside. And when I peeled back all those layers of denial and let my drunken self think about and feel everything Brian had done in the time we’d been together, there was only rage underneath. It was a dangerous, uncontrollable kind of rage.

“Come at me. Give me all you got. You can’t win,” I said, taunting Brian while we were in the midst of arguing. I always refused to play the victim, and my toughness revealed the fact that my fight or flight reaction fell firmly in the fight category. I wanted to attack because I was sure Brian was about to attack me.

“What did you fucking say?” Brian snarled as he pushed me up against the wall. “What did you say to me?”

I felt my head snap back and smash into the wall, and a sharp pain shot down into my back. I braced my body to absorb the shock, then I closed my eyes. Clap. Brian slapped me hard, and a familiar sting radiated out from my cheek and across my entire body.

“Okay, motherfucker, I am out of here,” I said as I broke free and ran upstairs, my head throbbing and my cheek burning. I quickly considered running into a room and locking the door, and then I heard the front door slam. Apparently, Brian had decided to walk outside into the dark and cold.

That’s it. It’s over, I thought as I sat down on the top step of the stairs. I can’t do this again. I can’t. Tears started falling, and I sat frozen with my butt on the stairs, trying to decide if I should lock Brian out. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was terrified. A good ten minutes later, I was still unsure of what I wanted to do, so I walked down the steps toward the front door. Then I heard a knock.

“Brian?” I asked.

“No ma’am,” a voice on the other side said. “This is the Teton County Police Department. Can you open the door?”

I took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, then turned it.

“Good evening. We’ve had a report of a disturbance here,” one of the officers said when I’d fully opened the door. “Our colleague is speaking to the gentleman outside right now, but we’d like to talk to you here. May we come in?”

I ushered the officers inside. As my hands started shaking and my chest tightened, I sat down on the nearest chair, and I opened my mouth. I didn’t freeze, and my tongue didn’t thicken up. I stopped worrying who would judge me, and I didn’t think I was disappointing anyone, least of all myself. I reassured myself that I’d been here before, and I could do it again. Then I fessed up, telling the Teton County Police Department everything that had happened since dinner.

A few minutes later, I looked out the window toward the driveway, and I saw officers cuffing Brian and taking him away.

Brian was booked in the local jail early that morning, and at his arraignment the judge charged him with domestic battery and interfering with a police officer, which was tacked on because Brian had refused to identify himself when the cops arrived. The next day, he was released on $5,000 bond.

We both went back to LA, but we didn’t return together. As I sat on the stairs in Wyoming, I’d decided, once and for all, that I was done with Brian and the toxic waste dump we’d found ourselves swimming in for the past year and a half. For the first time, I really meant it. I couldn’t take him, I couldn’t stand the pain, and I couldn’t face the knowledge that had become so abundantly clear since Brian had been arrested in LA.

In the boxing ring, all it takes is one second to turn a fight around, I thought. You can get the shit beaten out of yourself for nine rounds, but if you catch someone off guard in the tenth, it’s all over.

I knew that if Brian laid his hands on me one more time, and I caught him off guard, I might kill him in self-defense. If I was in danger in the heat of the moment, with the choice to either freeze, flee, or fight, my base instincts would kick in, and I’d end his life. That was a chance I just couldn’t take.

It was March 2020, just before the Covid-19 pandemic shut the country down and after I’d returned from Wyoming. I’d decided to tell the police every detail of the hell I’d endured with Brian. Now investigators were digging into every violent incident between us in the almost two years we’d been together. Brian had pleaded no contest, but I knew that with what I was telling the police, he was sure to be found guilty. It ate at me, but I had to do what was right in the eyes of the law.

Tell that to my heart, though. Despite all he’d done to me, I still loved Brian for who I believed he was. In my mind, the Brian who hurt me wasn’t the real Brian. My Brian loved dogs and motorcycles and telling me he loved me. My Brian had the same three star signs as me, a sure signal that we were cut from the same cloth. My Brian made me feel alive. My Brian had been there for me when I was at my lowest, and while we faced the same pitfalls, I’d been sure we could avoid them together.

I didn’t know the person Brian turned into when he started raging. This other Brian seemed to be dissociating, like the rational Dr. Jekyll part of his brain shut off while the violent Mr. Hyde took over. I was sure he must have a serious mental illness, like bipolar or borderline personality disorder, that could make him change so quickly. If we can treat that, we’ll get the real Brian back, I thought. Maybe he won’t be with me, but at least he’ll be himself again.

