Booked on a Lie: The Chaotic Journey to My First Passport

I always thought getting my first passport would be simple and uneventful. Haha, I was wrong.

It all started with the kind of call every actor dreams of: I’d booked my biggest commercial yet—a global campaign that would be filming in Vancouver, Canada. This was it, the opportunity I had visualized long before moving to LA. Then came the reality check—the shoot was in one week, and I didn’t have a passport. But did I tell my agent? Of course not.

The Risk

The trouble began at the casting stage. When I saw that a passport was required, I hesitated. Even if I did book the job, I wouldn’t have a passport. But turning down an audition this big, with one of LA’s top agents and top casting directors? Nah, that wasn’t happening, so I went.

I walked into that audition room, all nerves and no plan, gave it everything I had, and somehow, I got the callback.

“Can you get a passport in time if you book this?” the casting director asked.

“Yes, absolutely,” I said with the kind of confidence only desperation can muster. In truth, I wasn’t sure, but fuck it, you know?

The Night Before

The night before the audition, I performed at The Comedy Store in LA—a surreal highlight of my comedy career. Sharing the stage with my friends Steve (who I went to Mexico with) and Jumarcus made it unforgettable. After the show, Jumarcus (who was also up for the same commercial) joked about how crazy it would be if we overslept.

Turns out, that wasn’t just a joke.

The Morning Disaster

The next morning, I woke up to three missed calls from Jumarcus.

“Boy, where are you at?” he barked in his thick Houston accent.

I glanced at the clock: 10:30 a.m. My audition was at 9:30.

I shot out of bed like I’d been electrocuted. There was no time for anything—not even brushing my teeth. I threw on clothes, called an Uber, and sped to the audition.

By the time I walked in at 10:55 a.m., I was a mess—sweating, frazzled, and fully convinced I had already lost. But instead of folding, I leaned into the chaos. I improvised, I took risks, and I had fun.

“Good luck,” the casting director said as I left.

Ready to hop back into bed, I walked to the bus stop and waited for about 15 minutes for my orange chariot to arrive. Then, all of a sudden, my phone buzzed.

“You’re confirmed! You booked the commercial!” my agent emailed.

I felt like I’d just won the lottery—until I read the next line:

“You’ll need a passport by next Wednesday.”

The Clock Starts

Panic set in. I had no passport and less than a week to make it happen. But I couldn’t tell my agent the truth. I called my Auntie Kim to see if she could help me with the process, and she did—without hesitation.

First thing Monday morning, I was at the passport office, big smile and application in hand. They promised it would be ready by Wednesday. The timing was tight but doable—or so I thought.

The Setback

Wednesday came, and I rushed to the passport office. But when I arrived, they told me it wouldn’t be ready until Thursday. My stomach sank. What was I supposed to tell my agent? I had promised Wednesday.

I didn’t know what to do, so I sat on a nearby bench outside the office. In a desperate move, I called my buddy Ryan —the one I went to Mexico with—and asked to borrow his passport to see if I could use it just to show my agent. He agreed, so I rushed over. As soon as I arrived, he handed me the passport, and I snapped a picture and sent it, praying it would buy me time.

Minutes later, my agent emailed: “We need the bio page with your photo.”

Cornered by my own lie, I froze. Damn, what do I do now?

I just… avoided responding altogether.

They messaged me all day and all night, but I stayed silent. Night fell, and I lay wide-eyed in bed until I eventually drifted off to sleep.

Rock Bottom

Thursday morning, after my morning coffee, I rushed back to the passport office, but I was too early. I found out you could only pick up your passport during certain hours (12–2 p.m.). It was only 11 a.m., and my agent’s emails and voicemails were growing angrier.

Now pacing like a madman outside, the coffee and anxiety really hit me. At 11:15 a.m., I ducked into a nearby hotel lobby to use the restroom.

I had all the worst thoughts at that point, and then I got the email:

“You’ve been dropped from the commercial. Please give us a call.”

The words hit me like a freight train. I knew I had lost everything—the job, the money, and, to them, my credibility as a professional.

Defeated but determined, I returned to the passport office, and to my surprise, the line was moving quickly. At noon, I finally received my passport. It was supposed to feel like a victory, but it just felt like too little, too late.

Still, I emailed my agent with the passport details, apologizing for everything. I didn’t expect a response, let alone forgiveness.

As I sat on the bus, replaying every mistake in my head, my phone buzzed.

“The production team re-booked you.”

I stared at the screen in disbelief, thinking, Is this a dream?

Seconds later, my agent called.

“Production is giving you another chance. Stand by your email, and we’ll be sending your itinerary for Canada soon,” they said.

Oh my God.

Not only did I have my passport, but I was also going out of the country again.

