What My Favorite Movies Reveal About My Becoming

I’ve been thinking lately about the stories I return to in my quiet moments. The films I rewatch when the house settles into its late-day hush and the books I instinctively recommend when a friend asks what she should read next. It’s funny how we create our own patterns without even realizing it! No matter where I am in life, no matter how much is shifting around me, I tend to reach for the same stories, almost as if my soul has a designated place where it goes for comfort, grounding, and truth.

For years, I didn’t question it. These were just “my movies,” “my books,” the ones that felt like home. But recently, I caught myself wondering why. Why these particular films? Why these narratives? Why do I always settle into the same emotional landscapes when I’m alone and unguarded? What is it about Brooklyn, or The Revenant, or The King, or Pachinko that keeps calling me back?

So I began paying attention. I let myself trace the thread from Brooklyn to Pachinko, from The Revenant to The World to Come, and I realized there is absolutely nothing random about the stories I love. They reflect something back to me — the way I’ve lived, the way I’ve survived, the way I’ve rebuilt, the way I carry legacy, the way I return to myself. Each of these stories contains a small piece of the woman I’ve been and the woman I’m still becoming.

This post is my random attempt to name that, to gather all the familiar stories into one place and listen to what they reveal about my me.

Brooklyn + My Own Crossing

If there’s a film that feels closest to my bones, it’s Brooklyn. There is something about Eilis’s journey that mirrors a truth I didn’t have words for until later in life. I think about the scene where she cries quietly at work, freshly arrived in Brooklyn, longing for home and questioning everything she sacrificed to be there. That moment lives inside me. It’s the ache of entering a new chapter, the loneliness of transition, the doubt that comes with building a life from scratch.

Then there’s her time back in Ireland and the unexpected sweetness, the possibility of a different future, the ease of slipping back into a familiar version of herself. It’s tempting. It’s warm. It’s comforting. And yet, she feels that inner tug: this isn’t the life you fought for.

But the moment that grips me every single time is when she returns to America and her husband sees her standing there, choosing the life she built with her own hands. It’s not just a reunion. It’s a claiming.

I’ve lived all three versions of Eilis.
The girl who left everything familiar.
The woman suspended between what was and what could be.
And the woman who came home to herself.

The Revenant + My Wilderness Years

It surprises people when I say The Revenant is one of my favorite films, because on the surface, it’s masculine and brutal. But beneath the violence, it’s a story about a man who loses everything and refuses to give up. He crawls through the cold, through despair, through hunger and exhaustion… he even fights a bear! And he does this not out of anger, but out of devotion and duty.

What draws me in is his determination. The way he survives quietly, introspectively, with no one to share this moments with and no audience to applaud him. It feels almost spiritual to me, like the lone journey through a wilderness season during which no one sees your suffering but God.

I understand that kind of survival. I’ve lived through chapters where I had to keep going with nothing but grit and prayer. Where I became stronger not because I wanted to, but because life required it. Watching him push through the snow feels like remembering all the long nights I pushed through my own storms.

The World to Come + Quiet Suffering

There’s a quiet sorrow that fills The World to Come, a stillness that feels almost sacred. When I watch it, I feel the ache of the women — their loneliness, their unspoken tragedies, the weight of living in a time when women were expected to endure hardship with grace and silence. As a feminist and as a woman who has carried her own burdens, that kind of endurance sits heavy with me.

But what I find beautiful is how these two women find each other and serve as a flicker of warmth for each other in an otherwise cold existence. They find connection in a world that offers them so little comfort. And the quiet moments between them remind me of the power of stillness in my own life. I love quietness because it strips everything down to what’s real. It shows you who you are underneath the noise.

The King + the Weight of Duty

The King resonates with me in a completely different way. Watching a young man grow from reckless to regal, from impulsive to intentional, feels like watching someone choose responsibility because it’s what their calling requires. His integrity, the weight of expectation on his shoulders, and the way he rises into it — all of that feels familiar to me.

