Frankie June Refuses to Romanticize the Dream

On “Hollywood (2016),” the actress, songwriter, and storyteller turns nostalgia, ambition, and hard-earned self-belief into her most honest release yet

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with outgrowing the life you once thought you were supposed to have.

Not heartbreak exactly. Not failure, either.

Something quieter. Stranger.

The realization that the dream you spent years chasing may no longer fit the person you’ve become.

For Frankie June, that feeling arrived unexpectedly—after leaving the apartment of a younger actor she was working with in Los Angeles. He had recently moved from a small town, bright-eyed and full of possibility, with the kind of tiny studio apartment she once dreamed of for herself when she first left Indiana for LA.

The walls were covered in inspiration: quotes taped floor to ceiling, old clippings, photos, goals written out like promises to a future self. It was exactly the kind of place she had imagined for herself as a teenager—the kind of apartment that felt like a beginning.

She never got that apartment.

Now, she has a house she shares with her partner. A career in both music and film. A life she genuinely loves. But leaving that apartment that morning, she found herself wanting something irrational: to go back.

Not because she wanted the same life—but because she wanted another chance at becoming it.

That feeling became “Hollywood (2016),” Frankie June’s newest single and perhaps her most emotionally exposed release yet.

It is not a song about regret.

It is a song about perspective.

It is about realizing that sometimes you only understand your dreams after you’ve spent years chasing them.

Before Frankie June, There Was Jennifer

Before Frankie June became the artist balancing indie pop releases and acting credits on major productions like American Primeval, she was Jennifer Marie Shelby Mitchell—a classically trained vocalist from Mystic, Connecticut, raised on piano competitions, choir rehearsals, and the kind of early artistic discipline that shapes you long before you realize it.

She studied classical voice, trained seriously in acting, and eventually booked her first film audition: a small role in the Sundance feature Goat, starring Nick Jonas.

That moment changed everything.

Barely legal and fresh off that experience, she packed everything she owned into a Toyota Prius and drove from Indiana to Los Angeles to pursue entertainment full time.

Like so many young artists, she arrived carrying a very specific dream.

“When I first moved out here, I wanted to be the next beautiful, young actress who sweeps awards season,” she says. “Think Zendaya, Jennifer Lawrence, Emma Stone.”

The goal was clear. The ambition was loud. Success felt measurable.

And for a while, that was enough.

She gave herself four years.

It didn’t happen.

And strangely, that disappointment became the beginning of everything.

Mourning the Dreams That Change

“Hollywood (2016)” revisits that younger version of herself with ten years of hindsight.

The track begins grounded in simplicity—countryside imagery, movement, the emotional stillness of driving toward a life you cannot fully picture yet—before opening into something bigger, brighter, and more conflicted. Like Los Angeles itself, the chorus shimmers.

The song is part reflection, part reclamation.

It captures what happens when you finally understand what you were chasing, only to wonder whether the version of success you imagined was ever truly yours to begin with.

“Oftentimes I write songs about the hard parts of life,” she says. “This one is kind of about mourning your unrealized childhood dreams. Even though now, I genuinely want different things, it’s still a loss.”

That tension is the heartbeat of the song.

She still loves acting. She still wants a career in film. But the way she defines success has changed.

When she first moved to Los Angeles, being “the best” looked like the version of success young actors are taught to chase—awards, major roles, early acclaim, the kind of career that feels measurable from the outside.

But over time, she realized something harder and more honest: talent and discipline can get you to the door, but luck often decides who gets let through.

And luck was never something she could build a life around.

That realization changed everything.

Instead of chasing an outcome she could not control, she found herself drawn toward authorship—writing, producing, creating projects on her own terms, and learning to define success by the work itself rather than the recognition attached to it.

The goal became making things she was proud of.

The goal became freedom.

“I think my lack of initial commercial acting success forced me to become a way better artist,” she says. “It pushed me to become self-reliant. I learned how to write. I learned how to trust my own ideas.”

More than anything, she found herself connecting to the larger community of artists who have everything except luck—people with talent, discipline, and vision, still building anyway.

“Hollywood (2016)” feels like a love letter to them.

Why Music Changed Everything

Frankie didn’t start songwriting until 2020, after years of feeling like acting alone was supposed to be enough.

She had been told, like so many artists are, that choosing one thing was the only way to be taken seriously. Focus on acting. Pick a lane. Prove yourself.

She listened.

It did not work.

And then music arrived.

Not as a backup plan, but as something far more necessary.

A way to process. A way to survive. A way to reconnect with herself outside of auditions, outside of approval, outside of waiting for someone else to say yes.

She credits her artist project with breathing new life back into her work as an actor.

“Before, every audition felt like I needed the job—because I did,” she says. “Now I’m not interested in proving myself or pleasing anyone. I just show up and try to make the best thing possible.”

That shift changed everything.

She booked her role in American Primeval after she started making music.

She started creating from freedom instead of fear.

And suddenly, both worlds began feeding each other.

Music informs her acting. Acting informs her songwriting. Film sharpens her visual storytelling. Songs become emotional blueprints.

“They go hand in hand,” she says. “It’s always about the process.”

That philosophy is what makes Frankie June feel so compelling right now: she is not performing ambition. She is living artistry.

The Freedom to Change

At its core, “Hollywood (2016)” is not really about Hollywood.

It is about permission.

Permission to change your mind. Permission to let go of old definitions of success. Permission to become someone your younger self may not fully recognize.

“The freedom to change at any time,” she says. “That’s what I hope people take away.”

It sounds simple, but it is radical.

Especially for young women.

Especially in industries built on perception.

Especially when confidence feels like the one thing no one teaches you how to keep.

One of the song’s most powerful moments comes in a line she describes as a love letter to her younger self:

“I didn’t know I had it all if I believed it.”

In hindsight, she says, she had everything she needed—beauty, talent, youth, opportunity.

What she lacked was confidence.

And confidence, she now understands, changes everything.

“I want young girls especially to hear that message,” she says. “It’s okay to stand tall and say what you want. It’s okay to believe you are talented and worthy of good things.”

Not arrogance.

Not performance.

Quiet confidence.

The kind that carries you when no one else is clapping yet.

Still Here, Against Better Judgment

There is a line in the press release for “Hollywood (2016)” that feels especially perfect:

She’s not going anywhere—against her better judgment.

It is funny. Sharp. True.

Because the reality of building a life in music and film independently is rarely glamorous. It is messy. Expensive. Chaotic. Full of late nights, imperfect plans, and figuring things out six weeks after the deadline should have already passed.

But she trusts herself now.

That may be the biggest difference.

“I’ve realized I can rely on myself creatively,” she says. “It’s not always going to be perfect, but I’m always going to figure it out.”

That certainty is hard-earned.

And you can hear it in this release.

“Hollywood (2016)” is not about wanting to be twenty again.

It is about understanding why you had to survive it.

It is about looking back without needing to go back.

It is about accepting that success rarely arrives the way you imagined—and realizing that maybe that is the point.

Now, with her first Deadline mention arriving, a new film (Sweetie) on the horizon, a May 13 Sofar Sounds performance in Los Angeles, and music that feels sharper and more personal than ever, Frankie June is no longer chasing the old dream.

She is building something better.

Something hers.

“Hollywood (2016)” is the perfect place to begin—an indie pop reflection wrapped in cinematic honesty, written for anyone still holding onto their dreams, even when they are no longer sure what those dreams look like.

Stream it now.

Some songs are about becoming.

This one is about finally understanding who you already are.