So, yesterday, my family and I returned from a three-day whirlwind journey through Disney World. Imagine a trip across the Magic Kingdom, Animal Kingdom, Epcot, and Hollywood Studios with four boys under 11 and multiple cousins in tow. It was exhilarating, exhausting, magical, and sometimes frustrating (when you realize you’ve definitely pushed a four-year-old too way to far without a nap).

Honestly, my favorite moment was toward the very beginning of the trip. Yetta and I had been planning for 9-months and it was a total surprise for our kids. They found out on the morning of our departure that we were headed to the airport. But even better, at the airport, they found out that not JUST they were going to Disney World, but some of their cousins were as well! It was by far the most fun surprise Yetta and I have ever undertaken! (you can watch the video of the boy’s reaction at the end of the email).

All that to say, we had a blast on the trip, but there was one element of the trip that caught me totally off-guard: Deep existential questions from my four year old.

You see, my four-year-old Wes asked the same question at least thirty times a day:
“Is that real?” (pointing at the Millennium Falcon)
“Is she real?” (pointing at a Disney princess)
“Is Mickey Mouse real?” (pointing at, you guessed it, Mickey Mouse).

Imagine 30 variations on that theme each day. By the end of the trip, I had heard “is it real” close to a hundred times.

And it got me thinking: the “magic” of Disney isn’t actually about creating real things. What they’ve mastered is creating technically impossible experiences (entering the Star Wars universe, racing a Tron bike, meeting famous animated characters, journeying through a dozen countries in a fifteen-minute walk) and making them feel real. Or at least as real as current technological wizardry and set-building artistry allow.

In other words, they’re masters of creating experiences and stories that accompany those experiences that transport you, even if just for a moment, out of the real world and into another one.

And that got me thinking about the transformative power of story. At its heart, story puts the audience in someone else’s shoes (even if only briefly) so that they feel, think, or see the world differently than they had before. And when you can shift how someone sees the world, maybe you can share what truly matters: ideas or values that help them (and perhaps others) flourish.

Now, I love to rag on Disney for “losing their way” as much as the next guy. But I have to give them credit. As Didier Ghez writes in Disneyland Paris: From Sketch to Reality:

“Walt Disney was, foremost, a storyteller. As a result, everything starts with a story at Walt Disney Imagineering. Every detail of every land in the park has to be backed up by a story, a ‘mythology’. Often, the story would never be a part of what the guests would experience, but was used as a strategic outline in guiding the design process. It is the thread that holds it all together, the script from which all the elements flow coherently: design, models, color, backdrops, props and costumes. And it’s the essence that distinguishes a Disney park and its lands from all other parks.”

That philosophy of story first isn’t just rhetoric. It creates real impact. In the last few years, Disney World has drawn around 50 million guests annually. Compare this to the mere 17 million who visit Universal Studios parks a year. Disney dwarfs the competition as they whistle straight to the bank on their story-fist approach.

So maybe Wes’s little question wasn’t just a child’s curiosity. Maybe it was the question at the heart of storytelling itself: is this real? And I think it points to something all of us must wrestle with. For his four-year-old brain, he knew that the story he saw was compelling and he wanted to know “is this how the world works?” The story felt real. And it mattered to him.

And I think that’s the lesson we as filmmakers, storytellers, movement builders, and brand advocates have to be considering every time we interact with our audiences. Are we telling a story that connects with the audience? Does it matter to them? And does it feel real? Only in doing that can we hope to change the world and how the audience sees it.

Here’s to Human Flourishing!

-Ian

P.S. – If you want to dive deeper into how story transports audiences—and how to define the audience you want to reach—join us this Friday for the Film Impact Summit. Only a few seats remain, so register now at distantmoon.com/impact.

Join Us at the Summit!

These are just starting points. At the Impact Film Summit, we’ll dive deeper into frameworks, show examples from inside campaigns, and give you tools to build films that inspire and sustain growth.

Date: September 12, 2025
Location: Hotel Burg, Leesburg, VA
Register Now—Limited to 50 People
Want to learn more? Watch the video below!

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DOWzdG-kSuy/?igsh=MW00ZzZ4bGs1c2xjZw==

<p>The post External Questions From a Four Year Old first appeared on Distant Moon.</p>

Today, I’m heading to New York City for a quick 24-hour trip – and honestly, I’ve been feeling the nerves.