On July 16, 2020, authorities in LA arrested Brian again, charging him with four domestic assault felonies, one misdemeanor count of battery; two felony counts of assault with a deadly weapon (in particular, our garage floor and the stairs, both of which he’d once smashed my body into); and one felony count of dissuading a witness from prosecuting a crime. That witness was me. After we’d come back from Wyoming, Brian had called and tried to talk me out of pressing charges against him. As my heart broke into a million pieces, I told him it was too late, and then I told the police.

Brian’s bail was set at $320,000, which is higher than some rapists. I knew, without a doubt, that Brian was fucked.

I wasn’t there to read any of the press that surrounded Brian’s case. If anyone called my publicist, I didn’t know. The reason was that I’d checked myself into treatment and planned to stay as long as I needed. If it was the last thing I did, I was determined to turn my life around, and that started with my sobriety and mental health.

FORTY-THREE

The Fuck-Its

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: addicts aren’t patient. When we’re shaking, nauseated, anxious, lonely, or depressed, we need instant relief that sends us into that pain-free place called denial. I call it the fuck-its. Alcohol let me say “Fuck it, I’ll deal with everything later,” and within thirty seconds, I was in the zone. It was like coming up for air and breathing again. In the fuck-it zone, I forgot everything: Brian’s abuse, Kaya’s absence, and a career I’d chosen to hide from. Leaving acting hadn’t been a conscious decision; it simply happened. In the process of running from myself and everything I loved, I’d gotten lost. Thankfully, I had denial to bolster me up. The fuck-its made life full of promise, and there was no room to be bored or sad when I’d forgotten those feelings existed.

Trust me, if you stay in rehab more than a few weeks, you have lots of time to be bored. When you’re sitting with your feelings, stone cold sober, there’s little room for denial. But in those long, empty spaces, you start to grow. I felt deep resentment toward Brian and every person in my life who’d caused me pain, but I began to sort through the anger and disappointment that resentment always masks. Understanding replaced rage, and lightness came in and broke up the discontent. While the shift was slow, it was unmistakable.

During my eight-month stint in treatment in 2020, I said goodbye to the fuck-its and started to hit real milestones. At first, they were painful, but they were nothing I hadn’t experienced during withdrawal before. As my nervous system tried to regulate itself without the depressant effects of alcohol, it went into overdrive, and my whole body shook, I couldn’t sleep, and my head pounded like it was pressing against my skull. At least my eyes aren’t yellow, I told myself. I’d developed jaundice before, and a doctor told me that if I didn’t stop drinking, I’d be dead within five years. I didn’t suffer from hallucinations, and I counted my lucky stars for that. Once during withdrawal, I heard voices that were so terrifying I got on all fours and crawled to my bathroom, where I lay on the cool, clean tiles and waited for the panic to pass.

Two weeks in, I started to feel calm. This was to be expected. After your body adjusts to the lack of alcohol, your blood pressure decreases and your heart rate stabilizes. Your nervous system remembers how to do its job, and your gut starts to heal itself. But the calm I felt wasn’t just physical; it was also because I was safe. I wasn’t lost in someone else’s hell or building up a hell of my own. I liked myself. What a revelation.

Two weeks later, I laughed. Not because of Brian or Wlad or Mom or someone else whose approval I craved, but because of something I thought was funny. That laugh was all mine, and no one could take it from me. It was the first glimmer of happiness I’d seen in a long, long time.

Three months later, I felt joy. I was in control and I’d gained back my own trust. I knew I didn’t have to be scared of myself anymore. Joy made me cross the hump to true healing, when my brain could rewire itself and give my body permission to relax. I knew I had energy, and I knew I could allow myself to be content. Maybe I couldn’t always lift myself up into that feeling, but I could fall back to that baseline of happiness that was mine for the taking. Joy was a feeling no one could bottle. Joy was a million times better than any drug.

Treatment is a strange place to meet new people because it’s not “real life.” But I met a woman there who’d been abused much like I had, and we started to talk in what was decidedly a “real” way. I struggled with holding Brian accountable, probably because, despite all my resentment, I loved him. And, sure, Brian was facing jail time for all that he’d done to me, but I saw it as a police matter, not mine. My new friend made me realize otherwise.

“You can still hold him personally accountable for what he did,” she told me. “It’s okay to want him to accept responsibility. You can love someone and still see the need for them to pay.”

She gave me the courage to cooperate fully with the investigation. I didn’t want to see Brian suffer for the rest of his life, but I knew, in every inch of my heart, that he needed a long sentence.

