Finding My Tribe (Priscilla’s POV: Part Two)

From here on, this is me, Priscilla.

Gladys and I kept laughing that we were having the same Sundance, just walking away with different takeaways.

We were in the same rooms, at the same events, meeting the same people. But what lit us up wasn’t always the same thing. She’d come back glowing from a run‑in or an unexpected conversation. I’d come back buzzing about a panel, an impact talk, or some nerdy filmmaking demo I couldn’t stop thinking about.

Same festival. Same badges. Same experiences. Different sparks.

While she soaked up the serendipity, I found myself drawn to the quieter, more intentional spaces.

I wasn’t chasing rooms.

I was looking for home.

One of my most meaningful nights happened at Level Forward’s “Bans Off: Our Stories, The Solidarity in Narrative.”

It didn’t feel like an industry mixer. It felt like a movement.

And what made it even more special was this: Africa was in the room.

There was live drum and dance from Ngoma y’Africa Cultural Center and WOFA performance group, traditional rhythms, grounded, ancestral, full‑body storytelling. Then later, younger dancers moved through Afrobeats and contemporary styles. Old and new. Roots and evolution. The exact language our film speaks. Of course, Gladys and I couldn’t just watch, we jumped straight into the dance circle too.

[PHOTO: Ngoma y’Africa Cultural Center drummers and dancers / Gladys and me jumping into the dance circle / Afrobeats dancers / fellow filmmaker roomies at Level Forward event]

Where tradition, Afrobeats, and community collided and we couldn’t help but dance too.

Standing there watching both traditional and modern African dance share the same stage at Sundance, I had this quiet, undeniable thought: Dance to the Beat has to exist.

If Sundance could hold space for African movement in all its forms, then our story belonged here too.

I met Olive Nwosu for the first time there, not just as a filmmaker with a film at Sundance, but as a woman building work rooted in purpose and people. The whole room felt like that. Conversations about fertility advocacy, women’s rights, care work, and narrative justice. Storytelling as protection. Storytelling as action.

No one was flexing credits.

People were talking about responsibility.

[PHOTO: Sistersong Empowering message/Pris wilth Olive Nwosu at Sundance event]

It wasn’t about who you knew. It was about what you stood for.

That night didn’t hype me up.

It grounded me.

For me, Sundance became less about visibility and more about belonging.

Impact spaces. Craft spaces. Community spaces.

And yes, me fully geeking out at Adobe House, diving into Frame.io workflows and Premiere timelines like a kid in a candy store, asking way too many questions, completely in my element.

The filmmakers. The funders. The impact producers. The organizers. The people building the scaffolding behind the art.

Those were my people.

Somewhere between panels, late‑night mixers, long lines, shuttle buses, and walking around in our heavy coats, something shifted.

Sundance stopped feeling like a festival I was visiting.

It started feeling like a community I belonged to.

Filmmaker Disneyland

My biggest takeaway wasn’t the hustle. It was the people.

Filmmakers at every stage of their careers, from first‑timers to veterans who’ve sustained long, meaningful paths. Watching how they stayed committed to their voices, year after year, felt both grounding and validating.

Sundance really did feel like Disneyland for filmmakers. And for the first time in a long time, I felt that childlike spark again, the excitement of possibility, the joy of learning and reminder of why we do this work.

The Impact House became my anchor. The conversations there reinforced something

I’ve always believed. Storytelling isn’t just art. It’s action. It’s culture. It’s preservation.

It reminded me who we are and what we’re building as culture custodians and impact producers.

A Little Bit of Movie Magic

It was one of those in-between Sundance moments.

Cutting through a small mall off Main Street, just trying to get from one place to the next, when suddenly… look who I ran into.

An owl.

Not just any owl, but Hoot , a literal movie star who’s appeared in over 100 films, including Harry Potter.

One minute I’m navigating crowds and schedules, the next minute there’s a famous owl perched on my head like this happens every day.

I couldn’t stop laughing.

It was unexpected, absurd, and kind of perfect.

That’s Sundance for you. You’re rushing to the next panel or screening, and magic just… happens.

Serious industry energy one moment. Pure childlike wonder the next. 

And somehow, both belong in the same day

[PHOTO1: Priscilla with Hoot perched on her head] [PHOTO2: Hoot with his handler]

Community, Craft, and Creative Fire

My most magical moment didn’t come from a celebrity sighting.

It came from walking into a packed room at the Impact House for the Black women filmmakers gathering.

Every seat taken. People lining the walls. Others sitting cross‑legged on the floor just to be there. You could feel how rare and necessary the moment was.

Filmmakers from across the African diaspora. Different countries. Different accents.

Different journeys. All connected by the same desire to tell our stories on our own terms.

Listening to Cheryl Dunye, Olive Nwosu, Praise Odigie Paige, Bea Wangondu, and so many others talk about craft and freedom felt bigger than a panel.

It felt like lineage.

Like inheritance.

Like sitting inside the future we’ve been fighting for.

I remember looking around and thinking, this is the moment I’ll carry with me.

Not because it was flashy.

Because it felt like home.

[PHOTO: Impact House / Directors Cut: Black women filmmakers panel / crowded room energy]

Representation in Real Time

Going into Sundance, Gladys and I made a quiet pact to find our people.

We sought out the rooms where Black and Brown storytellers were represented. Panels. Screenings. Mixers. Side events.

Somewhere along the way, Gladys met a few folks on a shuttle who told her about a WhatsApp group for Black filmmakers at Sundance. She added me. Then we started adding every person of color we engaged with.

“Drop your number. Join the group.”

It kept growing.

People posted where they were speaking, screening, or hanging out. And we showed up for each other.

What started as a handful of contacts turned into this living, breathing network moving through the festival together.

Suddenly Sundance didn’t feel so big.

It felt like community.

Like we had our own map inside the chaos.

Dancing Through the Last Dance

And in true Dance to the Beat fashion, we danced.

Between screenings.Outside in our heavy coats.Waiting on Ubers.At events.

Because this film is about rhythm and movement and life, and it only felt right to literally dance our way through Sundance.

[PHOTO: Bay Area Fim club at Sundance event. All brought together through the new Whatsapp group]

The Beginning

By the end of the week, we were exhausted and completely inspired.

As Sundance celebrated its last dance in Park City, we were taking our first steps.

Building community.Sharing our story.Watching strangers become supporters.

Park City may have been closing a chapter.

But for Dance to the Beat, it felt like the beginning.

Sometimes all it takes is a hoodie, a QR code, and the courage to start a conversation.

You never know who’s ready to dance with you.