It’s not often I get this kind of anxious energy about work. But there’s still one scenario that brings out the imposter syndrome in full force:

Awards shows.

Tonight, Yetta and I will be attending the 2025 Webby Awards Ceremony in lower Manhattan, red carpet and all.

It’s a surreal experience. I’ve spent decades crafting stories and creating work. But I haven’t spent decades receiving public recognition, walking fancy carpets, or standing shoulder to shoulder with celebrities.

Just look at who’s being honored tonight: Rihanna, Taylor Swift, Kendrick Lamar, Taika Waititi, Simone Biles, the Kelce brothers – and more.

And then there’s me. Ian, who?

A small voice in my head says: You don’t belong here.

Ok. Fine. It’s actually a big voice. And it’s really loud.

All afternoon yesterday, I was worrying about what I would say to people. “How do you make small talk again?” “What will I do?” “I probably shouldn’t even go, right? Like awards are just a total waste of time anyway!?”

But as the nervous energy was growing to an unbearable level and as my own brain was saying “hey, dude. Normal people don’t belong at an event like this,” a different thought hit me: What if it’s precisely the normal people who are called to do meaningful work that serves other normal people?

That, after all, is what Distant Moon was built for – helping others wrestle with life’s essential questions, see the world more clearly, and connect with what it means to be human. That’s what I’ve been called to do.

And the interesting thing is, as soon as I had that thought, the nerves began to subside. Suddenly the objective in my attendance was disconnected from my own well-being. Instead of asking “what if people think I don’t belong?” I was able to start wondering “what can I do to help others feel like they belong?”

In case it’s not obvious, I’m not talking about “belonging at the Webbys.” I’m talking about belonging in a deeper sense.

C.S. Lewis was one of the most profound influences in my early scholastic life. In high school I enrolled in a great books course that was predominantly focused on the nonfiction writings of Lewis. In one of his books, “The Weight of Glory,” he says something that has always stuck with me:

“It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken.

It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.

All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics.

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours.”

What if the goal isn’t to promote ourselves, but to encourage the eternal beings all around us to find truth, goodness, and flourishing in their everyday lives? Perhaps that ought to be the goal even in the fleeting moments of small talk at a banquet, on the red carpet, or in a crowded after party?

What if we approached every encounter with genuine curiosity, asking others about their dreams, their work, their purpose?

That’s the posture Yetta and I are going to try to take with us. We’re not going to sell ourselves. We’re going to try to see others – to really see them.

So….tonight, I’m choosing to see the Webby Awards not as a stage to impress, but as a space to serve.

And, just maybe, we’ll encourage someone else who also wonders why they’re at the Webby Awards… and remind them that they belong as well.

Here’s to Human Flourishing.

-Ian

In Other News…

My oldest son, Cal and I went down to Nashville a week ago to visit our friends at Kingdom Story Company. We spent a wonderful day with the team there as they’re finalizing their new studio and on set shooting I Can Only Imagine 2. Here are some fun pictures from the time I got to spend with Cal both on set and around the town.

<p>The post On Nerves and Red Carpets first appeared on Distant Moon.</p>

This week I watched an interview between Pete Docter and Mike Birbiglia. It has a mere 20,000 views – which is a shame, because it might be the most encouraging conversation I’ve watched in years.

Why? Because it clarified something for me:
True excellence requires sacrifice.

“Yeah, duh,” you might say. But hang with me…

How often do we repeat societal mantras without actually internalizing what those mantras mean when the rubber meets the road?

Even that idiom! Ever said “when the rubber meets the road” without thinking about what it actually refers to? Let’s unpack its meaning. “When the rubber meets the road” refers to the moment a race car is dropped after a tire change – when the fresh rubber hits asphalt. At that point, all theory is off. Planning is in the rearview. All that’s left is to drive like hell.

Here’s the real point:
We rarely visualize the lived reality behind the slogans we parrot. Especially when it comes to the saying, “True excellence requires sacrifice.”

Everyone says this. And yet…most people aren’t excellent.

I can hear the objections: “Don’t be so critical! People are doing their best!”