I worked the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous every day while I was in treatment, and while some steps were easy, others were hard. I landed on step four about six months into treatment, and I started to take what AA describes as “a searching and fearless moral inventory” of myself. Through step four, I began to map out ways I would take accountability for all the behaviors and actions that had caused me to drink. I knew it would be humbling, but I was sure at the end I’d find acceptance and forgiveness—for myself and for the people who’d done me wrong.

When I was on step four, my lawyer called to say that Brian needed to talk.

While I was in treatment, Brian had been sentenced to forty-five days in prison and four years’ probation, plus fines and mandatory domestic violence classes. He’d served his time and was now in his own apartment, where he was living with our French bulldog, Cora. Cora wasn’t even two years old, and I missed her every day.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” my lawyer said. “I just needed to tell you that Cora’s in the hospital. She’s fine, but she broke her back.”

French bulldogs have delicate spines that compress easily, but back problems usually happen late in life, after they’ve spent years running around, jumping off beds, and jostling their little bones. Brian was a huge fan of Frenchies, and I was a huge fan of anything with four legs and hair, so I’d gone along with him. Now I loved that dog more than I could tell you. In my darkest times with Brian, she’d always been a wonderful ray of light.

“Please tell him to do whatever it takes to help her,” I said. “She’s too young for this to happen.”

I went back to my room, threw myself on the bed, and cried myself to sleep. When I woke up a few hours later, the world suddenly looked different. It wasn’t that I missed Cora or was terrified for her—which I was—it was that my brain was filled with good memories of Brian. I saw us dancing in my kitchen, watching TV with Jansen, and holding hands as we walked through West Hollywood. I thought of the look on his face before he rescued my poor, peppermint-burning behind, and I remembered how fit and tall he was and the sound of his laugh. I pictured him holding Cora, cradling her on the way to the vet. Somewhere out there, Brian was alive, in the world, existing as a human being does. He had thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, regrets, and problems just like anyone else. He also had a big heart full of pain, just like mine, and I had love for him—despite what he’d done to me. Those were feelings I knew I’d probably spend my whole life working through.

Damn, it’s the fourth step again, I thought. I’ve been analyzing my failings for weeks, and now I’m thinking of his.

Every single day I spent in treatment, I’d wrestled with guilt over my life, and through the fourth step, I’d started to forgive myself. What a gift it would be if I could offer that forgiveness to someone else, too. Holding on to anger and resentment, expecting that Brian’s punishment would give me relief, didn’t get to the heart of the matter. As the saying goes, resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. I didn’t want Brian’s life to be defined by his drunken, mentally unstable rage and abuse any more than I wanted to be defined by my many failings. Brian had put in his time in prison. He’d been punished, and I was glad of that. But I know that prison changes you. People who are sent to jail for an extended period of time often lose the ability to operate on the outside. When I’d cooperated with police, I wanted Brian to be in jail just long enough to scare him, but not long enough where he’d become a worse person. I needed him to admit his wrongs and change because of them, but I didn’t want to traumatize him in an irreversible way.

So I decided to do what I wish others would do for me. I decided to let go of my resentment and try to forgive Brian.

FORTY-FOUR

Mending Fences

I came out of treatment in 2021, after eight months, feeling more clear-headed than I’d ever been. The sun seemed brighter, the sky looked bluer, and all around me, I could hear the hum of creatures doing the hard work of being alive. It was beautiful, and I felt optimistic and ready to start my life over. Kaya was now six, an accomplished horsewoman and already learning her fifth language, and she and I talked on FaceTime as much as we could. Kindergarteners aren’t known for their excellent phone communication skills, but even five minutes of that laugh and those blue eyes was enough for me. It wasn’t the motherhood I wanted, but I would take what I could get.

I’d hidden away, afraid of others’ judgment, while Brian and I were together, but I decided I was ready to come out of my shell and see my family. Mom and Jansen told me they were in Florida visiting Aunt Jana and my Grandma Vogel—who was in her late eighties and was living with Jana—and Mom asked if I’d like to come visit.

“I’d love that, Mom,” I said. “I’ve missed you guys.”

The day before I was supposed to get on the plane, Mom called.

“Hayden, I need to warn you that shit’s going down here,” she said.

My optimism about the trip suddenly faded. “What kind of shit?” I asked.

Mom entered stage whisper mode. “Jansen and I are fighting.”

“I’m so sorry, Mom. What do you need? How can I help?”

“I need you to talk with him. Please.”

I agreed, and a few minutes later I heard the sound of my brother’s voice.

“Uh, hey,” Jansen said. “You coming down here to visit?”

“That’s the plan,” I answered. “But can you please tell me what’s going on with you and Mom?”

Jansen sighed. “We got in a fight, and she got in my face, and one thing led to another.”

