Truth be told, I hate cardio.
If I wanted to run, I could just go outside and get a couple of miles in like I used to. But almost every Sunday—unless I have an audition—I drag myself to OrangeTheory. I pick the Tread 50 workout, and I get it done. Not because I love it, but because there’s something about how it works that keeps me coming back.
HOW ORANGETHEORY WORKS (AND WHY I CARE ABOUT SPLAT POINTS)
If you’ve never done an OrangeTheory class, here’s the short version: everyone wears a heart rate monitor. It tracks which “zone” your heart is working in—gray, blue, green, orange, or red. The goal is to spend at least 12 minutes in the orange or red zones. That’s when you start collecting what they call Splat Points.
Those zones trigger something called EPOC (excess post-exercise oxygen consumption), which basically means your body keeps burning calories after class. The more time you spend in those zones, the more Splat Points you earn. And yes, everyone’s name and stats are up on a screen the entire time.
I don’t know who Joe or Susan or John are—but I see their numbers. And I have never, ever left that room with someone having more Splat Points than me.
Today? I left with 42.
The closest to me was 28.
I’m not competing with them exactly. I’m competing with the idea that someone else might have outworked me. If they can do it, I can do it. And if I’m going to be there, sweating and miserable, you better believe I’m leaving with the highest number. Maybe they’ll have to haul me out on a stretcher—but I’m not stopping. That’s just who I am.
WHERE THAT DRIVE COMES FROM (OR WHERE IT STARTED SHOWING UP)
Or… maybe that’s who I’ve become.
I don’t know if it’s genetic—some deep thread of will passed down from Armenian Genocide survivors who had no choice but to endure—or if it was forged in me, reinforced and amplified during my time in the military. Maybe it’s both. But I know this: when I walk into any challenge—whether it’s a treadmill, an audition, or something that risks breaking me—I don’t plan on stopping. You won’t see me give up.
That drive doesn’t come from some romantic idea of competition. Even in acting, where the landscape has shifted from crowded waiting rooms to solo self-tapes, that same fire kicks in. But back when we did sit together—spaced out, waiting to be called in—I’d glance around and think: They all have their stories. Sure. But so do I. And mine? Mine includes moving countries. Leaving my family. Scraping by. Struggling. Staying.
And I don’t walk into that room with any softness in my intention. I don’t mean I want to annihilate anyone, but my mindset is simple: They might as well go home. Because no one else is going to do what I’m about to do.
Maybe that’s military programming. But it clicked before that too.
THE MOMENT IT ALL CLICKED: CHIN-UPS AND A MASTER BOMBARDIER
I’ll never forget boot camp.
There were a hundred things I could do, but one thing I couldn’t: chin-ups. After the first one, my arms would give out. My biceps were puny, my body shaking. And still—I never let go. Never dropped. Never stopped trying.
One day, as I was still dangling there trying to get that elusive second pull-up, a Master Bombardier walked by. Without a word, he hooked his shoulder under me just enough to give me the smallest lift—just enough of a push to get me over the bar.
That was it. That moment. It wasn’t about the rep. It was about the effort. He saw I wasn’t quitting. And that mattered.
From that moment on, the result was secondary. What counted was that I never stop trying.
WHEN I SHOW UP
When I show up, it’s not just ambition.
Behind me are generations of survivors—
and their will to survive.
That’s probably why I never stop.
Because my ancestors never did.
Stopping wasn’t an option—it meant massacre at the hands of the Turks.
They survived – and thrived.
So do I.
