I kept getting offered all this young adult stuff. I don't want

Hearken to the words of Dee Rees, the visionary filmmaker, who declared: “I kept getting offered all this young adult stuff. I don’t want to keep telling teen coming-of-age stories!” At first, these words may seem to speak only of cinema and the marketplace of scripts. Yet within them lies a truth far older than the moving picture: that the soul of the artist yearns not for repetition, but for growth; not for the same story told again, but for the unexplored realms that call the spirit onward.

For to be bound to the same tale, though it may be beloved by the people, is to risk the withering of one’s fire. The stories of youth, of coming-of-age, are precious indeed, for they capture the trembling steps of identity and the forging of the self. But Rees, who had already borne witness to such stories in her work, longed to move beyond. Her heart sought not only the rising of the youth into adulthood, but the struggles of the grown, the tragedies of history, the complexities of love, race, and power. Thus, her refusal was not a rejection of the young, but a yearning for breadth, for depth, for the full canvas of the human condition.

Think upon the story of Homer, whose Iliad and Odyssey shaped the Western imagination. Had Homer only told the tale of warriors becoming men, we would remember him less. But he chose to tell also of rage, of fate, of gods and wanderings, of the weariness of heroes longing for home. His greatness lay in refusing to be confined to a single theme. So too with Dee Rees: she resisted being caged by the industry’s desire to make her repeat the same song, for the true artist does not live by echo alone.

Her words also remind us of the dangers of pigeonholing, the act of forcing a voice into a narrow box. The world is eager to label: “You are the teller of this story, the singer of this song, the bearer of this one role.” Yet the human spirit is vast, as wide as the heavens. When we are told to remain in one place, to retell only one kind of tale, we are robbed of the fullness of our potential. Dee Rees’s resistance is therefore not just the cry of an artist, but the cry of every soul who refuses to be reduced to a fragment of themselves.

This struggle is not foreign to history. Recall the life of Leonardo da Vinci, who was not content to be merely a painter. Though the world would have praised him endlessly for portraits alone, he turned also to inventions, anatomy, engineering, and the mysteries of flight. Some called him distracted, but he was in truth refusing to be trapped. Had he only painted, his genius would have been diminished. Likewise, Rees sought to expand her art into the larger, messier stories of humanity, not just the narrow confines of adolescence.

From her words comes a lesson for all: do not let the world decide what you are allowed to create, to pursue, or to become. Resist the comfort of repeating what others praise you for, and instead seek the unknown that calls your spirit. Growth is not found in repetition, but in risk. Practical wisdom follows: when others try to define you, gently but firmly resist; when offered only the same tasks, the same roles, the same expectations, ask yourself whether your heart longs for more—and if it does, pursue it boldly.

Thus, Dee Rees’s cry is not a dismissal of the teen stories, but a call to all of us: tell the larger story, the deeper story, the one that has not yet been told. For life is not only about beginnings, but about endurance, struggle, loss, and triumph beyond youth. So let us learn: do not be content with the same chapter repeated, but write the next chapter with courage. In this way, like Dee Rees, you will not only live, but create in fullness, refusing the cage and embracing the vast horizon of your destiny.