Notes from the Ketchup and Rice Years; The importance of trauma informed practices in documentary filmmaking.

Filmmaking, especially documentary work, can be an intrusive process. Lights, cameras, questions—these can all feel overwhelming, especially to those who have experienced trauma. A trauma-informed approach means being mindful of how the filmmaking process itself can be harmful and intimidating. It’s about creating a safe environment, checking in regularly, and being willing to adjust the process to the needs of the storyteller. This might mean allowing breaks, considering interviews that are voice over only, reframing questions, or even stopping the process if it becomes too much. The goal is always to protect the mental and emotional well-being of those involved not to exploit their traumas.

In my work, I take the time to get to know the humans who will be on camera. We talk about them as if we are friends getting to know one another and treat everyone the same - reminding people that they are not defined by their circumstances. We also discuss the goals of the film. It is is to raise funds for a non-profit, we discuss what is actually needed to see or say on film and protect people’s privacy.

In the non-profit world, storytelling is important to communicate a mission. Human interest stories and fundraising go hand in hand. Through my 20 year experience working with communities - I can tell the clients that are not ready to have hard conversations about how they perpetuate harm through exploiting people's trauma on film.

I have real lived experience with poverty and inner city life. Having come from humble beginnings in a house that was falling apart and a family that could barley fit inside. With parents that worked day and night. I grew up with my grandfather, that required an extraordinary amount of medical care as he fought leukemia and eventually lost his battle. I often wonder if we had universal healthcare, if he would have survived his second go round with chemo. But his care bankrupted our resources, so he wasn't prepared to take it on again. His loss was like loosing a third parent.

I have worked since I was 14. I lived at home in college, went to a state school and worked a job while caring for my grandfather. I drove hours to my unpaid internships to get experience. I myself lived in poverty and on food stamps till I was in my late 20s. After the 2008 crash sent my student loans into collections - I clawed my way out slowly. I call those years the ketchup and rice years. Where my skinny body was a product of malnutrition and I thought I'd never get married or own a house. I found myself in rooms with the extraordinary wealthy in the event industry, creating work for birthday parties and weddings. I got my first real taste of what life would look like with resources and go home to eat my ketchup and rice in my apartment that I shared with 4 other artists. You know, living the starving artist trope.

I never felt represented fully in the media I consumed. Even as a privileged white woman. During those early years on my own, where I often blamed myself for my failings, I felt berated by the narratives of romance solving all female problems. Which is why I gravitated toward fantasy and science-fiction which tend to contain more of the complex nuances of our world through imagination. There were few films that passed the bechdel test when I needed them most.

Years of therapy later, I finally have my breakthrough when my 4th therapist helped me see that my story was not one of fault. I wasn't a failure. I was a triumph in a system that wanted to keep me stuck. We re-wrote all my stories together and she showed me that the physical successes that I was taught to value were not in fact my true value in this world. That many of my mental health issues could in-fact be solved by being able to pay my rent and my bills. The poverty I experienced was not normal and shouldn't be. The poverty I experienced was a societal choice. One in which the wealthy benefit from connections and the ability to pay for school while I was scraping together pennies for a BFA. I started to value the street smarts learned in the public schools. I saw my diverse friends, who also dealt with similar issues, as my strength. My tenaciousness, my grit, my ability to handle rejection, to navigate misogyny in an industry that didn't value my leadership.

That reframe saved me and I stopped beating myself up and got to work. I started tackling misogyny more directly. I stopped feeling crazy. I demanded living wages and worked to create systems that supported my work and allowed me to price my craft at higher rates. I added new streams of income and stopped waiting for a single entity to meet all my needs. I pulled myself out of debt slowly. Now, happily married for over a decade and owning our own house - we (I) are thriving. That is why trauma-informed storytelling is important. The most valuable thing about me lies not in my stories of struggle but in how they are framed within society. It matters how I talk about myself and it matters how that story is put out into the world. It was around this same time that I started to understand that I could apply these same concepts to my work. I insisted that my clients let me collaborate with their community to write scripts and that we stop sending cameras out to collect tears. It was time to infuse human joy into our stories and put the power back in the hands of the storytellers. To value the humans behind the situations.

I am not my circumstances. I am a complex and nuanced human and you don't need my trauma to know or care about me. You'll fall in love with the way I see films, how I paint the world, how I write with our clients, how I show up for my community and how I adore the city I live in. You'll fall in love with the stories I tell about the aritists I made art with while eating my ketchup and rice. Over the stage we built in my backyard to tell our own stories. When my house was full of magic and theatre. How we raged against the systems that kept us down and danced around the fire baring our souls. Our spirits dancing.

That is how I approach all my work. With an intersectional lens and an open heart. Knowing that I myself am not perfect - I am not striving to be - but that (I) we can rage against the systems with joy and insisting that (I) we tell a better story about society. One in which we place responsibility for shared resources and the abuse of them in the proper places. I am delighted when the people I collaborate with tell me they are so proud of how they look on film. When I see them light up and celebrated for who they are in community spaces. It's what keeps me going. 

Incorporating trauma-informed care into storytelling isn’t just the right thing to do—it’s essential for creating meaningful, impactful, and responsible media. It’s about honoring the dignity of every individual, recognizing the weight of their experiences, and committing to a process that puts their needs first. For nonprofits, community groups, and mission-driven organizations, this approach can transform a documentary from a simple video into a powerful catalyst for change. The investment made in that process pays dividends to communities. They are watching how you represent them. Let’s create films that not only tell stories but do so with the respect, empathy, and integrity that every storyteller deserves.