When it comes to most events in LA, I’ll willingly go by myself, understanding that I’ll likely know someone there and find a party partner. As I entered the venue and turned the corner, I saw a group of industry colleagues I knew. I approached them to say hello, and when they dispersed, there he was in the center.

My ex. Let’s call him... Chicago.

We hadn’t seen each other in years. As soon as he spotted me, he shouted, “THERE HE IS!”

We hugged. Holding me tighter than necessary, he smiled and said in his signature self-righteous way, “Yeah... I bet you didn’t expect to receive all of this love, did you?”

I rolled my eyes and continued on my journey.

Then came another ex. We’ll call him The Insulter because every greeting somehow included a cleverly disguised insult. It was his defense mechanism—a shield for his social anxiety—but exhausting nonetheless. We hugged, and I swiftly dismissed myself before the inevitable verbal jab.

The chaste church boy in me whispered, “Nasir, you’re a jezebel! You just ran into two of your heauxs in the first ten minutes.” (Yes, the spelling of heauxs is intentional. I like it better.)

To be clear, this was my ninth year in LA, and after nearly a decade in one place, you’re bound to accumulate a few former lovers. Still, I had some shame and embarrassment to navigate.

As funny as these moments were, they also forced me to ask a few questions about dating in Hollywood. Why has finding love here been so challenging? Why does everyone date everyone? Why do so many celebrity family trees resemble flowcharts?

The experience shed light on how incestuous the dating pool in Hollywood can become, especially after you’ve lived here for more than five years. Before moving to Los Angeles, I was judgmental about how celebrities seemed to swap partners like they were passing the aux cord.

Twelve years into living in Los Angeles, I get it. You date inside the circles where you live, work, and socialize. Hollywood isn’t nearly as big as people imagine. I’ve even found myself saying, “Dammit, Nasir. No more makeup artists or television executives. Find yourself a nice tax accountant!”

Conversations among longtime Angelenos usually sound like this:

“Do you know ______?”

“Yeah... he dated my friend back in 2015 before he got married and had two kids with his wife.”

Every single time, I think, Damn. This city is tiny.

Scenarios like this also leave me wondering: Is Hollywood the place to find real love and partnership? Is it possible in this environment? What does family planning look like in a city where careers often come first?

Many people move to Los Angeles to chase a dream. Fewer arrive with a plan to build a life alongside someone else.

One of my funniest experiences was walking up to an attractive gentleman. We exchanged pleasantries, and after a few minutes, we talked about why we had each moved to Los Angeles.

He said, “To do drugs, have sex, and party.”

He asked me the same question.

I replied, “To build an empire, buy property, and have a family.”

We quickly said our goodbyes, recognizing the immediate lack of alignment in our intentions.

I’ve also gone on dates only to realize I wasn’t someone’s romantic interest—I was someone’s potential executive producer. They found more interest in my IMDb than actually getting to know me.

In one particular case, I finally asked a gentleman exactly what he wanted from me.

“Do you want to date me, work with me, or be my friend?”

His response?

“Well… can we try all three?”

That was a hard no for me.

Not knowing people’s intentions has been one of the greatest challenges in determining the authenticity of relationships.

Some people call the pursuit of love a waste of time in today’s dating era. I often hear people say there’s “pee in the dating pool.”

My response?

“Well, clean that shit out, and let’s get to loving.”

Dating is a faith process, too.

I’ve had to trust that when things don’t work out, they’re working out for my greater good. Rejection is often protection—and redirection.

Regardless of it all, I’m still faithful that there’s a person out there for me, even in the midst of the challenges. Dating takes courage, and despite everything, I’m still willing to keep showing up. I believe in an infinite, divine love. I’m confident my heart will one day find its companion—a soft place to land and someone with whom to share this beautiful life. Until then, I’ll continue navigating the Hollywood dating pool—hopefully without running into two exes before I order my first drink.

To all of you who are in pursuit of partnership, in the words of my friend Tabitha Brown:

“I pray love finds you and holds you tight.”

“How are you feeling?”

Surprisingly, many of them couldn’t answer.

Not because they didn’t have feelings, but because many had never been given permission to identify them.

One conversation has stayed with me for years.

A friend was going through a painful breakup after a tumultuous relationship. I asked him how he was feeling.

He shrugged.

“I mean... it’s cool. It is what it is.”

I gently pushed back.

“That’s not an emotion, man. How are you feeling?”

He paused.

“I feel like I got dumped.”

Again I challenged him.

“That’s what happened. That’s not how you feel.”

Another long silence.

Finally, almost as if he were discovering the word for the first time, he said:

“I feel...sad.”

In that moment, I realized my friend wasn’t emotionally unavailable. He was emotionally underdeveloped. Somewhere along the way, he’d learned how to suppress his feelings, but never how to name them.

That conversation has stayed with me because it forced me to ask much bigger questions:

How have so many Black men become emotionally numb?

What has conditioned us to disconnect from ourselves?

And when we do become vulnerable, is anyone really listening?