The Reflection

As I sat on the bus holding that passport in my hands, I felt the weight of what it represented. Though the journey wasn’t as pretty as I imagined it would be, I realized this was just the beginning. This wasn’t just a commercial; this was proof that chasing my dream—no matter the risk—was always worth it.

The Canada Vlog: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=LbmWVeTHbfQ

The Commercial - Ghost Recon Breakpoint ft Lil Wayne: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=absdqVyb_44&pp=ygVIdG9tIGNsYW5jeSdzIGdob3N0IHJlY29uwq4gYnJlYWtwb2ludCBsaXZlIGFjdGlvbiB1Ymlzb2Z0IE5vcnRoIEFtZXJpY2Eg

I Failed :(

When I returned home from my first trip to Europe in January 2022, after visiting seven countries the year before, I felt an undeniable shift in my perspective. The world suddenly seemed both vast and accessible, and I was hooked. I remember standing at the airport, luggage in hand, overwhelmed with the sense that I had just touched something life-changing. It wasn’t just the places I had visited or the adventures I’d experienced—it was the profound way travel had reshaped how I viewed the world and, more importantly, myself.

I had always been someone who dreamed big, but this felt different. Travel wasn’t merely an escape or a hobby—it was a calling, one I was determined to answer. The idea of packing up my apartment in Los Angeles, leaving behind everything I knew, and setting off on a journey with no clear end date was both terrifying and exhilarating. I was ready to dive in headfirst. And that’s when Wander’n was born.

The concept was simple: to showcase the world authentically, through an unbiased lens, with minimal dialogue. I didn’t want to create a typical travel show full of clichés or perfect moments. I wanted to capture the raw beauty of the world, the untold stories of the people I met, and the unspoken experiences that make travel so transformative. It was my way of giving back—offering others a window into the world from a perspective they might not otherwise see.

I threw myself into every aspect of Wander’n—designing logos, brainstorming concepts, and sketching out the vision. I poured hours into making the show feel as personal and genuine as possible. When I finally began uploading videos, I felt a spark of hope. The feedback was incredible. People from all over the world shared how much they loved seeing places they’d never been or learning about experiences they hadn’t considered. Some commented, “I’m living through you,” or “I now know what this place is because of you.” My favorite message was simple: “Keep going.” It reminded me that I was making an impact, that my dream was becoming something real.

But despite the positive feedback, Wander’n faced significant challenges. Creating content, finding a rhythm, and building an audience proved to be harder than I imagined. There were days when it felt like I was pouring everything I had—emotionally, physically, financially—into the show, only to see little return. But I refused to give up. There was no other option. The thought of returning to a “normal” life felt like failure, and I wasn’t ready to accept that. So I pressed on, fueled by the belief that with enough time and effort, something would click.

I traveled to 29 countries, each one marking a new chapter in my journey. I met extraordinary people—locals and fellow travelers alike. I heard their stories, shared meals with them, and connected in ways I hadn’t expected. These moments became the heart of Wander’n. Yet, as I pushed further into the project, the harsh reality began to set in. Wander’n wasn’t growing the way I had envisioned. I reached out to travel companies, influencers, and brands, hoping to secure partnerships that would elevate the show, but nothing materialized. The silence from potential collaborators was deafening.

It was crushing. What had started as a passion project had become my life. The dream of becoming a full-time traveler and creator seemed to be slipping away, and with it, the very sense of self I had built around it.

Now, I’m faced with the harsh reality of returning home and searching for a job. (Which, honestly, isn’t going well either.) It breaks my heart. I’ve never wanted something to work more than I wanted Wander’n to succeed, and seeing that it hasn’t, while knowing I have to let go, is overwhelming.

But as I sit here, trying to make sense of everything, I realize that perhaps failure isn’t the end of the story. Maybe it’s just a chapter I didn’t expect—a necessary pause that forces you to reassess, to breathe, and to reimagine what’s next.

Wander’n didn’t become the global sensation I had hoped for, but it’s not a wasted journey. The people I met, the lessons I learned, and the moments that took my breath away—those will stay with me long after the cameras are off. And as for the future? I don’t know exactly what it holds. The world is still vast and accessible, and that sense of possibility hasn’t faded. It’s just waiting for me to find the next path.

But before I move forward, I want to ask: How do you move past failure when things don’t turn out as planned?

Wander'n: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLqVryKT9RNcjFBrgVurDjaloocDWMJmz6

The Undocumented Mexico Trip 🇲🇽

It all started during a trip to San Diego for a comedy show at Comedy Heights. I was traveling with my Jamaican friend, Ryan and my East Coast buddy, Steve. We arrived in the early afternoon and hopped on the metro, heading to our hotel. We were kind of lost—but in a good way—because we had hours to kill before our show that night.

