A few years ago, I was on a shoot in Odisha.

We were moving through schools, spending time with students who were part of a larger education program focused on computational thinking and new ways of learning. The idea was to capture one student’s journey as a way to reflect a much larger system change happening quietly in classrooms.

Before we arrived, the protagonist had already been chosen.

On paper, she was everything you would hope for. Strong academic record. Clear articulation in the way she had been described. A student who had already achieved enough to visibly represent impact. There was comfort in that choice. It felt safe. It felt correct.

I remember meeting her for the first time and spending the whole day with her.

We walked through her school corridors, sat in her classroom, spent time in her home space. I observed her not just in interviews but in the in between moments, how she responded when she wasn’t being asked a question, how she paused, how she listened, how she existed when the camera was not the centre of attention.

And slowly, something started to shift in my head.

She was sincere, composed, and grounded. But she was not very articulate on camera. More than that, she didn’t carry a certain narrative energy that I felt the film would need. I could already see how the edit would shape up if we continued with her alone. It would be honest, but flat. Informative, but not alive.

And for a short documentary, that difference matters more than it seems on paper.

We were on a tight schedule. Limited days. Limited budget. Changing anything in that moment meant adding pressure to an already compressed plan. It also meant questioning a decision that had already been agreed upon by multiple people.

Still, I asked for something I wasn’t entirely sure I would be able to defend at the time.

I requested that we shoot a backup protagonist.

It was not an easy call. There is a certain weight that comes with being on ground, where every hour matters and every deviation has a cost. But there was also a clarity I couldn’t ignore. If we stayed only with what had been planned, I was worried the film would lose its emotional spine.

We moved ahead and spent time with another student.

This time, something immediately felt different. Not perfect. Not polished. But present in a way that made the camera feel like it had something to hold on to.

When we went into the edit weeks later, we made the shift. The second student became the centre of the film. The narrative found its rhythm. The emotional arc held better. The story breathed in a way it wasn’t doing before.

The client appreciated the final film.

But what stayed with me was not the outcome. It was the moment of decision in the middle of uncertainty. That small internal fracture between what was planned and what was being felt in real time.

As a filmmaker, I often think about how much of the work is actually storytelling, and how much of it is decision making under pressure.

In social sector films especially, where the expectation is often to represent impact clearly and accurately, there is always a quiet tension between information and emotion, between representation and resonance.

And so I keep coming back to one question from that shoot.

When you are already on ground, with limited time, limited resources, and a story that has already been “decided,” how much space should we really allow for changing the protagonist mid-way if instinct tells us the film needs it?

And at what point does that instinct become risk, and when does it become responsibility?

First came the work; the field visits, the conversations, the reports, the slow negotiations with reality. And then, once everything was done, someone would say, “Now we need a film.”

I always thought my role was to translate impact into something watchable.

Over time, I’ve realised how limited that understanding was.

Storytelling isn’t communication. It’s an operating system running quietly beneath everything an organisation does. Stories don’t just inform, they reprogram.

This isn’t a metaphor. When people listen to a story, their brains don’t behave like they’re processing information. Research shows that narratives synchronise brain activity; listeners don’t just hear a story, they experience it. Their sense of self momentarily aligns with the characters, the stakes, the arc.

For organisations working towards social change, this insight is not creative; it’s structural. Because the right story doesn’t explain your mission. It makes people feel like they belong to it.

A project that changed how I see my work

A few years ago, I worked on a film with a cultural organisation that was part of an international research collaboration. On paper, the brief was simple; document the project, produce a film for a grant, highlight outcomes.

But early conversations revealed something else.

The organisation wasn’t struggling with purpose or intent. It was struggling with coherence. Different teams described the same work in completely different ways. Artists spoke about experimentation and risk. Administrators spoke about governance and process. Funders spoke about deliverables and metrics.

Everyone was right. And yet, none of these narratives spoke to each other.

The instinct was to “cover everything” in the film. But the edit resisted that approach. It felt crowded. Over-explained. Emotionally distant.

So we slowed down.

Instead of asking, “What should the audience know?” we asked, “What does this organisation believe, even when it isn’t explicitly stated?”