From childhood, many of us are taught that our feelings are secondary.

“Stop crying!”
“Man up!”
“Be strong!”

Somehow our anger is more acceptable than our heartbreak and pain. Our rage is easier for society to process than our grief.

Too often, the value of Black men is measured by our height, our income, our credit score, the size of our penis, or our sexual performance. Rarely are we valued for our hearts and souls. Rarely are we celebrated for our emotional lives.

I often think about the dehumanization of one of the most famous Black men in history: Michael Jackson. Yes, people are celebrating the success of the Michael biopic becoming the most successful biopic of all time, but what strikes me most is that this may be one of the first mainstream portrayals that attempts to humanize him. For decades, we watched one of the most gifted entertainers the world has ever known be ridiculed, sensationalized, and stripped of his humanity. His extraordinary talent was too often overshadowed by controversy, speculation, and tabloid headlines.

Then I think about another Michael.

Michael B. Jordan.

At the BAFTAs, both he and Delroy Lindo endured a racist incident when a man with Tourette syndrome repeatedly uttered the N-word as part of his verbal tics. As I watched, my first thought were, “I hope their hearts are okay.” Both men handled the moment with remarkable grace and professionalism. But they shouldn’t have had to endure that experience.

Which brings me back to a question that keeps resurfacing:

Do people truly care about how Black men feel? We mourn when Black men take their own lives—or the lives of others. But how often do we make room for a Black man whose heart is simply hurting or navigating big feelings?

Recently, I congratulated a friend who is experiencing tremendous professional success.

His response of “I’m tired” truly surprised me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about those two words. What kind of pressure was he carrying?What weight came with the success everyone else was celebrating? From the outside, it looked like he had everything. But behind “I’m tired” was a story I may never fully know. And it made me wonder:

When a Black man says he’s tired...

...are we really listening?

Not long ago, I also had the opportunity to apologize to another Black man in Hollywood for something I’d carried with me for years.

The guilt. The shame. The regret. His response was one of grace and forgiveness.

Afterward, I couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if more of us did this. If we created space to apologize. To forgive. To cry. To be honest. To let each other see the parts of ourselves we’ve been taught to hide.

How are we managing our hurt?

How are we navigating our pain?

Are we giving ourselves permission to heal?

Are we seeking therapy?

Are we creating spaces where vulnerability isn’t mistaken for weakness and masculinity isn’t measured by emotional silence?

These are enormous questions—far too big to answer in one essay.

But perhaps the conversation begins with something much simpler.

A question.

One we’ve rarely been asked.

Hey Black man in Hollywood...

How are you feeling?

Throughout my career, no group has championed me more fiercely than Black women. For twenty years, they have been my strongest advocates—pushing me forward when opportunities seemed out of reach and opening doors when I faced unemployment in the entertainment industry. The sets I’ve shadowed on, the gigs I’ve landed, the big and small career breaks that kept me afloat—time and again, they were made possible because Black women chose to stand with me.

I was blessed to be raised by two extraordinary Black women. I have four sisters, and my three best friends are all Black women. From them, I have learned resilience, strength, and love. Yet even with this upbringing, I must admit it took me far too long to fully grasp the unique burdens they carry in professional spaces.

I once worked at a company alongside a brilliant Black woman who feared she was being pushed out even though she was excellent at her job for a white male replacement. I brushed off her concerns, assuming she was being paranoid. I told her not to worry, but I was wrong. Sadly, she was right. She was manipulated out of her role and quietly shifted into a transitional job, her voice silenced in the process. That same man also twisted another Black women employee’s words from her podcast, manipulated the audio and weaponized them against her.

On another set, I watched a gifted Black woman director be dismissed by a white male crew member who laughed in her face and dismissed her shot request as impossible. I’ve watched Black women assistant directors be labeled as aggressive and difficult to work with while their white male counterparts do the same thing and get rewarded for being a great leader.

I couldn’t help but reflect on some of these moments when I witnessed Jimmy Kimmel’s show be snatched off the air and how the public rallied around him. Disney subscriptions plummeted, the value of the Disney stock decreased significantly, and the show was swiftly brought back on air. I wish the world would have rallied around Joy-Ann Reid when her show was abruptly cancelled with the same urgency and unwavering support.

This also takes me back to another historic television moment…the Oscars slap. When my fellow Philadelphian Will Smith slapped Chris Rock at the Oscars, many argued that it was an act of violence that disturbed them. However, I would argue that the fact that a Black woman was being defended, instantly and without apology, in front of the world was a part of everyone being triggered. Would a comedian ever mock Julia Roberts or Cate Blanchett for a medical condition that caused hair loss? I doubt it. But with Black women, society too often finds mockery acceptable.

Also, Black women’s unemployment and pay disparities are often sidelined or outright ignored. The recent reports of 300,000 Black women losing their jobs went largely unnoticed by mainstream media—and the silence is telling. In 2023, Taraji P. Henson made headlines during her The Color Purple press tour when she spoke candidly about the pay disparities she faced in her career. Other trailblazers, including Viola Davis and Mo’Nique, have also raised their voices to expose these systemic inequities.

