Hey friend,
There's this bookshelf in our house. We've had it for 18 years and we can't get rid of it.
It's packed with books we bought for our kids—Goodnight Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are—all the classics, and the new classics—like anything by Mo Willems!
Books we read night after night, day after day, over and over until we could recite them from memory.
When our youngest child was about to turn five, we got rid of most all of them. Made space. Moved on.
Here it is. Ugh.
Then we found out we were pregnant again. SURPRISE!!!
So we kept what was left, re-bought some of the ones we'd given away, and built the collection back up. Now our kids are way too big for most of these books. But my wife Andrea and I can't bring ourselves to get rid of them.
The thing just takes up space. It's collecting dust. Every time I walk by, it makes me a little sad—I loved the stage my kids were at when that bookshelf saw a lot of action.
I've got Marie Kondo in the back of my head whispering, "Take a picture, tell the books thank you, and then get rid of them." But I just can't let go.
It's not really about the books.
It's about the precious hours, sitting in a rocking chair, snuggled close. Watching them point at pictures. Hearing them practice their words for the first time. The cadence of those stories becoming part of your rhythm together.
Those moments stick with me.
That's kind of how I think about where my business is right now.
The pulling, the pushing, the wrestling we've been through since COVID—it's worn me down multiple times. Maybe it IS nostalgia keeping me hanging on. I don't know.
But I do know this:
I think it's remembering why I got into video production in the first place.
It wasn't about the gear or the editing software or even the business model. It was about telling human stories. Real ones. The kind that make your heart skip a beat or get you leaning in because something about them just resonates.
I believed—and still believe—that those stories are beautiful, meaningful, and impactful in ways that matter.
But here's the tension.
We live in the age of the algorithm. AI avatars. Doom scrolling. Everyone's optimizing for clicks, views, engagement metrics. And honestly, since COVID, I've been trying to build a sustainable, predictable business.
You know, the kind that makes sense on paper.
And my heart just isn't in it.
I can't not create what I think is meaningful. What has depth. What matters more than a paycheck or a predictable revenue stream.
Maybe I'm too altruistic. Too nostalgic. Maybe I'm fighting a losing battle in a world where video in doom scrolling is the present reality.
But I don't think so.
Here's what I'm learning:
The human experience—authentic, true human stories—will always be the thing that moves us to make decisions. Who to hire. What to buy. What to invest in.
AI can generate a lot of things. But it can't generate that.
And as I work with businesses and individuals (even the ones who don't believe there's much of a story worth telling), I'm reminded over and over that this is the work I care about. This is what makes me come alive.
And I'm learning that if I can come alive in my work, I'll help these stories come alive for my clients.
Look, I'm not ready to throw in the towel. Just like I'm not ready to throw away that bookshelf. But I am ready to double down on what makes me come alive.
Because here's what I'm betting on: if I can come alive in my work, I'll help these stories come alive for my clients. And that's the thing that will actually serve them—not me playing it safe and following someone else's playbook.
I hope you're inspired to press into what you're great at and to keep telling that story no matter what.
Cheering you on,
Ryan
P.S. What's the thing you can't not do—even when it doesn't make business sense? Hit reply. I'd love to hear it.
P.P.S. I'm running a mastermind for people working through this exact tension—the gap between what works and what matters. If that's you, details are at ryankoral.com/mastermind
