We Can’t All Be Jay Ellis

An essay on perfectionism, comparison, and leaning into a more honest parenthood.

Rarely am I one to spend my free time comparing myself to others. I know who I am, and I’m comfortable in that skin. I know my strengths and opportunities, and I won’t spend much time comparing the hypotheticals of where I stand on specific lists. Is Jay Ellis of Insecure and Top Gun fame objectively better looking than me? Sure. Is Jay Ellis objectively more successful than me? You could say that. Is Jay Ellis physically stronger than me? I mean, he could probably beat me up relatively easily; I’ll give him that. But just because Jay Ellis is taller than me, is stronger than me, is more handsome, more successful, and hosts a podcast called The Untold Story about the Criminal Justice system in America doesn’t mean that I’m going to spend my time thinking about how my wife once suggested that I wear a cream colored turtleneck sweater in our Christmas photos after watching the finale of Insecure where Jay Ellis’s character, Lawrence, wears a cream colored turtleneck sweater. I bought the sweater, by the way. Sure I spent Christmas break unemployed, getting rejected for dozens of new roles, and taking more trips to the freezer than my Peloton bike but hey, who’s really winning?

All jokes aside, it took me a long time to even joke about things like that, and by no means am I cured of the comparison games. I’ve run Be Ice Cream Or Be Nothing since 2015, and as of January 2023, I’ve yet to break 2500 followers on Instagram. I’ve seen comparable platforms surpass 2500 in their first month. I’ve shared reels I thought were genuinely creative, only to check back later to find that I and a Russian bot are the only two accounts to engage with it. I’ve spent hours creating YouTube videos that have failed to pass 100 views during their lifetime. I’m aware of these numbers, and I’m aware of the numbers that some other people do. Until a few months ago, a literal egg had the record for most likes on a single photo in Instagram history, with over 55 million. It’s insane, but I get it. Actually, I get that I don’t get it, and that concept has granted me a level of peace to allow social media numbers to roll off my back. Knowing how much social media as a whole is largely a lie has helped me prevent these dashboards from living rent-free in my head.

When Be Ice Cream Or Be Nothing had 990 followers, an influential mom blogger prevalent in the food space started following me, taking me to 991. She had around 30k followers, so I was thrilled that someone of that notoriety would notice and follow me. I followed her back. Shortly another woman in a similar field followed me, so I followed her back. One by one, I was inching toward 1,000 followers, feeling like I was gaining some traction. Even better, I thought the Instagram algorithm bestowed on me a VIP pass to the explore page, allowing thousands of soon-to-be followers to find my ice cream recipes and videos, fast-tracking me to the coveted blue check mark and an invite to make ice cream on Live with Kelly & Ryan. I hit 1,025 followers within the next day, and I followed every one of those pages back, thrilled that the Food Mamas of Instagram had welcomed me into their digital club. But then 1,025 turned into 1,016, then 1,009, then 1,001, then 998, and then back down to 990. All of my new mom friends followed me in the hopes I would follow them back, and when I did, they did me like Lucy did Charlie Brown. Good grief.

Realizing my dream of making ice cream with Kelly & Ryan was gone, I thought, “is this how people grow their followers?” 15K here, 50K there. Well, it’s one of the ways! In addition to the popular follow-unfollow method, you also have Facebook groups where members will post their content simultaneously, and everyone in the group has to engage with it or face disciplinary action. You have bot accounts that will engage with as many accounts as possible, using an automated system to comment on photos within seconds of their arrival. And last but certainly not least, you have programs where you can pay for followers, most of whom are not real people with any interest in your work. As I’ve watched some pages multiply overnight, I can’t help but wonder about the methods they’re using to reach their goals. Now some will grow organically, and while the monetary cost might not be the same, the personal cost may far outweigh any dollar amount. I’m talking about a lack of sleep from creating new content. A lack of focus on personal relationships because everything has to become content. Pressure to make loved ones pose and act abnormally to get cute content for internet points. We are very early in this social media experiment. Still, when platforms have to ideate ways to reduce anxiety in their users stemming from the constant comparison that occurs on their app, I feel comfortable saying not all growth is healthy because comparison is the thief of joy.

Bluey is the best cartoon of all time. It’s not even close, and I will fight anybody other than Jay Ellis who says otherwise. Within ten minutes, every episode creates a good laugh while giving both parents and kids something to think about. Season 2’s “Sleepytime” episode is perfect, and that’s not just me saying it. Ask IMDB whose users have given the episode a 9.9 score (and to the people who ruined its perfect score, who hurt you? Are you okay? I’m here if you need to talk). The only complaint you’ll hear from parents who watch the show is that Bandit and Chili, Bluey and Bingo’s parents, set the bar too high for parents.

On the one hand, I get it, but that’s kind of like watching Steph Curry and saying, “man, I don’t like Steph Curry because he’s too good at basketball.” Isn’t that the point? But even within that half-joke, dads don’t want to be compared to Bandit. That’s like putting me in a room with my cream-colored turtleneck sweater, ready to take my family photos, and then Jay Ellis walks in wearing the same sweater, rocking a fresh cut, beard all full and whatnot, saying, “let me know if you need me to clean those glasses for you, young fella.” The way Bandit stops everything he’s doing to play with the kids is peak perfect dad. And he hardly works? Who’s paying these bills? The lessons he teaches, the silliness he brings to the home. Everything Bandit does is goals, and somewhere deep inside, when my girls say, “Dad, do you want to play with me?” I know Bandit is somewhat responsible for that question. But the reality is like Bandit does for dads, Steph Curry does for shooters, and Jay Ellis does for turtlenecks, there will always be someone who is the best at what they do, but that bar isn’t the gold standard. Maybe it’s their gold standard, but the bar exists in several forms regarding fatherhood. Our responsibility is to find the bar that makes sense for us.