The answer wasn’t in the reports. It was in behaviour. In what was protected when resources were scarce. In what the team argued about, and what they refused to compromise on.

The film shifted. It stopped being a summary and became a spine.

After it was released, something unexpected happened.

The film wasn’t used only for reporting or outreach. It started circulating internally. New team members watched it during onboarding. Partners referenced it in meetings. It became a shared language for the organisation.

The story didn’t sit on top of the work. It reorganised it.

When storytelling arrives too late

In the social sector, storytelling is often introduced at the end of the cycle.

After the work is done.
After complexity has been flattened into indicators.
After urgency has already shaped the narrative.

At that point, communication becomes documentation. A justification. A performance.

But stories don’t work well as post-mortems. They work best as companions.

When storytelling enters early, it shapes decisions. It forces clarity. It exposes contradictions before they harden into systems. It allows organisations to ask not just, “What are we doing?” but, “Who are we becoming through this work?”

This is why stories change behaviour.

Donors stop feeling like transaction-makers and start seeing themselves as participants.
Teams stop operating in silos and begin sharing a common emotional ground.
Funders stop funding outputs and start recognising themselves in the arc of the work.

Story is how missions turn into movements.

The value of slowness

There is a tension here that can’t be ignored.

Funding cycles are short. Expectations are high. The demand to show impact is relentless.

But speed shapes stories. And when everything moves fast, stories simplify. Nuance disappears. People become symbols.

Some of the most honest films I’ve worked on emerged only after distance; stepping away from footage, returning to it later, watching it not as a maker but as a viewer.

That distance isn’t detachment. It’s care.

It’s the difference between forcing a story to say what you want, and allowing it to reveal what it actually is.

What this has changed for me

I no longer think of myself as someone who “makes videos.”

My work now begins long before a camera is switched on. It begins in listening; in asking questions without rushing to answers; in understanding what story an organisation is already living, often unconsciously.

Because every organisation is telling a story; to its team, to its partners, to the communities it works with. The question is whether that story is intentional, coherent, and alive.

Storytelling isn’t an accessory to change.
It’s the architecture that holds it together.

So the question I keep returning to isn’t, “What story should we tell?”

It’s quieter, and harder:

What story is your organisation actually living; and who is it inviting people to become inside it?

As 2025 comes to a close, I find myself returning to a familiar question; not what did I make this year, but how did I work.

This past year was full. I worked across documentary films, short-format communication pieces, and longer-term documentation projects within the social sector. I collaborated with organisations and collectives such as Troii, MLDT, Gender at Work, the British Asian Trust through Sanjog, and Leadership Next through Kamonohashi. Each project came with its own geography, context, urgency, and emotional weight.

The themes varied widely; gender, education, youth leadership, labour, systems change. But beneath these differences ran a common thread. Each organisation was grappling, in its own way, with how to communicate its work responsibly, clearly, and meaningfully.

Over time, I began to notice a pattern.

Many of these stories were powerful. The work on the ground was rigorous, ethical, and deeply human. And yet, communication often entered the process late. Sometimes at the very end of a project cycle. Sometimes as a last-minute requirement tied to reporting or visibility. Films were expected to carry the weight of years of work, compressed into a few minutes, often without the time or space needed to shape the narrative with care.

This is not a critique of organisations. It is a structural reality of the sector. Communication is frequently treated as an output rather than as an integral part of the work itself.

But spending years inside these processes made one thing increasingly clear to me. Strong films alone are not enough if they are not held within a larger communication strategy. A well-made film cannot compensate for unclear intent, fragmented messaging, or the absence of long-term narrative thinking.

I have realised that while I was being brought in as a filmmaker, the conversations I was having went far beyond filmmaking. They were about framing, ethics, audience, trust, and sustainability. They were about what to say, what not to say, and why.

I began to ask myself whether the way I was positioning my work fully reflected the kind of contribution I wanted to make.

As I look ahead to 2026, I feel a clear shift taking shape.

I want to move beyond being engaged only at the stage of production, and instead work as a communications partner earlier in the process. Someone who helps organisations think through narrative before the camera is switched on. Someone who sits with ambiguity, asks uncomfortable questions, and helps shape a story that can live across formats and time.