As a Black gay man, one of the hardest parts of acknowledging my sexuality was letting go of the dream of marrying a Black woman. I grew up envisioning a family that resembled the Huxtables or the Obamas. Letting go of that vision was painful, because to me, Black women represent the most phenomenal human beings on this earth. Their brilliance, their beauty, their tenacity—it is unmatched.

And yet, how do we treat them? Do we honor them as the queens they are? Do we protect them as they have protected us? Do we give them the reciprocity they so deeply deserve? Too often, the answer is no. And we must step up and do better.

To every Black woman who has built me up, blessed me, and believed in me: I see you. I thank you. I love you. And I will always stand with you.

Read more

In today’s climate, we must pivot and diversify. Depending solely on television or streaming as the only source of income is no longer sustainable. The model is broken.

We’re in a period of immense transition in the entertainment industry. The mantra—“survive until 2025”— is near expiration and as we approach the final quarter of the year, countless friends and colleagues are still unemployed. So what now?

We accept reality. The old order is gone. If survival means taking a “bridge job” until you can do what you love, then so be it.

Here’s the truth: we are gig workers. Freelancers. Project to project. And right now, projects are fewer and slower than ever. Rates are dropping, and people are accepting pay far below their worth just to stay working. Studios, networks, production companies, and even tech firms are offering less than ever before. I’ve even heard of rates that are one third of what is industry standard.

I’ve seen friends and colleagues pivot in unexpected ways—even turning to sex work. During a late-night scroll on a burner account from an app that will not be named (judge your Mama, not me), I recognized several familiar faces. It shocked me at first, but let’s be clear: sex work is work. This isn’t judgment—just reality.

My grandmother used to say, “I’ll clean shit off a wall for a job as long as you give me gloves.” At the time, I didn’t understand it. But in 2015, after a decade of success in TV, I found myself cleaning shit off a wall in a laundromat. Her words came back to me—and made sense. This can also be the reality for many of us.

And reality is exactly what my real-life friend and colleague Tabitha Brown spoke to when she told folks to get a job if you need to. Some people attacked her for that truth, but I fully stand with her.

In this era, diversification is survival. My heroes were once exclusively directors, writers, and showrunners—and they still inspire me. But I now look equally to creatives who’ve expanded beyond the industry.

Take two fellow Philly natives:

• Egypt Sherrod turned a layoff from radio into a thriving career in real estate after being at the unemployment office and seeing her face on a cab that promoted her radio show.

• Michael Elliot, tired of being at the mercy of studios, created Hammer & Nails, a successful men’s grooming business.

This year I celebrated 20 years in entertainment. Now, let’s run down my credentials - two Emmy nominations, one NAACP Image Award, one GLAAD Award, four Telly Awards, two Anthem Awards and I’ve worked with HULU, HBO, MTV, BET, VH1, Bravo, Lifetime, and OWN. My films have been shown all over the world. I’ve been disciplined—saved, invested, built retirement, diversified within the industry—and yet my emergency fund still hit ZERO. That was my wake-up call.

The old way of the industry is NOT COMING BACK!!!

My next move is clear: I will diversify outside of entertainment. I will still produce, write, and direct but I will for sure be doing other things as well.

And honestly, I’m grateful this reckoning came at 40, while single and child-free. Because by 50, I plan to be married, raising two kids, and building an empire—and I refuse to repeat this cycle.

One thing I know for sure: I will never end up in this position again.

The truth is this: in today’s volatile climate, a presidential administration can pull programming from the air and end the livelihood of hundreds overnight.

We all want the same thing—safety. Financial safety. Personal safety. Creative safety. And in today’s entertainment industry, there is no safety.

The average millionaire has seven sources of income.

So the only way forward is this: pivot. Diversify. Build something no one can take away from you.

I’ve had to say “see you later” to several friends who left Los Angeles—some for new career paths, some to work remotely, others simply in search of cities with a more affordable cost of living. I underestimated how much grief I’d feel in saying goodbye to these comrades.

At the same time, I’ve had to confront the possibility of leaving Los Angeles myself—not out of desire, but because of the city’s harsh economics.

The truth is clear: the old Hollywood model is gone. The industry now belongs to tech companies, and the cell phone can act as a production company. The questions weigh heavily: How do we pivot? How do we diversify?

I’ll miss my friends. Though I still have access to them, there’s a deep comfort in having them here in the city—facing this mountain called Hollywood side by side.

I’m also grieving the vision I once held: climbing the ranks, selling a show and becoming a showrunner, filling my writers’ room with talented friends, and casting them in my shows, of us building together. That dream is still possible, but what does it look like now with adopting a new model.

I love Los Angeles, even when it feels like an abusive relationship—or like loving something that will never love me back the way I love it.

I once heard someone describe Hollywood as a “war of attrition”—a prolonged conflict in which each side slowly wears down the other through small, grinding actions.

But must it be a war at all? And, if it is, is the sacrifice worth it?