As a first-generation college graduate, as the daughter of parents who believed deeply in my future, and as a woman who carries her family’s hopes quietly inside her, duty has always been layered. Sometimes it feels heavy. Sometimes it feels noble. But eventually, it becomes part of who you are, like an internal compass shaped by love, sacrifice, and ancestry.

Watching The King reminds me that excellence is not an accident. It’s a choice made again and again, even when you’re tired. Even when it’s hard. Even when no one else fully understands the weight you carry.

Dirt Music + Solitude

In Dirt Music, a man disappears into the wilderness to return to himself. He isolates not to hide (well…maybe a little), but to heal. And there is something deeply resonant in that, in the idea that solitude can be a kind of medicine, a reset, a path back home.

I connect most with that sense of return. I know what it's like to go quiet, to pull away from the world just enough to hear your own truth again. I know what it feels like to step out of your life so you can come back to it with clarity. That story reminds me that healing often happens away from the crowd, in the corners of your spirit where no one else can go.

Joy Luck Club + Women’s Journeys

Joy Luck Club holds a different kind of truth for me. It’s not necessarily the mother-daughter relationships that draw me in (though the motherhood theme present is a resounding one). It’s the emotional journeys of the women themselves. The quiet triumphs. The private heartbreaks. The ways they rise from things no one ever fully sees.

It makes me think of my own mother and the struggles she carried, the resilience she practiced, the parts of her story I will never fully understand. It reminds me that women have always done the hard things without applause. And that our paths are often shaped by the sacrifices of the women who came before us.

Pride & Prejudice + Growing Toward Each Other

There’s a comfort in the slow burn of Pride & Prejudice. The tension. The misunderstandings. The steady unfolding of character. Elizabeth and Darcy begin as two people who clash, who misinterpret, and who stand stubbornly in their own flaws, but then they grow. And they do so slowly, quietly, and deliberately. They become new versions of themselves, and because of that, they become right for each other.

I love imagining a Mr. Darcy, of course. But more than that, I love watching two people evolve toward one another. The way maturity, honesty, and growth make room for real love. It feels similar to what I’ve experienced in my second marriage: a love built on wisdom, not fantasy.

Pachinko + Living in the Margins

Sunja’s resilience in Pachinko feels familiar, even though our stories are worlds apart. She sees everything, understands everything, and moves with a quiet intelligence that reminds me of the expectation placed on minorities to excel, and rise, and make it all worth something.

Her restraint, strength, and relentless perseverance feel like a kind of emotional inheritance. Not because my ancestry mirrors hers, but because I understand the deeply ingrained need to do well. To overcome. And to honor the people who got you here.

Evergreen + Parallel Lives

Belva Plain’s Evergreen lingers with me because of Anna and the two possible lives she straddles — the one she could have had and the one she ultimately chooses. I think every woman knows that ache in some form. The sense of standing at a fork in the road, painfully aware that choosing one path means abandoning another version of yourself.

I’ve lived that tension. There are chapters of my life that feel like alternate universes. Versions of myself I could’ve become. Futures I didn’t walk into. And then there’s the woman I chose to be through pain, healing, and faith.

Evergreen understands that quiet ache and the beauty of choosing with clarity.

What These Stories Have Shown Me About Myself

When I settle into these films and books, I’m usually alone, unhurried, and content. I don’t go to them for escape. I go to them for affirmation and understanding. For an entertaining reminder of who I am beneath the roles I hold and the seasons I move through.

They remind me that:

Becoming a new woman is holy work.
Silence is a teacher.
Love can be chosen and earned.
Women’s stories are layered and resilient.
Duty can be heavy and beautiful.
Solitude can save you.
Return is possible.
I have lived multiple lives and survived them all.

In the end, these aren’t just the stories I love. They are the stories that understand me.

They gather the girl I was, the woman I’ve become, and the one I’m still growing toward. They lay them side by side like portraits — quiet, introspective, filled with truth. And they show me that every version has been worthy.

And maybe that’s why I keep returning to them. Because in their pages and frames, I find myself again and again, a little more whole each time.

Which stories do you keep returning to?