I traveled to New Zealand, where the show was filmed, and I soon realized that acting was nothing like modeling. Everyone was constantly asking me if I was O.K.; if I needed to take a break. They assured me that the stunt person could do this or that move if I was not comfortable with it.

Perhaps the main difference, then and now, is that actors have a union and models do not.

Xena, however, was also special. It was feminism at work, with female lead characters who were unapologetically powerful and sexy. During my time on the show, on six episodes from the fourth to the fifth seasons, I kicked butt. Off screen, I was trained in numerous fighting techniques, in archery and horseback riding. On screen, I hung with a Christ figure called Eli; I had a same-sex lover and a boyfriend of a different race than mine; I threw bombs and walked along high wires. I killed so many bad guys that they began to look the same. In fact, they were the same — 20 or so stunt men and women who did the most difficult tricks and falls, making the rest of us look good.

And I did it all in a wig of wild red hair and leather short-shorts.

Xena, which ran for six years before it ended in 2001, was a show that charmed even as it taught its audience a thing or two. It never reached too far beyond its kitschy foundations: in one episode, characters were crucified; in another, we did musical numbers. But it managed to bring home thought-provoking story lines about same-sex love, about religion, about soul mates and manifest destiny. Gender was not relevant in the Xenaverse. There, a girl or a boy could be a warlord or a farmer, a bard or a sad sack needing protection.

For me, in my early 20s, still recovering from an adolescence of exploitation at the hands of the fashion industry, it was shout-it-to-the-heavens inspiring. Joining this world of warrior princesses reignited the hope-driven child in me. I crushed so hard on Xena that I wrote Lucy Lawless, the actress who played her, a fan letter — and I worked on the show.