God Only Knows What I’d Be Without You
I had no plan for when Brian Wilson died. But immediately — and without a second thought — I knew exactly what I had to do: Play God Only Knows on repeat.
Over and over, until I thought the song had followed me into a CVS. It hadn’t. It was just my phone, still playing from my pocket.
It’s not the first time this song has haunted me — or left me thinking: I don’t know what I’d be without you.
But I do know the way in which a song can attach itself to a memory without even trying. This is just one of the many unexpected lessons I learned as a freelance filmmaker.
I thought I was showing up somewhere to complete a job and collect a check. But sometimes — and completely unpredictably — I wasn’t showing up to work. I was showing up to witness a moment.
A moment so magnetic that not even my most expensive piece of glass could protect me from it.
A moment so pivotal to the people involved that it somehow became pivotal to me. I don’t have many of these moments but the few I have are completely unmistakable.
The first “moment” occurred when I was contracted to film a surprise 90th birthday party at a retirement home. Beyond the standard logistical details, I didn’t know much about the birthday girl other than that her name was Shira, she was turning 90 and she was a Holocaust survivor. That’s all I needed to know.
Sometimes, the less we know about a moment before it happens, the better.
I had filmed many birthday parties before, but never for a 90 year old. Sweet 16s always come with a whole host of debauchery. Usually, school-aged guests sneak liquor into the bathroom and reemerge into the world drunk for the first time. I’m not encouraging this behavior, but drunk teenagers dancing like fools and roasting their friends on camera always made my job easy.
But with Shira, I didn’t expect that kind of party. Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. I was worried there wouldn’t be much to film and I’d have to get really “creative” in post production.
When I arrived, it was clear that Shira’s children had put a lot of work into it. The room was cleverly arranged and decorated in a festive but tasteful way. What I thought was a small family gathering turned out to be a lifetime’s worth of family and friends traveling from all over the world to surprise Shira.
When the time came, I coordinated with my partner Greg on which angles we’d cover so we wouldn’t miss a thing. The details don’t matter — and nor do I remember them — because what came next was all my memory could hold.
The plan was for Shira to walk in and everyone to yell, “Surprise!” What wasn’t planned was that, for a brief moment that felt like eternity, I swear that Shira stopped time. How naive I was to think that there “wouldn’t be much to film.”
When I started learning filmmaking, it was for selfish reasons. I wanted to make “real” films so I could make money and show the world how clever I was.
But that was before Shira humbled me.
In that moment, I wasn’t just watching a subject in a viewfinder — I was watching a Holocaust survivor relive her entire life in a single moment. At first, she seemed confused. Then, as it sank in, she looked carefully at everyone in the room. At 90 years old, she didn’t just recognize them—she remembered what they represented.
I imagined that with one glance she was reliving her youth, her eyes growing more childlike. With others, there was a deep recognition of mutual sadness that only the strongest among us can revisit.
Most of the time I filmed from afar, on a long lens. When you learn filmmaking, it’s easy to get caught up in lighting and focal lengths. But no one tells you that you have to learn how to read people — when to get close, and when to stay back.
Luckily, I had already learned that by the time I had my lens on Shira.
I filmed her from a distance, and although I couldn’t hear what was said, it was impossible not to understand. Part of me fears that if I had heard their words, I might have been too distracted to understand the meaning.
In words, they were probably recalling memories and making up for lost time. But underneath, they were saying thank you and goodbye. Because even the most optimistic 90-year-old knows: when someone travels across the world to see you, it might be the last time.
So much of that day was so plainly obvious in context, but completely unforeseeable for a freelancing twenty-something.
Yet, once I saw it, it was impossible to forget.
The next “moment” occurred when surprise, surprise, I was contracted to film another surprise party — this time, an engagement. Last time was goodbye. This time was love. New love. Love with possibilities instead of endings.
The couple was in their mid-fifties. It was clear that they both had full lives and families before crossing paths. This wasn’t first love, this was the love of their lives.
