Most recently, I officially stopped playing nice with socially upheld false dichotomies. These videos were reality checks from someone living at the edge of capacity. They challenged progressive assumptions, unpacked moral gray areas, and defended unpopular survival strategies. I talked about the benefits of AI without flinching, uncomfortable angles on marginalization, and truth that prevails without consensus. It's easy enough to provoke the algorithm with hot takes or ignite engagement with hotheaded arguments. I was more interested in demanding space for nuance, guts, and inconvenient complexities. 

This was one of my direct attempts to bridge the gap between autistic people and the neurotypical world. This is a highlight reel from a longer training session where I broke down the unique and commonly misunderstood characteristics of autistic communication to an allistic (not autistic) audience—how we ask questions, how we process context, why directness isn’t aggression, overwhelm isn’t a character flaw, and why “common sense” is a poor measuring stick for autistic “uncommon sense.” For autistics, repairing broken communication isn’t just about clarity—it’s about survival. 

This was the era I explored how autism and trauma impacted my life—and the lives of so many others. I spoke on masking, gaslighting trauma, emotional regulation, diagnosis politics, and the unsettling overlap between authentic neurodivergence and antisocial coping strategies. My videos explored how autistic people relate to boundaries, intent, and shared reality—not to excuse harmful behavior, but to understand it and rise above it. These pieces were tender, messy, and relentlessly honest. I aimed to go beyond explaining my own pain to translating it for people who needed the words. 

This year I participated heavily in the autistic TikTok community. Around the time I received my autism diagnosis, I was making short, pointed videos about masking, miscommunication, workplace shame, and why self-diagnosis has validity. These clips explored the late-diagnosis experience and the disconnect between autistic experience and allistic assumptions. While TikTok gave me a great opportunity to connect with those with similar experiences, I eventually determined the environment was disastrous to my nervous system. 

COVID illuminated the dysfunction of the systems I’d spent my life depending on. I wasn’t responding to headlines anymore, I was living them. I spoke plainly about the spiritual costs of capitalism, the way our culture punishes vulnerability, and how anti-spiritual mindsets influence institutions, even activist ones. I stood up for controversial figures from bad-faith attacks, analyzed Texas’s deadly grid failure, and kept coming back to the same concern: the normalization of choosing fear over love is killing us. These videos were intellectual, honest, and fiery—exactly what the moment demanded. 

I don't say this lightly—The Social Dilemma changed my life. This video, focused on the journey of Tristan Harris, was my raw, urgent attempt to connect the dots between persuasive tech, psychological vulnerability, and the fracturing of human agency. I wanted to use The Social Dilemma to call out the invisible violence of surveillance capitalism, share my own history of manipulation and trauma, and argue that reclaiming attention is a spiritual act. This one came from my soul, and was a statement of appreciation toward one of the few people on the planet I truly admire.

This stretch of time over peak COVID cracked me wide open. I started questioning not just culture, but the machinery behind it—how social media manipulates emotion for profit, how outrage is commodified, and how cancel culture holds a mirror to our inner darkness. I was dissecting power, criticizing complicity, and seeking deeper understanding of collective behavior. These videos mark the moment I stopped asking “what’s wrong with people” and instead asked “what have people built? And how do we change course?”

After walking away from my most successful YouTube series, I felt compelled to consciously untangle my beliefs on my own. I explored media influence, beauty standards, goal obsession, and perception itself through timely pop culture entry points. I began to confront that much of what we take for granted as “truth” is actually shaped by systems, conditioning, and personal bias. These videos were playful on the surface, but underneath I was starting to see the problem—the world isn’t neutral, and we can’t grow until we question what we think we see.

Before I stepped into advocacy and systems commentary, I spent my career inside the media machine—producing, directing, editing, and animating video content for tech companies, hotels, healthcare giants, and digital networks. My longest straight run was with Larry King’s Ora TV, where I worked on brand shows and delivered top-performing content across platforms. Later, I ran my own boutique media business, managing full production pipelines for big name clients. I was good at making things look polished. Sadly, over time, the constant instability of that lifestyle turned my attention to the root causes of that instability.

Alyssa and I had never met. I just heard the song, connected with the message, and sent her a pitch. The rest is history. I didn't share her experiences as a musician, but I deeply related as a YouTuber navigating the pressure to satisfy both audiences and revenue streams—and somehow remain authentic. The concept came together quickly, but the production took about six months, with over 30 volunteers pitching in. Looking back, this was one of my earliest attempts to say something real about performance and selfhood in capitalism.

Throughout making music industry content, I craved to cover broader topics. Ergo, The Dinz was born—a YouTube series splicing sketches and talk segments to encourage thoughtful discourse with levity and laughter. I ended up hosting and producing two episodes a week and managing a 6-member team. We were writing, shooting, editing, performing, and promoting for over a year. We achieved a following, but I walked away when the pressure from the attention far outweighed financial opportunity.

For a number of years, I hosted a variety of events at Anime Expo, the largest celebration of Japanese pop culture in North America. I developed event concepts and entertained and educated crowds. Even at a young age, I supervised crews and successfully delegated tasks to subordinates while maintaining the requirements of my supervisors in very high stress, time sensitive situations. Looking back, this is where I learned that I have no problem taking charge and commanding the stage if I feel alignment with my environment. 

When I first kicked off my YouTube channel, my professional goal was to direct music videos. They ended up being a lens to talk about bigger issues, like the intersection of pop culture, media ethics, and the complexities of global marketing. I unpacked how industry structures exploit loneliness, how idol fantasies distort real connection, and how niche marketing reinforces stereotypes while pretending to celebrate diversity. I wasn’t just reviewing videos, I was tracking the mechanics underneath, and that lens only sharpened with time.