Visions of Mom and Dad after the Whaleman party flashed into my mind, and I immediately pushed the uncomfortable memories away. “What does that mean, Jansen? Can you please tell me?”

“Okay, fine,” Jansen answered, and then he let the words spill out. “She was up in my face, and I didn’t like it, so I grabbed the back of her head to push her away. Mom started squirming, and then she slid forward and fell. I grabbed at the last minute and stopped her from getting hurt, and—”

“You did what?” I interrupted, suddenly triggered by the thought of a man laying his hands on a woman.

“The head grab was sort of a Krav Maga move,” Jansen said. “I just reacted. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but you do not lay your hands on Mom.” Jansen was one of the kindest souls I’d ever met, and this wasn’t like him. He and Mom were so close—sometimes closer than I was with either of my parents. But nothing justified what he’d done.

“I know,” he answered.

“I don’t care what Mom did,” I added. “Apologize to her. And get your act together.”

I hung up the phone and tried to figure out what I should do. I realized had two choices: 1) I could fly down to Florida to see my family, who was in the midst of yet another crisis, or 2) Newly sober me could put the gas mask on and breathe pure, clean oxygen while the plane made an emergency landing. Whatever happened outside of my personal space was completely out of my control. The only thing I could control were my own thoughts and actions. If Jansen and Mom wanted to Krav Maga themselves off a cliff, that was up to them.

I called Mom back.

“Hey, how are things going?” I asked. “Are you feeling okay?”

Mom sighed. “I’m fine, sweetie. Whatever you said to your brother made him apologize. It’s just… I worry about your brother. He’s just not himself.”

“I know, Mom,” I answered. “Jansen is the heart and soul of this family, and when he’s out of sorts, we all are. I’m sorry he hurt you. That’s the bigger issue.”

“Well, moving on,” Mom said, ready to muscle through tough times as always. “When can we expect you?”

I hesitated before I started talking. “I’m so sorry, Mom, but I can’t come. I’ve been out of treatment for, like, five days. I just can’t be around this kind of chaos. I love you all, but I just can’t handle it right now.”

I braced myself, waiting for Mom to let me have it.

“It’s okay. I understand. You have to take care of yourself.”

This was a new side of Mom I hadn’t seen in a long time. While I’d been in treatment and we’d grown distant, she had clearly been doing just fine without me. I wasn’t disappointed. I loved her, so I’d set her free. What came back around was the calm Mom. The Mom in control. The Mom who—when shit hit the fan—wanted to act to make things better.

I had missed this Mom.

The truth was it wasn’t just Mom who was worried about Jansen. Dad was, too. After Jansen left college, he’d moved back in with Mom. When he got a job, he moved out, taking all his belongings with him. One of those belongings was a four-foot bong. I had no problem with Jansen smoking weed, but a four-foot bong seemed like overkill. We lived in California, home of legal recreational marijuana since 2018. Anyone over eighteen could smoke marijuana on the street using a four-inch vape pen—and believe me, they did, all the time. Why, then, would anyone in their right mind need a four-foot bong?

After a few years in LA—during which time I met Brian—Jansen floundered. First, he fell in with a group of friends Mom, Dad, and I weren’t crazy about, including one woman who “borrowed” his car and didn’t bring it back until I called her up and read her the riot act. He also didn’t have much money, so Dad footed the bill for almost everything, including his rent. One day, Dad got a call from Jansen’s landlord, who said she was concerned that Jansen was spending too much time inside, all by himself. So, Dad called Jansen up.

“Jan, why don’t you just come home and live in New York, okay? We can figure things out here.”

Jansen said yes, and we all crossed our fingers that going home would make his life right again.

So far, things weren’t looking good. Jansen had been doing odd jobs to make money and was hanging out with all the wrong people—again. One day, while Jansen was in the shower in his apartment, one of these friends overdosed on heroin in his living room. When my brother dried off and went out to talk to him, he saw his friend lying on the floor. Jansen called 911 and performed CPR, and—by some miracle—the friend lived.

Jansen was a hero, but he was also late to work, and his boss gave him hell for it.

On the bright side, Jansen was painting more than ever, and the work he produced was extraordinary. But other than that, my stomach was constantly in knots that he was messing up his life.

I FaceTimed Jansen one day to check in. When he answered, he didn’t seem like himself.

“Jansen, are you okay?” I asked. “You seem kind of… I don’t know… jumpy.”

“I’m fine,” he answered, “I was just up way late last night and had a little too much coffee this morning. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I’m sorry I didn’t go to Florida.”