No disrespect. But by definition, most of society isn’t excellent. Excellence means excelling – rising above the norm. Webster’s calls it “first class” or “superior,” which implies a hierarchy of quality. “Excellence” only exists because there is something less than excellence to contrast it.

In most measurable contexts – sports, academics, business – excellence is the top 10%. That means 90% of people are not operating at that level. So when the majority talks about excellence, we have to admit: they’re often speaking about something they haven’t actually experienced.

Which led me to this thought: Looking to the 90% for advice on how to be in the 10% is a fool’s errand.

You wouldn’t ask the Monday morning quarterback at the water cooler for help designing a world-class playbook. You’d ask Tom Brady.

So why do we take cues from the people around us – online, in offices, at dinner parties – about what makes a great career, business, or life? Shouldn’t we be listening to the actual greats?

Which, brings me back to Pete Docter.

In his conversation with Mike Birbiglia, Pete – the brilliant director behind Monsters Inc., Up, and Inside Out, says something that gave me pause.

He describes how every Pixar movie requires hundreds of artists to endure 3 a.m. nights, creative crises, and sheer exhaustion. Final stretches where all-nighters are more common than 9-to-5 workdays.

Hold up. Pixar – 30 years into its reign as the world’s leading animation studio – still hasn’t figured out how to make excellent films without pain, sacrifice, and emotional turmoil??

If they haven’t cracked the code, what makes us think we’ll find a shortcut?

And oddly…that question felt freeing.

Mr. Beast proves there’s no shortcut

Once I saw this question clearly, I started noticing corollary questions. I recently watched interviews with Jimmy Donaldson (MrBeast) and Steven Bartlett (Diary of a CEO), where they describe their lives: jetting from Egypt to L.A. for a shoot, driving to North Hollywood for a midnight interview, sleeping on planes, and filming into the early hours.

That kind of pace sounds insane to average people. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s only insane if you’re not actually trying to build a world-changing empire. And maybe that’s okay.

We don’t all need to adopt the lifestyle of MrBeast or Pixar. But we do need to acknowledge the tradeoffs. Because excellence doesn’t come cheap. And if you want to reach the top 10% in your field – whether it’s design, ministry, filmmaking, nonprofit leadership, or entrepreneurship – you’ll need to count the cost.

We all carry competing responsibilities – to our teams, our families, our clients, and to our own souls. But at some point, we have to tell the truth, which starts with honest questions: What are we actually trying to accomplish? And are we willing to make the necessary sacrifices?

Excellence Requires Sacrifice

I initially planned to end on this point, but at Yetta’s urging, I realized I should say a word about what sacrifice actually looks like in practice. Because the sacrifice most of us least want to make (comfort and personal enjoyment) is often the one most necessary to achieve any kind of excellence.

A friend of mine (and my first landlord) used to say, “In life, you have to triage your responsibilities.” Unless you’re a rare exception, your life probably involves more than just one priority. For me, it’s Family, Business, and Health (spiritual, mental, physical). You’ll notice “hang with the guys” didn’t make the list.

It’s taken me decades of focus to *try* to figure out how to allocate time between these areas, and if you’re interested in seeing my personal schedule, shoot me a note. I’m happy to share it and talk about it in more detail. 

The point – and this is really Yetta’s insight – is that sacrifice doesn’t mean giving everything up for one thing. It means choosing the few spinning plates you refuse to let drop, and being willing to sacrifice everything else to keep those going.

Heck, I wrote this at 11pm on a Friday night because I committed to send out these newsletters twice a month and I’ve been on set all week for 14-hours at a time. That’s what “the rubber meets the road” looks like for me right now. So what’s it look like for you?

If you want to build the most impactful nonprofit in your space, what are the current leaders sacrificing to be there?

If I want to build the most influential film studio of the 21st century, what did the pioneers give up to lead at that level?

Are we matching that commitment?

Whether your answer is yes or no, isn’t actually the point of this email. That’s a deeply personal accounting and one every person and team needs to make for themselves. But the question must be asked. Because no path to excellence begins without a clear-eyed understanding of what it costs.

And once you see it, you can no longer unsee it.

Here’s to excellence and human flourishing,
– Ian

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<p>The post What Pixar Taught me about Sacrifice first appeared on Distant Moon.</p>