Years ago, the filmmaker Mary Bronstein’s daughter, who was seven at the time, became extremely ill. Bronstein brought her to San Diego for treatment, leaving her husband home in New York. “We had to live as roommates in this really shitty hotel,” Bronstein recalled. “There was nowhere to go. I felt very trapped.” Every night, after her daughter went to sleep at eight o’clock, Bronstein would hole up in the bathroom with food and a cheap bottle of wine, working through what she now calls an existential crisis. It wasn’t just the stress and the isolation—she also dreaded what awaited her on the other side, once her daughter got better and Bronstein returned to her previously scheduled life. “What am I? Who am I? What am I doing?” she would ask herself. She was there for eight months.

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