“Yeah well, Mom and I were fighting, so I get why you didn’t want to come. No big deal…”

There’s that fidgeting again, I thought, noticing how he shifted and twitched. Something’s up.

“Jansen, please be straight with me,” I said. “No judgment. I just spent eight months living with drug users—myself included—so you’re not going to get shit from me. Please tell me, are you taking that Adderall again?” Jansen had a new therapist who’d prescribed him Adderall for ADHD. The last time I’d come to New York to visit, I discovered that he sometimes crushed the pills and snorted them up his nose.

Jansen stared at the screen, positively bug-eyed, and I stared back. I knew he didn’t want to lie to his big sister. Our relationship had always been built on trust.

“Look,” he finally said, “you and Mom worry about me too much. I’m fine.”

“Be honest.”

Jansen paused. “Okay, Jesus. You never give up. I smoked some crack. There, I said it.”

My stomach hit the floor. “You fucking what? Did you say ‘crack’?” I yelled. “How often do you smoke crack?”

“Don’t get mad at me!” Jansen protested. “I only smoke it sometimes.” Then he looked down, and I could tell he was embarrassed.

“Jesus, Jansen. I’m not mad at you. I’m just worried. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

He got quiet. “I also snorted heroin a couple times.”

My mind exploded in a thousand different directions. Crack was an upper, heroin was a downer. Together, they were a lethal combination. I didn’t even want to think about fentanyl, the drug that every dealer in America was mixing into other drugs and killing tens of thousands of people a year. Chances were that if Jansen kept getting heroin from one of his shifty friends, he was going to OD on fentanyl.

“Jansen, you can’t do this,” I pleaded. “Seriously. Let me help you.”

Jansen looked back into the screen and broke into a smile. “Okay,” he said. “You know I don’t think those drugs are a good idea. I just… well, you know. Life hasn’t been what I expected it would be.”

“I know,” I answered, my heart breaking for my brother. “But we’re counting on you. Mom, Dad, and I love you more than you can possibly know.”

Jansen paused. “I hear you. Thank you for calling. I love you.”

I hung up the phone, screamed into a pillow, and called my dad right away.

FORTY-FIVE

My Heart and Soul

Jansen lived in an apartment in Nyack, which was just a few miles from Dad and his new wife, Mekdem’s house. Dad was the first line of defense for anything related to my brother, so I had no other choice but to trust him and ask for his help. The issue was, of course, that no one could control Jansen. He was a grown-up, just like me.

“Hey, what’s up?” Dad asked when I called him. “I’m at a CVS. Talk fast.”

I cleared my throat. “Dad, I know you can’t sit down, but I do need you to listen. Your son is using heroin. The shit has officially hit the fan.”

Dad was dead silent for a good few seconds. “Okay, that’s not good,” he finally said. “But is he just using heroin socially or is it worse than that?”

I started to laugh even though it was anything but funny. “Damn it, Dad. There’s no such thing as social heroin use. If you use heroin, you’re playing Russian roulette each and every time. We need to get him into treatment now.”

“I hear you,” Dad answered. “But he’s going to resist. I know it.”

“I’m sure he is. But as a veteran of treatment, I have an idea. You need to take Jansen in for a drug test. I think if the fact he’s using hard drugs is known to you and the medical establishment, he’ll be more amenable to treatment. I’ve been there. It’s one thing if you’re drunk in secret; it’s another if you’re drunk and everyone knows it.”

Dad went quiet again.

“All right, I’ll call him. I’ll make him do it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I answered, then I hung up the phone and looked around for a good luck tree to pray to.

Dad worked his magic, and a week later Jansen was scheduled for a drug test at a local lab. His assignment was simple: pee in a cup, pay your copay, and wait a few days till the results came in. Every drug in Jansen’s system would be revealed, and we could sit down with him and convince him to get help. Easy peasy.

“Call me when it’s all said and done, okay?” I asked Dad the day of the appointment.

“Of course,” he answered. “I’ll call you.”

Two hours later, I hadn’t heard from either of them, so I picked up the phone and called Dad.

“So… did everything go okay?” I asked.

“No,” Dad answered. “It most certainly did not. The nurse gave him the cup, and he went into the bathroom. He came out five minutes later saying he fell asleep on the toilet and forgot to pee in the cup. Somehow—and he thinks this is convincing—he expects us to believe he sleep-peed in the toilet instead of giving a sample for a drug test. Can you believe that?”

“Dad, that tells you right there,” I said. “When you’re using, the lies come easier.”

“Here’s the thing,” Dad added. “Jansen’s always been a little spacey, you know? Maybe that did happen.”

