Two Truths and a Lie

Thank you, Molly Ringwald

Dear Kula Diaries,

Whenever I play Two Truths and a Lie, I always pick the same three things:

1. I don’t know how to ride a bicycle.

2. I once worked as a railroad police officer.

3. I was in a movie once.

Most people guess the lie is the movie. But if you’ve spent more than five minutes with me, the answer is obvious: I do, in fact, know how to ride a bicycle. In fact, as someone who can relatively proficiently ride a unicycle, I think it’s safe to say I’ve got two wheels covered.

A few weeks ago, during a meditation, a memory of that movie experience resurfaced. It’s one of the most vivid and poignant memories of my childhood—and in reflecting on it, I realized something: it was the first time in my life I experienced a feeling of boundless abundance. A pure, unquestioned sense that the world was magical and overflowing with possibility… a feeling I’ve sometimes struggled to find in more grown-up corners of life.

I was in second grade when I was cast as an extra in the movie Betsy’s Wedding, starring Molly Ringwald. The movie tells the story of two families from different economic backgrounds and all the ridiculous shenanigans that lead up to a wedding. But in the end, it’s love—not wealth or appearances—that proves to be the most important thing.

The opportunity to be in the movie came through a classmate whose dad worked in Hollywood casting. A call went out to our Catholic school (St. Mary’s School in Wilmington, North Carolina), asking if any of the kids would be interested in being extras. We didn’t need costumes or props—we were told to just show up as we were… they wanted us in our school uniforms. The scene was simple: we’d walk across the street in a line, led by a nun, while another nun walked in the opposite direction, nodding in greeting. That was it. But to my second-grade self, it was everything: this was my big chance to be a part of something special. And… in case you hadn’t heard… Molly Ringwald…. THE MOLLY RINGWALD… was in the film. For the record, I never saw or met her. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t even there that day.

From the moment we arrived on set, we were treated like stars. A film assistant took our photos and explained they needed to record exactly how we looked in case anything had to be re-shot. I still remember every detail of my (predictable) outfit: my sideways ponytail, my clumpy forehead bangs, my backpack slung over one shoulder (because wearing both straps was uncool), and my oversized Catholic school uniform draping around me like an unhemmed curtain.

Then came the filming. We did take after take of our ‘scene’ — which involved crossing the street while a large boom vehicle moved into place. I was in awe of the amount of effort it took to film a 20-second scene of second graders walking behind a pretend nun. During the first few takes, we embodied the ‘serious Catholic school child’ persona (which is a façade) … but, rapidly, that deteriorated and we started to have fun with it. By the seventh or eighth take, our personalities bubbled up—we goofed off, added flair, got a little wild. I’m sure the final cut looked like chaos being held together by a (literal) prayer that was being uttered by a fake nun.

And then… there was the food spread.

At some point between takes, we were ushered back across the street to a holding area while we waited to see if we needed to film anything else. The ‘green room’ area had been set up in a somewhat dilapidated old school building that was awaiting renovation (note: asbestos abatement had not yet happened). When I turned that corner, it was like walking into heaven: candy bars (full-sized!), cakes, Oreos, sandwiches, veggie trays, chips, soda—you name it, it was there. As we eyed the spread eagerly, we were told we could have anything we wanted.

I still remember how it felt to reach for a Snickers bar and ask, hesitantly, if I could really have one. As I took in the overwhelming everythingess of that moment, I could barely make sense of the joy rushing through me. I had never felt so rich. Not in a material way—but in a magical… anything-is-possible kind of way.

And it didn’t end that day.

For the next few weeks, my grandparents called me almost every day. But instead of calling me by my nickname, Stacy, they started calling me Stacy the Movie Star. Inside, I beamed every single time. I was so proud of what I had been part of. I replayed that day in my mind over and over, soaking in the feeling of wonder and delight and significance. As a kid with a vivid imagination, I had always believed the world was full of possibility—and this experience of being in a real life movie, to me, was proof.

A few months later, a check arrived in the mail for my four hours on set. After taxes, it was $28.10. I was eight or nine years old, and I still remember the exact amount. It was more money than I had ever seen or had in my entire life. I stood in our driveway in North Carolina, staring at that paper check in awe. It was undeniable now: I really was a movie star.

