But that didn’t stop me from finishing all eight episodes in about two days.

Why? Because I was captured by the rawness.

Say what you want about the show, but it felt real. It showed uncomfortable conversations between people close to him. It showed him being a shitty friend. It showed friendship tension, romantic disappointment, family confrontation, relationship mess, and a lot of the uncomfortable moments that come with simply living life.

On the flip side, it also showed care among friends, the complicated love of family, admiration of a partner, and the desire to unburden yourself by addressing awkward tension, even when you don’t know what the outcome will be.

I think what kept me hitting “next episode” was that this documentary didn’t feel like it was made to be likable. It didn’t feel like Jerrod was trying to make himself look better. I liked that he was inviting us into the complexity of his life because that is not an easy thing to do or capture.

How many people can make themselves the subject of a documentary and be willing to show the not-so-cute parts of their life?

NOT ME!

Anyway, that rawness seems to show up in a lot of Jerrod’s work. I felt it again when I watched Home Videos and Sermon on the Mount. But compared to some of the absurdity of Reality Show, what stood out to me in Home Videos and Sermon on the Mount was how much of that rawness came through conversation alone.

In both films, I was captivated by how informal and full the conversations felt. They did so much of the storytelling, and I didn’t really get a sense of heavy narration. Instead, the stories unfolded through imperfect questions, awkward pauses, and unfiltered responses.

As I continue working on my own documentary, I keep going back to Home Videos and Sermon on the Mount. Not necessarily because of the subject matter, or because I see them as some perfect model. But because they remind me how much work conversation can do.

Through candid, intimate conversations, the films explore topics such as beauty standards, love, infidelity, and family. I’m still trying to learn how to use conversation in that way, where it’s not just part of the film, but what’s actually doing the work of exploration and storytelling.

I’m still checking out more conversation-driven documentaries, but I do have a real appreciation for how Jerrod uses dialogue. Even with all the discomfort his work can bring up, there is something honest happening that I’m a big fan of: he shows the complexity of life in a real way.

Honestly, his work almost makes me want to give the toe sucking some slack.

I said, almost.

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However, for me, that wasn’t quite the case. A large part of my protectiveness was coming from ego.

Part of me (okay, most of me) believed that if I didn’t develop my vision into a fleshed-out documentary plan on my own, then maybe I wasn’t really meant for it. Or maybe I was even more unqualified than I already felt I was.

So I fully leaned into that “get it out the mud” mentality and convinced myself I needed to carry out an entire vision by myself. Because if I could do it alone, then that would prove (to whom, idk) that I REALLY wanted it. That I was REALLY meant for it.

But when I started trying to put my vision into loglines, themes, tones, frameworks... MY GAWD. I was ready to throw in the towel! It was only then that I admitted I could use some guidance. I wasn’t ready to call it anything beyond that just yet.

So, I met up with a friend, a filmmaker with an amazing documentary already in the works. I thought I was just going to lunch to learn a few things, ask some technical questions, and get some of that guidance I was seeking.

Instead, I left that lunch with a co-creator.

I was (and still am) so excited to be doing this thing with someone who shares the heart of the vision and believes in it just as much as I do.

I was honestly shocked by how naturally ideas flowed between us and how easily we built on each other’s thoughts. Within a couple of hours, the vision started to feel clearer, fuller, and more possible.

That lunch convo helped me see that I don’t have to hold on to visions so tightly that I stop myself from seeking out or accepting help, guidance, or partnership. And if I can’t do this documentary alone, it doesn’t mean I care about it any less or that it’s not meant for me.

I guess what I’m learning through this documentary journey is that bringing a vision to life doesn’t always have to be a solo act. Some visions can really become better through partnership…once you put ego aside.

I’m glad I let myself be open to that.

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​Funny thing is, I work in tech. I know how to make service blueprints, run design sprints, etc. I do not know how to make a documentary. In school, I chose STEM over film (lowkey didn’t have a choice). And the most brutal confession of all: I have never held a professional camera before.”

By every measurable, objective standard, I am not the right person for this.

For years, I really chose to believe that. It was easier that way, if I’m being honest. It was easier to avoid failure, even if it meant never fulfilling a desire. I talked myself out of it by listing everything that could go wrong. I focused on what I didn’t know, who I didn’t know, what I lacked, and the fear that it could all end up being an embarrassing waste of time.

I never considered what could go right. I just kept it as a “wouldn’t that be cool” and kept moving through my corporate life.

However, my compulsion won out once again, and I reached the point where my desire outweighed my fear.

At some point, I stopped asking, “Why bother if it doesn’t work out?” and started asking, “Why does it have to work out for me to bother?”

