My Biggest Lesson: Dominic Laing

Dominic Laing is a motion editor and writer who believes good storytelling possesses dual graces—those of knowing and becoming known.

He’s equally at home in the watch-piece precision of a 30-second brand spot for a food delivery app as he is in the more fluid nature of a long-form documentary where an athlete fights for a spot on the squad while he explores generations of mental health struggles in his family.

Dominic loves stained-glass windows, gluten-free waffles and gardening. He’s officiated three weddings. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife, Jenae, and their new baby.

Maybe this isn’t the sunniest of intros (for that, maybe we could talk about my deep knowledge of 70’s rock or fascination with professional wrestling), but most of the lessons I’ve learned, I’ve learned through failure. 

The lesson that came to mind deals with what happens when something dies, and you think you’re going to die along with it...but you don’t. 

In October 2015, I moved west from Philadelphia to Portland, Oregon. Three-and-a-half years earlier, I’d moved out to Philly from Los Angeles (Pasadena, to be exact) to pursue a work opportunity with friends. 

I believed the work had the potential to not only meet creative yearnings, but also fulfill personal callings I felt in my life. The ensuing three-and-a-half years were full of deep relationship, wonder and beauty. The years were also marked by interpersonal conflict, anxiety and pain—some of which was visited on me, some of which I visited on others.

I left the company in April 2015. Leaving my role felt like the death of a dream, like the death of what I believed my life was going to be. It felt like the death of my identity. On one of the first few days after the end of my employment, I went downtown to a coffee shop along Rittenhouse Square.

I journaled for a few minutes, then looked up from my notebook. Nursing students had their noses in massive textbooks, cramming for their upcoming finals. Businesspeople spoke-shouted on the phone. I ear-hustled fragments of their conversations. A woman in her 20’s was engrossed in a book. Another patron was on their phone. A high-alert parent tried to corral their energetic child and also order themselves a mocha.

None of these people had any idea what I was experiencing in that moment. They didn’t know anything about the particular grief, confusion, anger or regret I carried. Their not-knowing didn’t minimise my grief—this wasn’t a scenario of, “Suck it up, everything’s fine,” but I received the blessing of seeing my emotion in the context of the world around me.

My emotions were valid, and they felt like the entire world...but they were not the world.

From then on, whenever I knew I might be reading or writing a difficult email, or if I knew I was going to have a difficult phone call, I’d do my best to make sure I was in a public place—usually a coffee shop or park. When I was laid off in Summer 2022, for example, I had a feeling it might be happening, so I took the phone call at the park near our house. This park has a rose garden and fountain that kids like to gallop through and swim around in—even though the surrounding signs plead with them to avoid such activities. 

I looked out at the blooming roses and the arcs of fountain-water as my then-boss told me today was going to be my last day of employment with the company. 

When I left my job in 2015, I was 29 and thought my world was coming to an end. And in a way, it was, but what I learned that day in the coffee shop was I was not coming to an end. This particular dream might’ve died, but I was still someone who dreamed. My identity and my beloved-ness remained intact, irrespective of what happened with my job.

In a small way, that morning in the coffee shop also planted the seeds for the idea that the more I seek out the stories of other people—the more I practice wonder and curiosity about the lives of those around me—the healthier and more loving a person I become. I do what I can to take care of myself, but part of that care is practicing care of and belief in others.

Part of practicing grief in that coffee shop was also the practice of paying attention to life whirring around me. It was a graceful reminder that amid grief, the world keeps spinning. 

People get married. Coffee is spilled. Someone aces a test. Someone deletes a text they were going to send. Someone breaks a bone. Someone else buys a rug. Someone tries to run a mile for the first time since high school. Someone runs a red light and doesn’t cause an accident. Someone doesn’t buy a drink even though they want to. Someone calls a friend.

I’m sharing two pictures—the first is a picture I took of the tintype photo I sat for in July 2015. Tintype, also known as ferrotype, was a style of photography introduced at the beginning of the 1900’s. I was in New York City, and someone was doing tintype portraits. Without stopping to second-guess myself, I said “yes.”

When I saw the finished product, I said to myself, I’m going to keep living. Whatever has died has died, but I’m still here.

The second picture is from October 2015, in the middle of my road trip from Philadelphia to Portland. In all, the drive took ten days. I stopped in Nashville to see a friend, stayed a night in New Orleans, stayed two nights in Texas to see family, drove out to New Mexico for a hot-air balloon festival, officiated a wedding in Arizona, saw friends in L.A., family in the Bay Area, and then made it to Portland on October 15th, 2015. 

The picture feels very en medias res—I’m in the middle of a road trip, in the middle of what was and will be, my hair kicked up by the wind, waiting for the car to get full of gas.

And, if I look closely at the picture, I see there’s one grey hair starting to grow. 

Grief is big and so is beauty. The world keeps spinning. I’m still here.