I wanted to scream, but instead, I got angry. “Dad, my God,” I pleaded, “stop making excuses for him. What he said isn’t even a good excuse. He’s just ashamed.”

But deep down, I knew the truth was worse than that. For all his sensitivity, kindness, and pure, beautiful talent, my brother was manipulating us because drugs had a hold on him. They were providing him an escape that only he could understand, and that meant it was up to him—and nobody else—to put an end to it. No one in my family wanted to believe it, but we had to. Otherwise, soon it was going to be too late.

In the winter of 2023, I was gearing up for the premiere of Scream VI, my big return to acting after taking four years off. It was a role I felt lucky to get, to be honest. We were in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic when it was cast, and the film industry was about as unstable as I’d been. But I was more than eager to get back on my feet and live up to the potential I knew was there inside me, buried deep in my foundation. So I begged Radio Silence—the creative team behind the Scream franchise—for the part, calling them up and making it clear that if Kirby was still alive, I’d do anything.

“Look,” I said, “you never saw Kirby get killed on-screen. And every horror fan knows that if you don’t see a character murdered, they’re still alive.”

They agreed and wrote Kirby into the script. Kirby Reed was back, baby, and she was all grown up, ready to outsmart Ghostface once again. I showed up on set every day, on time, and loved every second of it. Kirby was a survivor, just like me. Kirby had guts and heart and—pardon my French—balls made of steel. That’s who I wanted to be. That’s who I am.

On February 20, my phone rang early in the morning, when the West Coast was waking up and New York had been moving for hours. I looked at the screen, and there was Dad’s name.

Sorry, Dad, can’t talk now, I said to myself, letting the call go to voicemail.

Ten seconds later, Dad called again.

“Calling twice, huh? What’s going on?” I asked.

“Uh, Hayden,” he said, his voice cracking. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Jansen’s dead. My boy is dead.”

Panic flooded every inch of my body. “What did you say?”

“I said…” Dad’s voice began to rise, and then he began to yell. “Oh my God! Jansen is dead! My sweet boy is dead!”

I heard Dad gasp for breath, and I put the phone down as my knees buckled under me. This isn’t real, I thought. It can’t be.

“Dad?” I finally asked, listening to the sound of his sobs. “What happened?”

It took a moment or two, but Dad’s voice shook as he started to speak. “Jansen had an appointment at 9:00 a.m., and he didn’t show up for it. Someone called one of his friends, and that friend decided to go over and check on him. He opened the door and found him, but it was too late. Jansen was already gone.”

“I don’t understand,” I pleaded. “Did he kill himself? Did he have a heart attack? Did someone break in and kill him? What happened?!”

“The police don’t know yet, baby. But there was no evidence of foul play. He was just sitting in a chair with a comforter over his whole body. It was like he’d fallen asleep there.”

My mind started to race in a million different directions. I knew Jansen better than I knew myself, and none of this made sense. Jansen never sat in a chair unless he had people over, I thought. If he was alone, he sat on the couch. And when you’re taking drugs—and Jansen probably was—you run hot. There’s no way in hell he’d need a comforter.

“Dad?” I asked, an eerie sense of calm suddenly washing over me. “Was anyone with him last night?”

Dad sighed. “I don’t know, Hayden. I just don’t know.”

I decided to switch over to an unavoidable topic. “Does Mom know?” I asked.

“No,” Dad answered, and I could hear him crying again. “Can you call her? I can’t do it.”

Sometimes, during an intense or overwhelming crisis, the rational brain kicks and helps you deal with painful situations calmly rather than emotionally. This is the kind of powerful coping reaction that allows paramedics to save gravely injured people and allowed my dad to rescue kids from burning apartment buildings. I can’t explain why the thought of calling Mom didn’t send me into a tailspin, but it didn’t. I had a job to do, and I was going to do it. My rational thinking wasn’t the calm before the storm—nope, that storm had come and gone and ripped apart my world—but it was the beautiful result of all my time in treatment. Suddenly, I believed in myself. I could do hard things. I could call my mother and tell her that her beloved baby boy was dead, and it would be the most difficult thing I’d done in my life. I wasn’t sure what kind of agony I’d encounter on the other end of the line, but I had to do what I had to do.

“Sure, Dad, I’ll call Mom,” I said. “I love you. Talk to you soon.”

I dialed Mom’s number, and she answered on the fifth ring. “Helllooo, Hayden!” Mom said. “Sorry, I didn’t hear the phone ring. I’m in Venice Beach, and it’s gorgeous out. How are you?”

I’m not okay, Mom, I thought. And I’m about to ruin your life.

“Mom, I have to tell you something really hard. You should sit down.”