This shift also means being more intentional about the kinds of collaborations I enter into. Fewer one-off projects. More sustained engagements. Fewer transactional briefs. More trust-based partnerships.

It means acknowledging that communication is not only about visibility. It is about responsibility. About how stories are framed, who they centre, and what they leave behind once they circulate in the world.

The work will still involve films. That remains central to my practice. But it will also involve stepping back and asking more foundational questions.

• What story are we really trying to tell?
• Who is this story for?
• What power dynamics shape how it is told?
• And, what does ethical communication look like in practice, not just in intention?

2025 gave me clarity, not through certainty, but through repetition. Through seeing the same challenges surface across different organisations and contexts. Through recognising where my own skills were most useful, and where I wanted to grow.

As I move into the next year, I am interested in conversations that go beyond deliverables. Conversations about process, collaboration, and the role communication plays in building long-term change.

If you are thinking through similar questions, or reimagining how storytelling fits into your work, I would love to exchange notes. Not to sell an idea, but to think together about what more thoughtful, sustainable communication in the social sector might look like.

A few days ago, in therapy, I said something I’ve been quietly struggling with for months:

“I want to work… I just can’t seem to start.”

My therapist listened, and then told me something I didn’t expect. She said, “You’re putting too much pressure on motivation. You don’t have to rely on motivation alone; you can rely on discipline, or commitment.”

I don’t know why, but that sentence landed in my chest and stayed there. Because as a freelance independent filmmaker, motivation has always been my fuel; or at least I thought it was. The industry celebrates hustle, inspiration, bursts of passion. We romanticise the long nights, the sudden creative clarity, the instinctive drive to pick up a camera and go.

But what no one talks about is this: Motivation disappears when you are grieving. It dissolves. It slips through your fingers. It leaves you staring at your laptop, unable to open a project you once loved.

I’ve been grieving my friend; slowly, painfully, in ways I don’t always understand. And somewhere in that grief, motivation stopped being reliable. But instead of recognising that, I blamed myself. I told myself I wasn’t trying hard enough; wasn’t disciplined enough; wasn’t passionate enough.

But grief isn’t a lack of passion. It’s a lack of capacity.

Being a freelancer makes this even more complicated. There is no structure to fall back on, no fixed routine to carry you through the days when your mind feels heavy. Everything depends on you — your energy, your clarity, your ability to show up. And when you can’t, the guilt is immediate.

That’s why what my therapist said felt so grounding. She wasn’t asking me to become tougher or more productive. She was simply reminding me that work doesn’t have to depend on a single, fragile source of energy.

Motivation is emotional. Discipline is steady. Commitment is quiet.

And maybe, especially in times like this the quieter forms of movement matter more. Maybe showing up consistently, even in small ways, is enough. Maybe opening the edit timeline, even if I don’t create anything new, is enough. Maybe replying to just one email is enough.

Discipline doesn’t demand intensity. It just asks for presence.

As filmmakers, we often think our creativity must come from inspiration, but what if a lot of it actually comes from simply being there? Sitting with the footage. Listening again. Showing up for the work even when we don’t feel like its author.

Grief takes away the sharpness of motivation, yes. But it also invites a different kind of rhythm; one built on gentleness, consistency, and trust.

So for now, I’m learning to replace pressure with presence. I’m learning that my work doesn’t disappear just because my motivation does. And I’m learning that being committed to my craft doesn’t mean being endlessly driven; it means returning to it, slowly, honestly, at the pace grief allows.

Maybe that’s what sustainability looks like for an independent filmmaker. Not the relentless pursuit of inspiration, but the quiet discipline to keep moving, even in the softest, smallest steps.

That space in between; the shoot, the edit, the endless rethinking is where something shifts. Because somewhere in the process, you realise that to tell a story honestly, you first have to unlearn everything you thought you knew.

Unlearning isn’t glamorous. It’s not a single moment of revelation.
It’s slow, quiet, and often uncomfortable.

It happens when you stop trying to fit people into the story you imagined; and instead, let their truth reshape yours.
It happens when you realise that the very tools you rely on; the camera, the edit, the structure can just as easily distance you from what’s real.

For me, every project has been a kind of unlearning.