While on the train, I pulled out my phone, opened Maps, and searched for our hotel. (I don’t remember the name.) What I do remember is seeing the Mexican border on the map. Jokingly, I turned to Ryan and Steve and said, “We should go to Mexico.” Steve laughed, but Ryan, a military guy with travel experience and a passport, said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Steve and I were travel rookies—neither of us even had a passport. We started debating the logistics out loud on the train, figuring it was unlikely we could pull it off. That’s when a fellow passenger chimed in.

“You don’t need a passport to go to Mexico,” he said. “People do it all the time. Just head to the entrance near 7/11.”

We were stunned into silence, mulling it over. Before we could decide, our train stop was announced, and we got off to check into our hotel.

The hotel was decent—comfy beds, snacks in the fridge, and an amazing view. From the window, we could see the Mexican border. Steve and I looked at each other with wide eyes. “We should really go to Mexico.” It was a bigger deal for us than for Ryan, who’d already been all over the place.

But first, it was showtime. We got ready, called a ride, and headed to the sold-out venue. The room was packed, buzzing with energy. We saw comedians we knew from Los Angeles, got free drinks for performing, and felt like kings. Ryan performed first and crushed it. Then I went up, and Steve closed out the night.

After the show, we celebrated with the audience and other comedians—drinks, laughs, and a bit of smoke. By midnight, we were thoroughly buzzed and headed back to the hotel.

When we got to our room, the window was still open, and the lights from the Mexican border glowed brightly. That’s when it hit us again. We looked at each other and, in unison, said, “We’re going to Mexico tonight.”

Crossing the Border

Excited and nervous, we left the hotel and started walking. As we neared the 7/11 the guy on the train mentioned, we decided to pop in for snacks. I got candy, my favorite (Sour Patch Kids), while the guys grabbed chips and sodas. At the counter, we drunkenly asked the cashier, “What’s the best way to cross the border?”

He gave some instructions, but what stuck with me was: “Don’t go where all the lights are.” Naturally, as soon as we stepped outside, we walked straight toward the lights.

It was around 1 a.m. and the path to the border was surreal—lit up, lined with fences and barbed wire. Steve was starting to get nervous, but I trusted Ryan. He was military-trained, had travel experience, and wouldn’t let anything happen to us.

Finally, we reached customs. The guards, armed and imposing, asked for our passports. Ryan handed his over, but Steve and I only had our driver’s licenses.

“Where are your passports?”“We don’t have them.”The guards raised their eyebrows. “Who do you know here?”

“No one.”

“Why are you here?”

“We heard y’all have cheap drinks…”

One guard chuckled. “Oh, so you guys want to party? Are you trying to go to Hong Kong?”

“China?!” we blurted, confused.“No, Hong Kong,” he insisted, laughing.

Reluctantly, we said, “Sure.”

“Alright, $20 each.”

We handed over the money, and the guards waved us through. Suddenly, we were in Tijuana.

A Night in Tijuana

It was dark and eerily quiet. None of our phones worked—Steve started panicking, but Ryan stayed calm. Luckily, Ryan’s phone had international service, and we managed to call an Uber to take us to “Hong Kong.” When the price came up as 500, Steve and I freaked out.

“FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!”Ryan laughed. “That’s pesos, bro. It’s like 20 bucks.” Relief washed over us.

The ride felt surreal. We passed a woman grilling hotdogs on the highway and a guy sprinting across in sandals. “This isn’t America,” I thought.

When we arrived, we realized “Hong Kong” wasn’t a country—it was a strip club. And not just any strip club—it looked like the Las Vegas Strip condensed into three chaotic stories of dancers, drinks, and debauchery.

Inside, I got dragged into a dance I didn’t want, made the mistake of kissing the dancer, and Ryan scolded me: “Bro, she’s been servicing men all day!” Horrified, I stuck to hanging out with the guys after that.

Eventually, we realized we’d lost Steve. Just as we were about to panic, he reappeared, grinning. “Man, she was so fine!”

We decided to grab some food—tacos, pupusas, hot dogs—but halfway there, Steve smacked his forehead. “I left my phone!”

Back to Hong Kong we went. Steve searched high and low but came back empty-handed. Ryan wasn’t surprised: “Told you it was gone.”

Heading Home

Defeated, we called another Uber back to the U.S. border. At customs, the officer questioned how we’d entered Mexico without passports. After a brief lecture, he let us through with a stern warning: “Don’t do that again.”

By 5 a.m., we were back in America, exhausted and exhilarated. It was a wild, spontaneous night—and my first trip abroad.

Mexico Vlog : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_z6rwbz_eg