A Moving Man Will Always Find His Luck

There's a phrase I've been sitting with recently:

I don't know where it came from. But it stayed with me.

Maybe because it feels true in a way I've already lived—just without having the words for it.

In my last piece, I wrote about how I've evolved across different roles in media over the years. None of those roles were things I had fully mastered before stepping into them. Most of them, I was learning in real time.

But I kept moving.

Not recklessly. Not without doubt. But with curiosity. With a willingness to grow into the next version of myself, even when I didn't feel fully ready for it.

And looking back now, I can see something clearly: none of those steps were "lucky" in the traditional sense. But they created the conditions for luck to find me.

When I moved to the UK in 2022, I made a quiet decision with myself. I didn't want to just settle into routine. I wanted to keep creating. To keep pushing beyond what I already knew how to do.

My first short documentary came out of that decision.

It became my master's thesis at the University of Stirling. It also earned me a distinction—which, at the time, felt surreal. But the reasons I made it were much simpler than the outcome: documentary has always been my favourite genre, I needed something meaningful for my creative portfolio, and I wanted to stretch beyond social media content into something that could live beyond a screen.

It wasn't about proving anything. It was about movement.

The feedback I received afterwards stayed with me. It felt like a quiet affirmation that I had found something I could grow into. A direction.

But even then, I didn't immediately continue making documentaries at that scale. Life happened. Work shifted. I created other things—smaller things. A series of mini documentaries, released consistently from 2024 onwards. As of May 2026, there are 28 episodes.

At the time, they didn't feel like "big moves."

But they were still movement. And that mattered more than I realised.

Earlier this year, while preparing for a new project, I came across a statistic that genuinely stopped me: no Scottish athlete has run the 100 metres in under 10 seconds.

And then the question came: What if there's a story here?

Not about records. Not yet. But about the possibility of them. What if I documented young athletes—ages 10 to 17—right now, in this moment? Before anything historic happens. Before anyone becomes "the fastest." So that if one of them eventually breaks that barrier, there's something to look back on. A reference point. A beginning.

That idea became The Fastest Day.

What surprised me most wasn't just the film itself. It was the people.

I was able to bring together a crew of about 11 creatives to work on the project—with little or no budget. And after it was done, I kept asking myself: Why did they say yes?

Because on paper, it didn't make much sense. No big funding. No guarantees. Just an idea.

But the answer, when it came, was simple.

It wasn't just this project they were saying yes to. It was everything that came before it. The mini documentaries. The consistency. The quiet body of work built over time. The proof—not of perfection—but of movement.

And that's when the phrase came back again:

Not every step will feel significant. Not every project will feel like progress. Not every effort will be seen.

But each one adds something. Each one positions you differently. Each one expands what becomes possible next.

I'm still figuring things out. Still experimenting. Still unsure more often than I'd like to admit.

But I've come to trust something simple: movement compounds.

And sometimes, what looks like luck from the outside…

is just the result of someone who refused to stay still.