What I Learned From Being On Set With Usher
How one unscripted moment reminded me about making anything at all.
We had two hours.
Three distinct setups. One living legend in the room.
I was directing a commercial that was short on time, high on ambition. We were making something for a brand, but everyone on set knew the goal was bigger than coverage. We weren’t just chasing clean footage or marketable sound bites. We wanted soul. A real story. Something that would last longer than a campaign window.
So while my job on paper was to lead the shoot, frame the visuals, and hit our marks, my real job was to listen. Not just to what was said, but to what might emerge when the cameras were off, or when someone forgot they were being filmed.
That’s how I try to work: I look for the human behind the talent, listen for the moment behind the message. I create space and safety, and wait for something true to walk through the door.
And that’s exactly what happened with Usher.
He showed up not just as a celebrity, but as an artist who’d done the long work. You could feel it in the way he talked, the way he paused, the way he told the same story he’s probably told a hundred times—but with none of the polish worn off.
He told us about being twelve years old, standing outside clubs in Atlanta, waiting for artists to come out at the end of the night.
“I’d sing for them. They’d be coming out late, maybe a little drunk, just trying to go home. And there I was, trying to get a deal.”
No bravado. Just facts. Just memory.
He talked about blowing out his voice during his first real studio session.
About trying to explain to a record label that art takes time. That real growth isn’t transactional. That being an artist isn’t just about talent—it’s about trust.
“Thankfully, I had people who believed in me long term.”
He talked about journaling. About capturing little moments.
“You have no idea how much amazing work you’ll find in the simplest things you may jot.”
He talked about faith. Movement. The mystery of taking a single step even when you don’t know where it’s leading.
“Some people believe in God. Some people believe in energy and the universe. But whatever you believe—you have to take the first step.”
None of it was scripted. All of it was earned.
As he spoke, I felt something I wasn’t expecting: not just admiration, but alignment. Like I was being reminded of something I already knew but had let drift a little too far into the background.
That making something meaningful isn’t about getting discovered.
It’s about showing up. Owning what’s yours. And giving it away anyway.
The whole shoot was full of those moments. But the one that stuck with me most came after the cameras stopped rolling.
We were between takes, moving lights, repositioning gear. Everyone buzzing.
I walked up to him—just me, not the director, just another artist in the room—and asked: “What would you do if you had to do it all again?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“I’d do the same thing. I’d make music. I’d stand outside the club. But now, I’d airdrop it.”
That’s the part I can’t shake.
There wasn’t a wink in it. No clever packaging. No marketing spin.
Just conviction.
A man who still believes in the thing that got him here.
A man who remembers where the magic started—and hasn’t forgotten how to find it again.
That kind of clarity is rare.
Because we all have our own version of the club. That place we stood with nothing but a dream. No credentials. No followers. Just a body full of hope and something we had to say.
Over time, we get smarter. We get tired. We get burned. And if we’re not careful, we stop listening for the thing that called us in the first place.
So let me ask you the same question I asked him:
If you had to do it all again, would you?
Would you still write the songs? Still direct the story? Still stand outside the club? Would you still risk being overlooked, just for the chance to be heard?
That question landed hard for me. But maybe there’s an even more important one now—one that’s not about the past at all.
What will you do now?
Now that you’re not who you were. Now that you’re older. Maybe braver. But a little more bruised. Now that you’re starting for the very first time, or starting over with nothing but the spark that won’t let go.
Because some of us aren’t dreaming about doing it again. We’re wondering if it’s too late to begin. Or if we should do it at all.
If that’s where you are, hear this:
It’s not too late. It’s never too late to believe in what moves you. It’s never too late to bring something honest into the world.
That part—wanting to try again (or try at all)—isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.
And it might be the only part that really matters.
You don’t need a stage. You need (like Usher told me) a mustard seed. And the quiet courage to take one more step.
You just have to be paying attention.
P.S. Here is the final commercial. 😎