I was ten years old, which meant I was no longer a little kid.
I was basically a professional.
So when Shake It Up announced the “Make Your Mark” competition, I didn’t see it as a fun little opportunity.
I saw it as my big break.
This was serious.
Career-defining.
This was Disney Channel discovering me, immediately putting me on TV, and launching the kind of future I was already mentally prepared for.
Obviously, I needed a cameraman.
“Dad, I need you to film something for me,” I said, already carrying the urgency of someone on a production schedule.
He looked at me cautiously.
“How long is this going to take?”
I ignored the question entirely.
“We need multiple locations.”
That’s when he knew he was in too deep.
First stop: the dining room.
I pushed the chairs out of the way like I had done this a hundred times before. At ten, I had just enough self-awareness to care about things like framing and presentation, but not enough to realize I was still in my own house, in socks, about to perform like it was a sold-out arena.
“Make sure you can see my whole body,” I told him.
“I am.”
“Like… the whole thing.”
He nodded, doing his best, while I got into position.
I didn’t even wait for music.
I counted myself in like a professional.
“5, 6, 7, 8…”
And I went all in.
I had choreography—loosely.
I had facial expressions—extremely intense.
And I had the kind of confidence that could carry an entire performance even when technique absolutely could not.
The second it ended, I ran over.
“Let me see.”
We watched it back, and I studied it like a judge on a reality competition.
“Okay. I need more energy. Let’s do it again.”
Dad just sighed softly and lifted the camera.
Next location: the front yard.
Because clearly one setting was not enough for someone at my level.
I walked outside like I was stepping onto a real set.
Neighbors?
Irrelevant.
Cars passing by?
Ambient production value.
I was focused.
“Stand over there,” I said, pointing to a new angle. “I need more space for this part.”
“This part?”
“Yes,” I said, like it should have been obvious.
The ground was uneven.
The sun was in my eyes.
I definitely stumbled once.
But by ten years old, I already understood one of life’s most useful lessons:
Mistakes don’t matter if you keep going.
Halfway through, I literally hyped myself up out loud.
“Come on, Peyton. More energy!”
Dad laughed behind the camera, which I chose to interpret as professional encouragement.
Then came the final location:
The backyard.
This is where things got artistic.
For reasons I still cannot explain, I decided this section needed emotion.
Depth.
A storyline.
What storyline?
No idea.
But I committed like it was Oscar-worthy.
The movements got slower.
More dramatic.
I started reaching, turning, pausing like I was in the emotional montage section of a music video.
At one point I just stopped and stared off into the distance like I had survived something life-altering.
“Okay,” I said, catching my breath. “That one was really good.”
Dad lowered the camera.
“You’ve said that every time.”
“Because I keep improving,” I shot back.
And I truly believed we had filmed something incredible.
Not just good.
Competition-winning.
I could already picture it being uploaded, people watching it, someone at Disney seeing it and thinking:
Yes. That one. That’s the girl.
“Do you think they’ll pick me?” I asked.
Dad smiled, amused but also a little proud.
“I think they’d be lucky to.”
And at ten years old, directing my dad across three separate “locations,” performing like my future depended on it, and taking every second far more seriously than necessary…
I believed him.
Looking back, maybe it wasn’t my Disney Channel debut.
But it was absolutely my first directorial era.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