Because the more I sat with it, the more I realized this was never really about everything “working out.” I don’t even fully know what that looks like. Is it finishing the documentary? Is it making something I’m proud of? Shit, I really don’t know.

But what I do know is that once I detached from the outcome (shoutout to my therapist for this mindset!), I realized I didn’t really have a good reason not to try. Because it’s about trying to tell a story I know needs to be told, and I’d love to try.

Right now, I’m still at the beginning, learning, exploring, overthinking, realizing how much I still don’t know, and figuring it out as I go.

But I want to document the journey because when I went looking for this kind of thing, I couldn’t find it. I wanted someone at the start. I was looking for the actual experience. The learnings. What building craft looks like. What pursuing passion despite fear really looks like, and all the stumbles, wrong turns, epiphanies, and joys that come with it.

And most importantly, what it’s actually like to pursue desires before signs of success exist, if ever. So that’s what this is now.

I’m looking forward to Substack-ing (it’s a word to me, idc) about the messiness of “just doing it” and everything that comes with that: fear, doubt, the infamous buzzword imposter syndrome.

I’ll also be sharing field notes, deep dives, and thoughts on documentaries, literature, and other media that have fed me. What I’m noticing. What I’m taking away. How these things fold into my thinking, my process, and what I’m learning as I try to level up my own documentary.

Doing this also keeps me accountable to myself. Shame really works on me (My parents did their BIGGEST one with this). And honestly, I think shame, or even the fear of it, is part of why we don’t really see people trying before they know how the story ends. Trying can feel embarrassing. And trying without a guaranteed outcome can feel humiliating.

But that’s where I am.

I’m scared, but I’ll do it anyway.

Till next time.

P.S. I know I’m not the only one who has done the thing while scared. If you have, I’d love to know what your thing was and how it went or how it’s going. Are you glad you tried anyway?

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Howdy! Hi! Hello!

I was talking to someone a little while back about how posting on Instagram has become something we "think about" and how we don't "just post" anymore.

I began reminiscing about the days when folks "just posted" without analyzing every pixel of a selfie, crafting the perfect cheeky caption, and conforming to social media expectations and pressures. It was an era when we shared content without much scrutiny. Sharing whatever we wanted, however, and whenever 

I continued down memory lane, recounting how fun Snapchat was circa 2012 until I was abruptly booted off my trip by a scoffed, "We just aren't there anymore." I felt a tinge of sadness hearing that. The conversation moved on, and days passed, but those words kept resurfacing.

I mulled over those words for the next few days, eventually realizing that my momentary sadness came from being part of the "we." What's odd is that I don't remember actively becoming part of the "we". As social media evolved, my posting behaviors also evolved rather seamlessly. I no longer make carefree posts; instead, I overthink and leave posts to rot in the draft graveyard. I've always loved reading lengthy Instagram captions, but I somehow feel embarrassed to write them. I'll admit that I've even archived a long captioned post partly because of "post-vulnerability clarity" but mainly because the thought of someone curling their upper lip and thinking, "I ain't reading all that," was too humbling. 

In reality, it wasn't only sadness I felt in response to "we just aren't there anymore"; it was a shame. There I was, grumbling about how social media changed as if my shit don't stink.

After confronting my hypocrisy, I came up with an idea. What if I leaned into my desire to break away from the "we"? What if I "just posted" until it became my new normal? What if I stopped caring if my content didn't always fit our highly curated visual content era? What if I stuck to my preference for text over visuals? What if I started writing about whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted? 

So, in true Capricorn fashion, I consulted with myself, answered my own questions, devised a plan to break free from this self-imposed suppression, and— viola, my Substack was born. Also, if I'm being honest, storing short essays and haphazard thoughts in my notes app wasn't cutting it anymore (plus, the eye strain was getting ridiculous).

I don't have an actual game plan for this Substack. But that's the heart of it. I want this Substack to evoke the spirit of social media circa 2012, before it became overcomplicated and curated. Unfettered. Arbitrary. Imperfect. Spontaneous. Blemished. Just like life. 

Some days, I may write about heartbreak, the gift of community, and the complexities of adulthood. On other days, I may rant about how today's R&B ain't "R&B-ing" (we're in a real lovers deficit, y'all!). Some writings won't always follow the rules and structures of language; there could be quotations where they don't need to be or excessive use of em dashes— I'm also getting back into writing, so be nice!

Anyway, that's the backstory of Honestly Compulsive. It's a space for me to "just post." People may read it, or they might not. Folks might like it or not give a toss about it. Maybe through this unrepressed posting journey, I'll learn that shame is no match for my ego. I really don't know the outcome, nor do I have expectations, but I am committed to at least trying this out. I owe it to myself. 

Till next time!

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