“What?” Mom asked. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. Just tell me.”

I paused. “Jansen died sometime last night. We don’t know what happened, but his friend found him in his apartment this morning.”

There was silence on the other end of the line as I waited for Mom to start screaming. Five seconds passed, and she didn’t say a word.

“Mom?” I asked. “Are you still there?”

“I’m so sorry, baby, but I have to get off the phone now. I have some calls to make.”

“Okay, Mom,” I answered. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.”

I hung up the phone, and the calm that had helped me get through the call with Mom vanished. I burst into tears, crawled into bed, and didn’t get out for the rest of the day.

FORTY-SIX

Grateful

Jansen always liked Brian. Under Brian’s volatility and intensity, he saw another person—like himself—who lived too much in his head. When they were feeling playful, these two guys could let loose and forget the mental energy it took to be alive. Both of them loved me, too, sometimes dangerously so.

One night, a few years before Jansen died, Brian, Jansen, and I were hanging out in my condo, drinking wine and watching movies. Jansen wasn’t much of a drinker, and Brian and I were behaving ourselves and not letting the evening get out of hand. At some point, Jansen and Brian decided to go get a couple things from the grocery store, and I told them I wanted to stay home. When they returned, they had the groceries they needed, but they also had something else: ten Nerf guns, plus a few dozen bullets for each.

“What the heck?” I asked. “Were those on sale or something?”

“We couldn’t resist,” said Brian. “Boys will be boys.”

Suddenly, Jansen appeared out of nowhere and pointed a Nerf gun at me. “Watch out, Hayden! Bombs away!”

A Nerf bullet zoomed toward me, and I jumped up from the couch and began to run toward the stairs. Brian zigzagged across the living room and approached me from the side, Nerf gun in hand. I turned back toward Jansen to see if I could escape, and a torrent of Nerf bullets flew toward me. One by one, they hit me in the chest, then the legs, then the face.

“Dude!” I yelled. “Not my face! Anywhere but my face!”

I turned back again to run up the stairs, and Brian blasted a few bullets toward my back.

“No sneak attacks! No!” I yelled as the bullets hit me and bounced off. I sprinted to the top of the stairs, across the hall, and locked myself in my bathroom.

You can’t get me in here, losers, I thought. From the other side of the door, I heard laughing. As it grew louder, I started laughing, too.

The morning my dad called me to tell me Jansen had died, I crawled out of bed and decided to pack up to head back to New York. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, so I chose my biggest suitcase, deciding to fill it up with wool sweaters and turtlenecks and all those warm things I never needed in my life in LA. I’ve had the same suitcase for years—a rolling Louis Vuitton bag that I customized with paintings of Kobe Bryant, Marilyn Monroe, and Bob Marley, all brilliant people who, like Jansen, died before their time. Inside were a few items I’d left in the bag since my last trip, like socks and fuzzy pajamas, and I realized I could use them on this trip, too. First, though, I’d need to refold them.

What in the world? I asked myself as I lifted the pj’s out of the suitcase. In a corner of my bag lay one of those stupid Nerf bullets, the three fins on its back flattened by the weight of my clothes. How it got in my suitcase, I have no idea. I’d also used this bag at least three times since Jansen and Brian brought home the Nerf guns, and I’d never seen that bullet. It was like it had disappeared then reappeared out of nowhere, a sign from beyond and a joke at my expense.

I wasn’t offended. And as I started to laugh through my tears, I was grateful.

Thank you for being here, Jansen, I thought. Thank you for making me laugh, telling me never to take myself too seriously, and for being my best friend, always.

[picture]

My young and handsome Poppa in December 1966.

[picture]

Dad and Grandma in the late seventies, dressed in their finest shades of brown.

[picture]

Living my best life with Dad on Winona Lake in Indiana, where Nonna and Grampy lived.

[picture]

With Grampy in Indiana.

[picture]

Who doesn’t love a bubble beard?

[picture]

I enjoyed few things in life more than Christmas at Dad’s firehouse.

[picture]

Around age two or three, making what we called “stink face.”

[picture]

Not long after I became this little man’s big sister.

[picture]

Always and forever a performer.

[picture]

Me and Nonna.

[picture]

Chasing Mom on the beach in California.

[picture]

Dad was always trying to drag us to the golf course. This time, he got his way.

[picture]

On the swing set in the backyard of our house in Snedens Landing.

[picture]

Mom and I on the set of If You Believe in 1999.

[picture]

Hanging out with Uncle Donny, who was a New York City firefighter, just like Dad.

[picture]

Jansen and I at home in Snedens Landing.

