Twenty years ago, I was working the graveyard shift at a homeless shelter for mentally ill women in Santa Monica. My paycheck was $740 every two weeks. I took the job so I’d have my days free to write and weekends free to perform. I thought it would be six months before I made it big in Hollywood.
I stayed ten years. Not because I wanted to, but because every year I thought, this will be the year I’m discovered – the year I can finally leave the shelter behind.
Within that first year, I put up my very first solo show. To my amazement, it was selected as a Critic’s Pick. I thought, This is it. But discovery never came, so I stayed at the shelter and kept writing.
The truth is – I loved the shelter. The women were fierce, hilarious, broken, and resilient. They taught me more about survival, patience, and grace than any classroom ever could. My job was to keep watch through the night, to listen to their stories, to sit beside them in their struggles, and to affirm the light I saw in them.
That connection to forgotten voices wasn’t new. Back in college, I’d received free room and board at Athens State Mental Hospital in exchange for writing and performing plays with people who have chronic schizophrenia. There I saw the raw power of storytelling: people long kept in the shadows came alive when they could share their stories onstage. It was messy, unpredictable, and holy. I carried that lesson with me into the shelter years later.
Those lessons fueled my art. On my nights off, I performed. I wrote three more shows, each winning awards, including Best Solo Performer. Every success gave me hope this would be the year I’d be discovered. But discovery never came. Industry doors stayed shut, and underneath the recognition I was sinking into debt from self-producing.
And worst of all, I lied.
When I met people in the entertainment industry, I didn’t tell them I worked in a homeless shelter. I wanted to be seen as somebody who belonged. I feared that if people knew the truth—that I spent my nights with women the world had cast aside—they’d see me as invisible. Or worse, as a failure.
By my tenth year, I had nothing left to lose. One night, I picked up a pen and wrote about the very things I’d been hiding—the lies, the shelter, my fear of ending up homeless myself. When I finished, I felt a peace I had never known. I had finally told the truth. Not just the shiny parts, but the messy, shame-filled, human parts.
That show changed everything.
A Knock at the Door
One night, while performing this raw new piece, I spotted Mel Brooks in the audience. Mel Brooks! The man who made Young Frankenstein and Blazing Saddles!
After the show, he came backstage, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Ann, you’re a genius. I’m going to produce you in New York City.”
To the outside world, my life changed in that instant. But the real change had already happened the moment I stepped onstage and told the truth about who I really was.
The liberation of no longer hiding, of standing in my brokenness and saying, Here I am, was the greatest gift I ever gave myself. And it’s a gift I still have to choose every day. Sometimes fear still creeps in. The difference now is I know what’s on the other side of shame: freedom, connection, and community.
From Stage to Circle
After the New York run, I wanted to spread this truth-telling beyond the stage. I created a course called Write Your Life. I had never designed a workshop before, but I knew the stories we’re most afraid to tell are the ones that set us free.
In that first class, we wrote our deepest shames, fears, losses, joys, and dreams, and shared them in a circle of kindness. The transformation was electric. People walked in strangers and walked out bonded. Storytelling, I realized, isn’t just about performance – it’s about belonging.
That was eighteen years ago. Since then, I’ve guided thousands to write and share their stories, watching the same transformation repeat: the relief of truth, the joy of expression.
Your Story Matters
Today, I still perform my solo shows across the U.S., but now I weave in writing workshops wherever I go. Watching audiences write together after a performance still takes my breath away. A room full of strangers becomes a community, holding space for one another’s truths.
Here’s what I’ve learned again and again: it’s not just my story that matters. It’s your story. It’s our story.
When we give voice to the parts of ourselves we most want to hide, we unlock not only our own freedom but also a pathway for others. Storytelling builds bridges. It transforms shame into connection. It makes us whole.
So if you are carrying a story you’ve been afraid to tell, consider this: your silence is heavy, but your truth is liberating. You don’t need to wait for the perfect moment. The time is now.
Because your story matters. More than you know.
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Experience This Work with Ann in Santa Fe
What if the story you’re most afraid to tell is the one that will set you free?
This January, Ann brings her transformational work to our Santa Fe campus for a 3-day intensive where you’ll write the truths you’ve been keeping locked away.
This isn’t about becoming a better writer. It’s about breaking through decades of self-censorship using Ann’s signature blend of uncensored writing sprints, movement, and embodied practices that bypass your inner critic entirely.
You’ll leave with raw material that feels alive, tools for ongoing practice, and a community of fellow truth-tellers who understand what it takes to speak without shame.
Unmute Yourself: Writing Your Truth
January 29 – February 1, 2026 | Santa Fe