The Question We All Secretly Ask
- Jul 7
- 4 min read
Success has an interesting way of disguising itself.
When we're young, we often imagine it wearing someone else's face. We want someone else's career, someone else's confidence, someone else's life.
For years, I wanted to be Steven Spielberg.
Not just make movies like him.
I wanted his life.
It wasn't until I began teaching filmmaking that a single question from one of my students completely changed the way I thought about creativity—and ultimately about my own life.
This isn't really an essay about filmmaking.
It's about permission.
Chasing Someone Else's Dream
Here's a confession.
For years, I wanted to be Steven Spielberg.
Not just make movies like him.
I wanted his life.
I wanted to do what he did. It looked so inspiring.
The movies. The audience's reaction. The feeling that you were doing something nobody else in the world could do.
I never really thought much about the money.
It wasn't about that.
I thought about the talent. The confidence. The prestige. That's what success meant to me.
And like so many artists, I spent years chasing that idea.
Filmmakers, in particular, are guilty of this. I see it with my students all the time.
They watch a film by a great director and think that if they can just absorb the formula, follow the path, master the style, they'll eventually arrive at the same destination.
But here's the problem.
That path doesn't lead where you're going. In fact, it usually leads you away from it.
People like Steven Spielberg didn't become successful by turning into somebody else.
Sure, they imitated their heroes. We all do.
But eventually they stopped imitating and started listening.
Instead of copying someone else's voice, they discovered the same feeling inside their own instrument.
They used their heroes as examples, not destinations.
The Student Who Changed Everything
I didn't fully understand this until something happened while I was teaching a filmmaking class at a summer program at Harvard University.
One of my students was a young woman from Egypt.
We were talking about the film she wanted to make for her final project.
As she described the story, it became obvious she wanted to make a horror movie.
"So... you want to make a slasher film?" I asked.
She froze. Eyes wide. Terrified.
Then she asked a question I'll never forget.
"Can I?"
Not...
"How do I?"
Not...
"Should I?"
Just...
"Can I?"
She wasn't asking about filmmaking.
She was asking for permission.
Permission to make the movie she actually wanted to make. Permission to trust her instincts. Permission to be herself.
"You can make any movie you want," I told her.
"I'll help you."
I became a teacher that day.
Because I also realized something that shook me.
I'd been asking the same question my entire life.
And I'd been sitting around waiting for someone to answer it.
That answer never came. At least not the way I thought it would.
The Question We All Secretly Ask
Looking back, I don't think I wanted permission to make movies.
I wanted permission to become myself.
That's a very different thing.
Most of us spend years believing we're chasing success.
What we're really chasing is the freedom to stop pretending to be someone else.
I don't think artists are the only ones who ask that question.
Writers ask it. Entrepreneurs ask it. Parents ask it. People changing careers ask it. People falling in love ask it.
Anyone standing on the edge of a new life eventually whispers the same two words.
"Can I?"
Can I become this person?
Can I trust what I want?
Can I stop waiting?
It's the question we all secretly ask.
Finding Your Core
So here's my advice to every filmmaker, writer, actor, or artist I work with.
Stop waiting.
Remove the word from your vocabulary. Decide today that you'll never wait again.
If people can't keep up with you, leave them behind.
They'll catch up. Or they won't. Makes no difference.
That's why I'm so adamant about helping people find the Core of a story.
Your Core.
That's not just a storytelling tool.
It's a compass.
It helps you discover what genuinely moves you—the deep, powerful forces that drive your own journey.
That's what makes the work yours. Nobody else's.
That's what people like Spielberg found.
You have to find it too.
And once you do, something remarkable happens.
Your work comes alive.
You'll develop a relationship with it that no amount of external success can replace.
The work itself becomes the reward.
You'll finally feel like you're arriving exactly where you were meant to go.
I hope you find that.
That peace at the Core.
If you want to be an artist, that's the only thing that matters.
It's the only game in town.
Every meaningful creative life begins the same way.
Not with talent. Not with connections. Not with confidence.
But with one quiet decision.
"I'm going to stop asking for permission."
Everything else grows from there.
Continue the Conversation
If this essay resonated with you, here are a few places to continue exploring these ideas.
Watch the Related Video
This week's YouTube video is about making your work more cinematic.
Because what good is a deep message if you don't put it in a pretty package?
That's the flex.
The evil genius.
Make it look beautiful.
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Until next time...
Don't just direct your movies.
Direct your life.
— Miguel Parga
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