As time went on, some of that sparkle began to fade. Slowly, the world started telling me different stories—about what was realistic, what was possible, what I could or couldn’t become. Instead of trusting that wide-open sense of infiniteness I had once felt so clearly, I began to internalize fear, scarcity, and self-doubt. Bit by bit, I let go of the magic.

And yet—I never forgot. Every single time I was invited to play that silly conversation starting game… Two Truths and a Lie… the movie story came back. And each time, it helped me remember that feeling. Even when I wasn’t consciously thinking about it specifically — I truly believe that it lingered quietly in the background… urging me on, even when I felt fearful or doubtful because people had told me, ‘the way things were’.

That day on set, those Oreos and that Snickers bar, the sheet cake and the street crossing scene—they live in me still. They are proof that there is something else going on here. Something deeper than chasing numbers or success. Something that can’t be measured by paychecks or prestige.

It reminds me of the movie Citizen Kane—the famous “Rosebud” moment. A man who is unimaginably wealthy dies with the heartbreaking realization that the one thing that gave him true joy and love in his life was not all the stuff or money he acquired, but a simple sled from his childhood. That tiny, ordinary object was a portal to a feeling of wholeness he never found again. For me, that portal was not a thing — but rather, this moment. Each time I replay it in my mind — to this very day — it summons a deep feeling of infinite love, connection and possibility.

Most of us realize that lesson too late. We spend our lives chasing more—more status, more security, more stuff—and end up worn out, disillusioned, and disconnected from what really matters. But I believe we can remember. We can return to those touchpoints of truth.

No matter what’s happening in my adult world—whether I’m feeling overwhelmed, uncertain, or swallowed by the pressure of running a business—nobody can take that experience from me. Nobody can take away the lavish food spread or the feeling of standing in the driveway holding $28.10. Nobody can strip me of the feeling of infiniteness that I carried in that moment.

As a business owner, I’ve since received checks much larger than that one. There are days when the sheer volume of what needs to be bought, built, or paid for feels crushing. I remember thinking, early on, that when Kula Cloth reached a certain amount of monthly sales, I’d finally feel abundant. And I hit that number—years ago. But the truth is? It didn’t change a thing. It just pushed the fear and doubt out to a different number… a new benchmark that I needed to achieve in order to feel, ‘better’.

My day on that movie set taught me more about running a business than anything else ever has. It showed me, with undeniable certainty, that I felt more abundant at nine years old with $28.10 in my hand than I ever did with thousands of dollars in my bank account.

Ironically enough, my parents never let me watch Betsey’s Wedding when I was a kid, because it was rated ‘R’. I was ‘that kid’ who would literally get up and walk out of a sleepover with friends because they were watching a PG-13 movie and, as I would loudly declare, “I’m not 13 yet.” As the decades passed… and even though I was very much an adult who, indeed, could watch an R-rated movie… I never watched it. I think, maybe, there was this part of me that wanted to hold onto the magic of that day in my heart — rather than watching the scene on the film. In some way, I knew that the experience of being in the movie would always be far more incredible than watching a few seconds of a clip on screen. And, yet, I still wondered. So, a few months ago… for the first time in my life… my husband and I decided to watch Betsey’s Wedding in its entirety. The movie itself is a bit lackluster, if I’m being honest… but it’s cute and quirky and very 1990’s vibey. And then, as quickly as it began… 94 minutes later… it was over.

After more than 35 years of not watching the movie that I had been in, I laughed out loud: my short scene had been cut. I wasn’t even in the movie.

In some way, this was the most fitting ending to the entire story — because, instead of that day being reduced to mere seconds of a flash across the screen of a bunch of second graders acting goofy… it could remain exactly as it had felt to me: a mystical, mythical day in which I had, indeed, been a movie star.

It’s a reminder that the world out there… or the world of movies… is not the keeper of my abundance. My business is not the keeper. No one is the keeper but me. Abundance is something I carry within. It’s something I can create—anytime, anywhere. I can close my eyes, picture that little girl on set, laugh at her clumpy bangs and too-big uniform, and become the richest person on Earth all over again. And from that place, I can create. I can give. I can remind others to look for that feeling within them too.

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Friends — thanks so much for being here this week, it was so much fun to reflect on this special memory — one that I cherish very much. I hope that you have a similar touchstone in your life that you can come back to again and again… the more time that we spend in these places of infiniteness, the more we can create that landscape for ourselves and others.

Sending you all so much love today, and all days!