Sometimes it’s a conversation with someone whose worldview completely disarms mine; forcing me to see beyond my assumptions.
Sometimes it’s a moment in the edit room, when a scene refuses to behave; when the story resists control, and you have to listen to what it’s trying to become.

And sometimes, it’s just sitting still; watching, listening, realising that the story was never really mine to begin with.

When I started making documentaries, I believed my role was to capture truth.
Now I think it’s to be shaped by it.

Each person you meet, each place you enter; carries its own rhythm, its own logic. You can’t impose your sense of order on it; you have to adapt to theirs.
The best moments in film; the ones that stay with you are rarely the ones you planned. They emerge from the gaps between intention and accident.

That’s where life happens.

And that’s what documentary filmmaking keeps teaching me, again and again:

You don’t grow by adding more tools or mastering new techniques;
you grow by learning to see again — as if for the first time.

Unlearning is not about forgetting what you know;
it’s about holding it lightly — allowing space for what you don’t.

It’s about walking into every story without armour;
without the certainty that you understand;
without the pressure to make meaning too quickly.

Because every story, in the end, becomes a mirror.
Not asking What do you know?
But What are you willing to unlearn?

And maybe that’s the quiet gift of this work; that through all the chaos and craft, you’re constantly reminded that seeing the world honestly requires first learning how to see yourself differently.

I write about documentary filmmaking, storytelling, and the art of observation — exploring how creative practice can become a way of seeing, listening, and understanding the world.

Recently, I stumbled upon a project I worked on with the G5A Foundation for Contemporary Culture, created for a grant to the Global Challenges Research Fund — UK Research and Innovation, in collaboration with The Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, London.

I was both shooting and editing, immersed in questions that had no easy answers:
How do you remain true to the subject while still allowing yourself the space to experiment?
When do you let instinct lead, and when do you pull back to relook with distance?

Back then, I didn’t have neat solutions. I only had trial and error, late nights, and the courage to trust what felt right in the moment.

Looking at that film today, I notice plenty I’d do differently. The cuts I’d tighten, the scenes I’d linger on, the silences I’d respect more. Yet there’s something I deeply admire in that version of myself — the willingness to try, to play, to risk imperfection without fear of failure.

That spirit of experimentation is easy to lose. With time, experience brings refinement and structure, but it can also bring hesitation. We start worrying about outcomes, about getting it “right.” In the process, we forget that editing — especially documentary editing — is as much about discovery as it is about control.

To me, this reflection has two layers:

• As a filmmaker: Revisiting my early work reminds me that distance is important. We need to step back and watch our own films as viewers, not just as makers. Only then can we notice how our perspectives shape the narrative — and how space for play can keep the work alive.
• As change makers: Beyond film, this applies to the larger world of art, culture, and social change. Experimentation is not just a youthful phase. It is the fuel that opens new doors, shifts perspectives, and allows us to imagine different futures.

Sometimes, the best way to move forward is not to rush ahead, but to pause, rewind, and remember what it felt like to play.

Because in that play, in that unpolished courage, lies the real possibility of change.

The other day, I stumbled upon an old short film I had made back in college.

At first, I laughed at its rough edges, the choices that now feel naïve, even clumsy. But what stayed with me wasn’t the lack of polish. It was the playfulness.

Back then, I edited without fear. I tried things. I cut abruptly, layered sounds that didn’t quite fit, lingered on silences longer than most viewers might tolerate. There was no pressure to get it “right.” The edit felt like a sandbox.

In documentaries, the edit often feels heavier. The choices we make are never just technical — they carry the weight of people’s voices, struggles, and truths. And inevitably, those choices reveal our own perspective. How we see the subject, the story, the world.

Sometimes, I realize I’m too close. Too attached to a sequence, too sure about a rhythm, too convinced by my own interpretation. That’s when distance becomes crucial. To step away. To return to the footage not as its maker, but as a viewer.

Rewatching that old work reminded me that editing is not only about control. It’s also about letting go. Allowing the story to breathe, to surprise you, to resist being forced into neatness.

Perhaps that’s the real craft of editing: to balance play with perspective, intention with surrender. And maybe — to hold on to that fearless curiosity we once had, when we were just starting out.