The Florida Project: A Personal Reflection on Living Both Sides
No other film has struck a chord in me the way The Florida Project has. It’s not just a movie—it’s a reflection of my life, of the lives of so many people who live in the shadows of the world’s fantasies. I don’t think any other story has managed to cut so deep into me, to show the raw reality of surviving in a world that doesn’t care about you, while also capturing the fragile wonder of childhood. What makes it hit so close to home isn’t just that I was born and raised in Florida, it’s that I have lived both sides of the life it shows: the joy of a child who sees the world as full of promise and adventure, and the painful, suffocating struggle of an adult who has learned the hard way that those dreams are just illusions.
As a child, I saw the world the way Moonee did—unfiltered, full of possibility, and bursting with life. I ran wild in the streets, felt the sun on my skin, and never thought twice about whether the world would let me keep my joy. Florida, for me, was a place of freedom, a place where I could create my own world. I would find magic in the smallest things: a broken-down motel, the corner store, the cracked sidewalk. Even when life didn’t give me much, I found something to smile about. There was no limit to what could be. But as I grew older, I found myself trapped in the reality of Halley’s life. The same Florida that had once been my playground became a cage, and I, like Halley, was struggling—fighting tooth and nail just to survive, watching the dreams I once had slip away, all the while grasping desperately for something, anything, to hold onto.
Watching The Florida Project brought back the pain and the raw truth of growing up in Florida—of living in the cracked, forgotten edges of a world that only saw you as a statistic, a face in the crowd. The film captures the fragile dichotomy between the dream Florida and the real Florida—the postcard version and the one people like me lived in. On one hand, there’s the sun-drenched beaches, the magical theme parks, the glittering promises of an eternal vacation. It’s the Florida of fantasy, the one that tourists come to experience, and it is dazzling in its allure. But what no one tells you is that there’s another Florida, the one where people like me are left behind—forgotten, invisible, and forced to survive on the margins. This was the Florida that tourists never saw—the one where the cracks in the walls are as deep as the cracks in our hearts, where dreams died in the heat of the sun. Florida was supposed to be a dream, but for people like me, it was a nightmare we couldn’t wake up from.
I didn’t grow up on the beaches or in the resorts. I grew up in motels that were never meant to be homes. These places were supposed to be temporary, a pit stop for people on their way to vacation, not the places where families made lives. But that’s exactly where we lived—my family, like Halley and Moonee, existing in the cracks of a world that had forgotten us. The motels weren’t magical; they were just the only places we could afford. I remember the feeling of waking up every day in a room that wasn’t mine, in a place that never felt like home. There was always a sense of impermanence, like everything around me was just a temporary illusion, ready to vanish at any moment. And yet, we made do. We had no choice.
In watching Moonee run wild, finding joy in the cracks of her world, I saw my own childhood reflected back at me. As a child, you don’t fully grasp the weight of the situation, the reality of your circumstances. What you understand is the freedom, the wonder, and the small joys that can fill the void when there’s so little to hold onto. Moonee’s carefree adventures—the way she sneaks into the pool, the way she laughs without care—reminded me of my own innocent moments of defiance, of running barefoot in the streets, of seeking out little pieces of happiness amidst all the hardship. Even in the face of poverty, I found magic in the world. It was the kind of magic that only a child can see, the kind that’s born out of pure joy and an unshakable sense of freedom.
But as the film progresses, it pulls back the curtain on the real hardship that exists behind the smiles of Moonee and the joy she carries with her. It shows the reality that Halley lives—a life of constant struggle, a life where joy is a luxury, not a given. I connected with Halley in a way I didn’t expect. Watching her fight to keep her daughter happy, watching her make the difficult, often morally gray choices that come with survival, made me reflect on the same choices I’ve had to make. As a child, I didn’t understand the burden my parents carried, the weight of the choices they had to make just to keep food on the table. But as an adult, I know that burden intimately. I’ve lived Halley’s life, the life of a person forced to make impossible decisions, to scrape by, to juggle survival with the need to preserve some semblance of dignity. I know what it feels like to put on a brave face while the world weighs you down, to keep pushing forward even when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. Like Halley, I've been caught between wanting to shield those I love from the harsh reality while still being entrenched in it.
Halley’s character is not portrayed as a villain or a saint. She’s human—flawed, exhausted, and sometimes desperate, but ultimately driven by an unbreakable love for her child. Watching her navigate the world of survival, trying to keep her daughter safe while also dealing with her own desperation, brought back memories of my own life. I’ve been in that place—trapped in the cycle of survival, constantly worried about the next bill, the next eviction, the next misstep that might destroy everything. It’s a feeling that eats at you, makes you question whether there is any escape, any hope, beyond the weight of living paycheck to paycheck.
The Florida Project doesn’t sugarcoat the reality of survival. It shows you the emotional toll of living on the edge, the exhaustion, the mistakes made in the name of survival. But it also shows the tender moments between mother and daughter, the love that persists even in the hardest of times. Watching Halley’s devotion to Moonee, her fierce protection of her happiness, reminded me of my own parents—the sacrifices they made, the times they worked through their exhaustion just to give me something to smile about. I understand now, in a way I never did as a child, the weight of what they carried, and I have a deep respect for that.
The Florida Project is a meditation on survival, on resilience, and on the fleeting moments of joy that keep you going when everything else seems to be falling apart. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is beauty to be found. The film doesn’t offer easy answers, doesn’t wrap up in a neat little package, but it does offer something far more valuable: a reflection of life as it really is. It shows you the strength it takes to keep going when you’re living on the edge, when everything seems stacked against you, when the dreams you once held seem like distant memories.
Watching the film again, I realized that it’s not just about poverty. It’s about the human experience—the universal desire to survive, to love, to protect, and to find joy in whatever small way we can. The Florida Project taught me to appreciate the sacrifices my parents made, to recognize the love that powered their every decision, and to understand the quiet strength that comes with pushing through the hardest parts of life.
Thank you, Sean Baker, for making this film. For telling this story. My story. For capturing the raw, unfiltered truth of lives that are often overlooked, for showing the beauty of survival in all its painful, messy, and unglamorous reality. You’ve given a voice to those of us who have spent our lives living in the margins, struggling to be seen, heard, and understood. You’ve honored the love and resilience that persist even when the world seems indifferent to our existence. The Florida Project will stay with me forever—not just as a film, but as a profound reminder of where I’ve been, of the scars I carry, and of the strength it takes to keep going when everything around you feels like it’s falling apart.
You’ve made me feel seen in a way I never thought possible. The sense of recognition was overwhelming—the joy of a child untainted by the weight of reality, the quiet desperation of a mother fighting to hold on to the fragments of a dream. Watching this film was like looking into a mirror I didn’t know existed. I will carry this story with me always, as a reminder of how far I’ve come, of the silent struggles I’ve survived, and the love that has never let me go.
Thank you, Sean, for giving us a chance to be heard, for sharing a story that connects with anyone who's had to fight to hold on to their humanity. I’m truly grateful for that.