There is a specific kind of quiet that follows a decade of “no.” In my new memoir, Dare I Say It, I look back at the snapshots of a life that felt, for a long time, like it was standing still. From 1973 photos with my brother Ben to school portraits on Sydney’s North Shore, the journey has been a study in neuroplasticity—the brain’s incredible ability to rewire itself after years of chronic professional stress and lost identity.
For ten years in Hollywood, I was “flunking auditions.” I was a ghost in a town of mirrors. What kept me anchored was a profound “social intelligence” and the bond with my “North Shore girl,” Nicole Kidman. We met at fifteen, navigating the Australian film industry together. Nicole’s early success wasn’t a threat; it was a biological mirror.
She provided the “executive encouragement” I needed to leap toward Los Angeles. It was a lesson in the power of secure attachment; sometimes, we only see our own light when it’s reflected back by a friend.
Then came the “neurological awakening.” In 2001, David Lynch saw something in me that the rest of the industry had ignored. He plucked me from obscurity for Mulholland Drive, creating an environment of sensory storytelling where I could finally reach a state of self-actualization.
Today, at 56, I realize that “belated success” is often the most enduring. From working in a deli to the heights of King Kong and Birdman, the road was long, but it was mine. In 2026, I’ve learned that being “seen” isn’t about the red carpet; it’s about the resilience to keep showing up until the world catches up to the light you’ve carried all along.