I love engaging with dads online. Seeing other men sharing wisdom and loving their families well brings me joy. We’ve seen the jokes. We’ve seen the memes. When men do any simple activity with our kids, others are ready to throw parades for us. You did your daughter’s hair? Parade! You took your kids to the store with you? Parade! You watched your own kids while your partner was out of town? Knighted! That kind of feel-good recognition is easy to come by in public but on the internet? We’re talking ‘post-Issa Lawrence back on the dating scene’ easy. If I post one photo of me with my kids, the engagement just flows. “You’re the best dad.” “Those kids are so lucky to have you!” “Look at you, Super Dad!” It feels good, but it’s not real. I can’t rest comfortably in that compliment. Now realistically, I am a good dad, at least I think I am, so I appreciate the comments, but I’m hyper-aware that women don’t often receive the same admiration for mundane tasks as dads do. But since I know how good that external validation feels, and I’ve seen how quickly being an internet parent can catapult you into the Internet Hall of Fame, there’s always a part of me that wonders what the perfect parent is like without the cameras.

It’s a catch-22 because I want to see men doing dope things with their kids. I’d much rather see men sharing videos of their kids riding bikes than their latest twitch stream playing Call of Duty. I’d much rather learn from men who share their wisdom on being more intentional than know that a dad keeps his game-changing wisdom to himself. I could be a narcissist of a man, treating my wife like an unequal and my kids like employees, and still curate myself in a way that garners millions of likes and brand deals and homes that make other men say, “damn, I want what he has.” But day after day, a new internet personality is exposed as a fraud, narcissist, and the soap-flavored jelly beans of people. We’re talking about families who adopt special needs children for views and then quietly rehome them when life gets too hard. There was a time when I’d look at a large social media following and automatically equate that to success. Now I am much more careful with that comparison game because their definition of success may differ from mine.

If anything, fighting perfection has hit me in ways I didn’t think were possible. Black dads unfairly get a bad rap for not being involved in their families' lives or being absent. There is so much to unpack about why that stereotype exists, but unfortunately, although data disproves this falsehood, it does. Sometimes I’ve had to ask myself why any external presentation of fatherhood matters. Am I trying to be perfect for my kids or for strangers on the internet? A selfish part of me wants to be the best dad you know. Actively involved in school activities, attending PTO meetings, and always at home for the kids. I’ll catch myself sharing an image of me in dad mode and then realize I just asked my daughter to give me five minutes so I can tell Mark Zuckerberg how great of a dad I was today. I realized that, at times, I’d work hard to present myself as a great dad because I think the world doesn’t expect me to be one. I feel the world is looking at me, waiting for me to mess up and leave my family, saying, “you know fatherhood isn’t meant for you.” “You know you’ll never be good enough.” “You know you don’t look that good in that cream-colored turtleneck.” My issues relating to this subject are compounded by the fact that I was among the tiniest handfuls of Black kids growing up in Queensbury, NY, a town that is literally 97% white, and my Black father’s absence played into that harmful stereotype. Coincidently, it wasn’t until 2020, when I recorded a podcast with my father about his absence, that I realized I’d been trying to overcompensate for it. It wasn’t until Raegan hit me with a very sweet but mildly concerning “why are you always home?” comment that I realized I may have overcorrected a bit. It’s taken me a few years to process that perfection isn’t possible. At times even good isn’t possible. There are days when my patience is greater than most, and then there are days when a dropped piece of food at the dinner table will turn me into Samuel L. Jackson from Black Snake Moan. My goal is to minimize the bad moments and expand the good while understanding that almost everything you see in that person you admire has been carefully selected, edited, and framed in a way that makes life look like Pleasantville. “Ryan, your kids are so cute!” “Thank you. You should have seen the meltdown three minutes after this photo was taken when I told them no more eggnog.”

Perfection isn’t real. It doesn’t exist, and the sooner we accept that we can step into fatherhood with a better sense of reality and a clearer vision of our intentions. I want to challenge you to release perfection and trade its pursuit for consistency. Perfection says never lose your cool in front of the kids. To the man who can maintain his cool after stepping on the record-breaking sharpest lego of all time, God Bless you. I think you’re about as real as YouTube prank videos but more power to you. Instead of committing to never losing your cool, try committing to revisiting with your kids why you lost your cool. Every now and then, we’ll say something imperfect or something we regret, so instead of letting kids sit in their confusion and wrestle with the “why,” commit to explaining yourself or apologizing when necessary. Accountability leads to growth, and growth leads to better results. Instead of getting frustrated by failing to reach a bar that even Bandit would miss, shoot for consistency in your approach, and your goal of being a better dad will be achieved day after day.

My kids deserve a perfect dad. A dad who fixes all of their problems. A dad who cooks and cleans while fixing the sink’s drainage issue that totally hasn’t been leaking for a few months now. My kids deserve a dad with the best dad jokes, who knows his way around a flat tire and nail polish, and who can fill out a cream-colored turtleneck like nobody’s business. Instead, they got me. A man whose car knowledge tops out at putting oil into the engine and who wears a turtleneck sweater like Urkel, not Stefan. But despite my faults, there isn’t a man better equipped to care for my girls than me. No other man has welcomed them into this world, holding their tiny bodies in absolute bliss as they whisper, “I will never leave your side.” They have my dimples, nose, love for animals, and entire heart. My daughters’ may deserve a perfect dad, but they ended up with me; a man imperfect enough to know his limitations yet determined enough to grow, continuously striving to be the dad they need in each season of their life.