You can tell a lot about a couple before they even tell you. I don’t encourage assumptions, but some are undeniable.
Filming can be lonely. It’s just you and your camera in a room full of people who all know each other. So I learned to forgive myself for occasionally letting my assumptions keep me company. As I eavesdropped through my lens, one by one, my assumptions proved me right.
Except for one.
Again, I assumed I’d film the event, collect my check, and let the whole night evaporate onto a hard drive with hundreds of other beautiful-but-forgettable moments.
There was a live band that night. I’d be lying if I said I thought they were good. But with a music degree that’s been more instrumental to my poverty than anything else, who am I to judge?
Eventually, the band stopped.
A man stood up. Not with confidence or showmanship, but with a humility that only comes from receiving something so rare that even on your best day, you still don’t believe you deserve it.
He thanked his guests for coming to his annual party. For them this was a tradition. For me, it would become a testament. And a true testament doesn’t gain power through repetition. It gains power through singularity.
He spoke about his friends. And then, gently, he began to tell the story of how they led him to the woman who would become his wife.
As soon as she realized what was happening, she went from beautiful to what beautiful only aspires to be. If you think one person can’t change the world, I’ll tell you that they can, in a home, in a moment, in the perfect focus of a stranger. It happens when one person is so moved, the whole room moves with them. It was clear, not a single person was worried about their hair, their inbox, or what they’ll eat for lunch tomorrow.
Such a “moment” hypnotizes everyone in its orbit, even the freelance filmmaker.
He proposed. She said yes. The whole room said yes.
And then — a french horn and a harpsichord sounded as if the band was revealing they had been The Beach Boys in disguise all along. Their earlier renditions of off-beat Billy Joel and out-of-tune Tony Bennett were just a long con, a deliberate misdirection, making this moment hit harder.
The couple danced as the lyrics carved themselves into my consciousness:
I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you
Paul McCartney once called “God Only Knows” the greatest song ever written. That night, I understood why.
These are the moments that make me wonder: what would I be without them? What would I be if filmmaking had just been a job?
I worked on high-end productions. Some of them even won awards. But they didn’t win a place in my heart.
When people ask me why I left the film industry, I usually give them the easy answer: I didn’t want to travel. It was too physically demanding. And maybe that’s true. But the deeper truth is: I didn’t want to spend my life manufacturing a “moment.”
Before filmmaking, I had spent much of my life manufacturing: strength, control, indifference — whatever was needed to survive.
But now, I was witnessing life in the safest way I knew how: through other people. And sometimes, safe is the only way we know how. Because it sneaks up on us. And when you think you're filming, you’re not protecting yourself from the presence of death. Or love.
My family wasn’t built on love. It was built on obligation and divorce.
And before I witnessed a proposal turn a house band into The Beach Boys, somewhere in my life, I must have seen love. I must have felt it pass by. But I never understood it until that night. I always wanted love. I just never expected The Beach Boys would be the ones to teach me how to recognize it.
To this day, Greg and I have never spoken in depth about Shira’s party. We don’t need to. Every now and then, one of us says, “Shira.” The other replies “Shira.” And we nod.
Ironically, her son ran a rather prominent media school. He offered to enroll me in classes if I was interested. I never followed up. I had already walked away from that day with more than I could hold.
For a long time, I thought work and life were separate. Until, one day, the moments of strangers became the most memorable moments of my life.
We’re taught to choose function and practicality. But without even knowing it, I chose feeling.
I chose to make memories — not just for myself but for others. And to me, that’s far more meaningful than working on a corporate commercial.
Some of my memories, I’d rather not admit. Like the time we excommunicated expired wine from a church basement. We were young. We were stupid. We hadn’t yet been touched by Shira.
And I — by love.
I always hoped filmmaking would take me somewhere. I just never expected it would take me inside myself.
So to Shira, Greg, The Beach Boys, the happy couple — and to love — I say:
God Only Knows What I’d Be Without You.
R.I.P. Brian Wilson (June 20, 1942 - June 11, 2025)