An essay by Eva Victor on making 'Sorry, Baby,' the healing power of friendship and writing as an act of rebellion

THE IMAGE OF “SORRY, BABY” THAT I'VE held in my head since its inception is this person at their window, looking out, both terrified of what is out there and, at the same time, desperate to join that outside world.

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This person wants two opposing things at once: to move at a glacial pace, to never see another person again, and to reenter the world, to laugh, to reimmerse. So, instead of doing either, Agnes stands at the window, and as time moves on around her, she is inside, frozen.

There was a time in my life when I was looking for a film about going through a trauma that held my hand while I was watching it. I didn't want the film to scare me with violent images or harsh words that shocked my system and shut me down — I wanted the film to hug me tight without shying away from the pain of it all. I needed the film to care for me, the person who'd been through the difficult thing. I didn't need a film that existed to teach people how bad it is to go through a bad thing; I needed a film that existed to make me feel less alone.

I spent years thinking, how do you make a film that is marked by its absence of violence? The scene everyone is dreading and/or waiting for doesn't exist, so what exists in its place? What is this about, if it's not about violence?