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There are many worlds, yet they share the same sky—one sky, one destiny." – Kingdom Hearts. In this series, the protagonist, Sora, visits numerous worlds. Though I’ve never left Earth, I’ve lived in many worlds myself. I’ve stayed in several foster homes and changed schools about seventeen times. Each new home came with its own rules, cultures, and customs.
I became a seasoned traveler. I could make friends anywhere, but I struggled to keep them due to my limited social skills. Sometimes, my social awkwardness—and my unfortunate genetics that made me the shortest kid in my grade—made me a target. In second grade, I recall coming home daily with bruises from being bullied in the after-school program. I told myself it was okay because I could endure it. If I was the one getting hurt, maybe someone else wouldn’t have to suffer.
Eventually, I met a family who adopted me, introducing me to yet another new world. For the first time, I had a supportive father figure who believed my opinions mattered. With this newfound support, I pursued my passion for performance. Ultimately, I was offered a one-year contract with an agent, on the condition that we move to Los Angeles.
My parents chose to leave their home and life behind to support me as I chased my dreams. The confidence they instilled in me has been priceless. They taught me not only how to work hard to make a dream come true but also how to use every resource I have to help others along the way.
Living across these worlds taught me many lessons: there are no one-sided stories, rarely a single "right way," and seldom a clear right or wrong. We fear judgment, but acceptance brings support. Under one sky, our worlds share more common ground than we imagine. I’ve realized I want the best—not just for myself, but for my friends, family, and everyone.
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Everyone has a defining moment that shapes who they are. Mine was the last time I saw my mom.
Police sirens wailed outside. My mother pulled me into the closet and closed the door behind us. Holding my hands, she looked me in the eyes and whispered that she would never leave me, that family sticks together and doesn’t lie. Her voice trembled as she said, “Jeremy, don’t trust people—” but she stopped herself. Taking a shaky breath, she added, “Not even me. I—” before the police shouted and stormed inside, slamming the closet door open and announcing their presence.
Except for the trembling in our hands, she remained still. Tears ran down her face, but she kept her gaze locked on mine, as if trying to freeze that moment in time. Yet the harder she tried, the more difficult it became to look me in the eye and believe the love she had for me could outweigh the guilt she felt for leaving me repeatedly. That guilt hung heavy between us as her hands slipped from mine. Her last word to me was, “‘Ohana.”
That word—‘ohana—means family. We learned it from the movie Lilo & Stitch—the only movie my mother could ever afford to gift me. For its characters, ‘ohana means "No one is left behind." During the dark times that followed, I dismissed her final word as an empty promise. She made that promise just before vanishing from my life, so I clung instead to the rest of her advice: trust no one. It made sense then. Everyone lies. Everyone leaves.
But that wasn’t the end of my story. As I grew, I found a deeper meaning in that word. Rather than mistrust and deception, I chose acceptance. If fear of abandonment drove me, then it likely drove others too. So instead of turning away from people out of fear, I chose to stay by their side, regardless of labels like "sick," "poor," or "perfect." I decided to shape my future with optimism and strength—to live ‘ohana as I understood it.
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My life before fatherhood was divided into two parts: before adoption and after adoption.
I started in a metal trailer with a broken wire fence and a red dirt lawn somewhere in Sylmar, Los Angeles. Before adoption, I moved between foster homes and my biological mother. This meant attending many different classrooms with inconsistent curricula, creating an unstable educational experience. No one had the time to identify or address the gaps in my learning or explain the importance of education.
At fourteen, my mother was murdered. I reached out to the reporter who covered her story and learned that a woman, who wasn’t my biological aunt but whom my mom considered her sister, had also been in contact. This woman sent me my only inheritance: photos of my biological mother—few of which included me—and a collection of letters my mother had written to her.
I discovered my mother had worked for Warner Brothers Studios and was a singer at Universal. She dated Superboy’s Gerard Christopher in 1989 and was apparently friends with Whoopi Goldberg during Strong Medicine. The letters confirmed my suspicions: my mother’s education was no better than mine. At twenty-seven, she was functionally illiterate. This explained why my early education was so lacking.
The second half of my life began when I was adopted at age nine. I still remember the awe I felt pulling into the neighborhood—my first time in a gated community. Walking into the house, I was overwhelmed by its grandeur: a two-story living room, a backyard with an ocean and a boat. But more than the luxury was the emphasis on education.
For the first time, education mattered. My new lessons included daily fluency exercises where my parents timed how long it took me to read an excerpt—once a week, five times a week. I had a game room and a library full of books.
I was the "bad kid" who stayed up late, reading by nightlight in the corner. But can you blame me? It was a completely new world, and I was fascinated.
I realized my early lack of literacy education left me with poor grammar skills. I've spent countless hours working to overcome the effects of my early educational gaps. Additionally, as a student with a 504 Learning Disability, I had to work very hard to meet certain challenges.
I was thrilled to be admitted to Los Angeles High School for the Arts. Because of my involvement in a boy band at 17, I attended OFY to accommodate my busy schedule.
During this time, I began writing scripts. My first-year teacher, Jeremy Guskin, told me something that stuck with me: "You want to be seen? Don’t wait to be cast. Start writing your own material." By the time I left for college, I had led four self-produced productions. I don’t really count directing a short film for my church in fifth grade because it was cringe-worthy, but I suppose that was my first directing credit—making it five by that point.
My past hasn’t always been easy, but rising above challenges has taught me invaluable lessons that I apply daily as a father.
In 2018, at 21, I became a father. My fiancée, Ariana Parker, gave birth to a 6-pound baby boy—a shorty like his dad—and we named him Ezra Jeremiah Herzig. A year later, I finished drafting my first book.
In 2019, I completed my book, My Heroine Mother. It is a farewell letter to my mom, Chandra Nobles (or Chandra Moore, as I knew her). The book chronicles my journey through foster care, adoption, and saying goodbye.
I always planned to return to Los Angeles but decided to extend my hiatus to care for my family.