[picture]

On the Universal Studios backlot filming the pilot of Heroes.

[picture]

Jansen and I during an event on the Paramount backlot. (Photo: Emily Buckingham)

[picture]

Allie and I up to some sort of trouble. (Photo: Emily Buckingham)

[picture]

Wlad and I enjoying a photoshoot at my house on Curson Terrace.

[picture]

Driving Wlad’s speedboat on the Dnieper River in Ukraine.

[picture]

Dad and I at a fight, posing in the Golden Circle. (Photo: Emily Buckingham)

[picture]

Filming Rayna Jaymes’s funeral during season 5 of Nashville.

[picture]

In my trailer on the set of Nashville. (Photo: Emily Buckingham)

[picture]

Shocker—the test was positive!

[picture]

About to capsize in Oahu, just before Kaya was born.

[picture]

I spent my thirty-first birthday in Joshua Tree National Park. (Photo: Emily Buckingham)

[picture]

All smiles in Joshua Tree National Park.(Photo: Emily Buckingham)

Acknowledgments

There’s a principle I learned in treatment that has stuck with me in a way almost no other lesson has. I’m talking about radical acceptance, which happens when you accept a situation for exactly what it is, without controlling or trying to change it. With radical acceptance, you are profoundly present. There’s no what could have been or what should have been and no digging in your heels. There’s no need or itch or longing. When life hands you lemons, you’ve got lemons, and they are acidic, sour, and exactly what they should be. Life just is. By being mindful, you embrace it.

This book has allowed me to accept myself, radically. This is me. This is what I’ve done and who I strive to be. In this life, I’ve laughed, cried, and made mistakes. I’ve loved deeply, sometimes too much, but it’s who I am. My life is mine to show up for every day, and I do it humbly and with a full heart.

Radical acceptance has taught me to walk hand in hand with my triumphs and my tragedies because they’ve made me who I am. And today, I really love that person. If there’s anything I can offer you with this book, it’s my hope that you do the same. I just keep swimming, and with each stroke, I get stronger. With each passing day, I get to laugh a little more, learn another lesson, and make another friend. I accept all of it—good and bad—for the gift that it is.

There are so many people I want to thank who helped me create this book, which—more than anything I’ve done in my life—has been an exercise in radical acceptance. The first, of course, is my little brother. Jansen was the heartbeat of my life, always right there, in the center of who I am. I can still hear his bad drumming echoing off the walls, his house music pounding above my head, and his voice, ringing down the hall that I’d done something to drive him crazy. (And I’m sure I had.) He was a little brother by chance and a best friend by choice, and I can’t think of anything that would make Jansen happier than to know he has the last word in this book. Thank you, Jansen, from the bottom of my heart.

Thank you to my publicist, Kasey Kitchen, for the friendship and guidance. Thank you to my agent, Peter McGuigan, and his team at Ultra Literary, and to Ray Moheet and everyone at Mainstay Entertainment for their belief and determination at all the right moments. Thank you to Sarah Durand for the hours on the phone and the many, many laughs. Thank you to Suzanne O’Neill, Morgan Spehar, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing for taking a chance on me.

Thank you to the family who has been there for me and the friends who are my chosen family. I love you all, more than you can know. Thank you to the people I’ve lost along the way. And endless gratitude to every person who has helped shape and guide me through my career, including every crew member, every member of my team—past and present—and everyone working long hours in an office. I see you in my memories, and I see you.

Thank you to Kaya and Wlad, always.

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About the Author

Born and raised in New York, Hayden Panettiere seemed destined for superstardom from the moment she could walk. By the age of four she had already landed her first on-screen role, and the spotlight has never left her since. She has gone on to become one of the most respected actresses in Hollywood, spanning a career that has lasted more than thirty-five years.

Hayden is likely best known for her role as Claire Bennet on the NBC series Heroes and subsequently starred as Juliette Barnes in the ABC hit series Nashville, which earned her two Golden Globe nominations. She was memorably seen starring opposite Neve Campbell, Courteney Cox, and Emma Roberts in the fourth film of the popular horror franchise Scream and reprised her role in Scream VI.

Hayden was a Neutrogena brand ambassador for ten years and represented them internationally. On the feature side, Hayden played the lead in the film Custody alongside Viola Davis and prior to that starred in The Forger opposite Josh Hutcherson. Other major film credits include I Love You Beth Cooper, Bring It On: All or Nothing, Ice Princess, Remember the Titans opposite Denzel Washington, and Lionsgate’s action thriller Amber Alert. Most recently, she toplined Appian Way and Verdi Productions’ Sleepwalker.