It Only Takes One
Riding the rollercoaster of dreams and archives
It only takes one.
That was the simple but deep reminder I spoke aloud to a friend as we were catching up on our lives.
One person.
One opportunity.
One big leap—to change something.
There are “one” moments I’m still waiting for. A job that fully holds my capacity. A dance film I pour my whole self into. A home to call my own.
And then there are the “one” moments that arrive quietly and knock the wind out of you.
Filming a seven-camera and five-camera dance production over two nights at a historic theater with extraordinary dancers and a visionary director was one of those moments. Preparing for and filming The Visitors at The Orpheum Theatre with Paracosm Dance was a triumph. A month of planning. A team of four. Deep trust. Careful attention. A reminder of why I do this work at all. A dance documentation dream come true.
I’m intentionally pausing to bask in it, to celebrate and feel the full arc of emotions that come when you accomplish something you’ve dreamed about.
Because no one really talks about the low that comes after the high.
That strange emptiness. The quiet grief that washes in once the to-do lists dissolve and the adrenaline fades. All that care and focus poured into something that existed—beautifully—for just two hours each night.
It feels like a loss of momentum, or purpose, or orientation. Maybe there’s a perfect word for it in another language. You’ve leveled up, but the rest of your life looks…unchanged.
Because growth is almost always incremental.
That same weekend of professional highs held deep personal grief. I was also mourning the loss of my former graduate professor, Naomi Jackson. I had the honor of editing a memorial video for her, one that traced her legacy through conferences, books, scholarship, and most importantly, through the lives of the people she touched.
Her work made me think about what we leave behind. What we can’t take with us. How vital it is to actually live while we’re here. To run toward our dreams instead of away from them. That the impact we have on the people still living is the most vital legacy of all. And that to live is to take care. Of our bodies. Our whole selves. Each other.
Human lives are rarely long enough to feel like we’ve done everything we wanted to do. So when we reach the end, what will we look back on and say: Yes. I did that. I’m proud of how I lived, how I showed up, who I became.
I think my obsession with documentation and archives comes from this place. A desire to hold onto moments. To preserve memory. To pass it forward - to another person, another generation.
In dark times especially, archives matter.
So much of the hope I’ve found in my own life has come from artists who documented anyway. Dancers, filmmakers, writers who bore witness during the AIDS crisis, during political upheaval, during moments when survival itself was an act of resistance. Their footage, journals, photographs, and imperfect recordings remind us that people were here. That they loved, created, and refused to disappear.
The arts are not extra. They are essential. They offer resilience when everything feels fragile. They give shape to grief. They help us remember who we are and what we stand for. They remind us that imagination is a form of survival.
And how we document? It matters, but the intention of how and what we document matters more than the equipment itself (let’s say at least 90% of the time).
I love high-end tech. The precision and clarity. The cinematic beauty of 24fps and artful lighting. The craft. The glamor. And I have a deep soft spot for vintage footage: the grit of Super 8 cameras and 35mm film, mini DV tapes, old polaroids…the intimacy of home videos, the humanity of imperfection.
I’m interested in holding the complexity and beauty of both at once. High-tech and low-tech. Glossy and raw. Past and future. Each serves a different purpose in how we remember and tell our stories.
When I filmed The Visitors, every decision was intentional, from camera placement to lens choice to how movement onstage informed movement through the lens. My goal was always the same: let the dance lead. Let stillness be still. Let motion be responsive, not invasive.
Filming dance is its own art form. Anyone can pick up a camera. It takes years to learn when to move, when to pause, and how to anticipate what might come next without interrupting the aliveness of the moment. I dance because it makes me feel fully alive. I film because it helps me remember that aliveness, and share it with others.
So I’m sitting in the reverberations of a “one” moment. Maybe a few.
Holding joy and grief side by side. Honoring the tears, the fears, the celebrations. Letting the question of now what stay open.
Because it only takes one moment to change a life.
One artist who documents anyway.
One teacher who sees you.
One person who says yes.
And maybe, without even knowing it, you could be that one for someone else.
If there’s work you’re making right now (art, movement, writing, care, community), consider documenting it, even imperfectly. Not for an algorithm. Not for approval. But so it exists. So someone, someday, can find it and feel less alone.
Archives are built one person at a time.
And if you want some support as you think through documenting your work (what to save, how to begin, where to start, or when to end), I’m here.
Thanks for taking the time to read this whole thing through! I’m curious…are there any recent “one” moments for you? You’re welcome to share below or carry the question with you.