I Changed Careers in My Late 40s. Then I Made Hollywood History

Not everyone in Hollywood makes awards history—let alone twice. Director Salli Richardson-Whitfield, however, became the first Black woman to receive an Emmy nomination for Outstanding Directing for a Drama Series in 2024, and this year, she became the first Black woman to receive two nominations in the category. At the forthcoming awards ceremony, the director/executive producer is being recognized for her efforts helming episodes of the acclaimed, Mark Ruffalo-led crime series Task and the cult-loved period drama The Gilded Age.

While Richardson-Whitfield has worked on many hits—from Winning Time: The Rise of the Lakers Dynasty to Dear White People to Altered Carbon—she originally got her start as an actress. Thanks to encouragement from supporters and collaborators like Ava DuVernay (whose first feature, I Will Follow, Richardson-Whitfield starred in), she was inspired to get behind the camera and eventually transition her career. Now, the filmmaker, who has a creative partnership with HBO, is frequently hailed for breaking the glass ceiling in TV.

Still, even as the number of female TV creators is higher than ever, they only make up 32 percent of directors in the field. So, in anticipation of the 78th Primetime Emmy Awards on September 14, Richardson-Whitfield shared an essay with Marie Claire about her journey toward becoming a director—and the value in trusting yourself.

The first audience I ever directed for was my family, gathered on the living room couch. I couldn't have been more than 8-years-old. My dolls were lined up, each with a role to play. I'd spent the afternoon writing another version of Cinderella, carefully stapling the pages into tiny handmade books that I proudly handed out before the performance began.

Then I took my place behind the story. I thought I was just playing. I wasn't trying to be Cinderella. I wanted to tell the story. I just didn't know that one day, I would spend my life doing exactly that.

People often ask me how I became successful. They want to know whether I always dreamed of directing television, whether I had a master plan, or whether I somehow knew that one day I would make history. The truth is much simpler: I learned to trust something inside myself.

Growing up in Hyde Park on Chicago's South Side, I often felt as though I didn't quite belong. My parents sacrificed so I could attend an exceptional private school filled with brilliant students who would go on to become doctors, lawyers, and scientists. I lived in the neighborhood, but in its least desirable building. My father was white, and my mother was Black, at a time when that still made our family seem different. I struggled with undiagnosed dyslexia while trying to keep up in an environment where academic excellence appeared effortless for everyone else.

From the outside, I looked confident. I was athletic, outgoing, and, by most standards, beautiful. Inside, I constantly wondered whether I was enough. Not smart enough. Not accomplished enough. Not worthy enough. There were plenty of voices reinforcing those insecurities—the voices of comparison, expectation, fear, and sometimes my own self-doubt.

Thankfully, there was always something else inside me: A sense that I should keep going. That there was a purpose for me even when I couldn't see what it was.

My parents weren't perfect, but they gave me two gifts that shaped my life: an unwavering work ethic and a strong sense of right and wrong. Those gifts became my compass. I made mistakes, as we all do, but somehow I never wandered too far from the path. Something inside me kept pulling me forward.

Acting became my first path because it was what I loved and what I knew I could do. It led me from Chicago to California, despite all the reasons I should be practical, have a backup plan, or accept that the odds were impossible. Logic said to stay where it was safe. Something inside me said, Go. So I went.

Years later, while starring on Eureka, I was given the opportunity to direct an episode. Looking back, I realize it wasn't merely the beginning of my directing career. It was the moment I recognized the life I had unknowingly been preparing for all along.

A couple of hours into my first day on set, the producing director walked over to me. I was still absorbing the responsibility of leading an entire crew while quietly wondering whether I truly belonged there. He smiled and said, "You've got this."

Then he left. Just like that. I remember standing there, almost stunned. He trusted me enough to leave the set in my hands.

In that moment, I had a choice. I could listen to all the reasons I wasn't ready, or I could trust the instinct that simply said, Tell the story. So I did. I didn't panic. I didn't second-guess myself. I simply told the story the way I believed it needed to be told.

That day changed everything. Not only because someone else believed in me, but because, for the first time in my professional life, I believed in myself.

As an actress, I was good. I had a career I loved, but I was never fearless. I believe great actors must be willing to look foolish in pursuit of something truthful, and I was often too focused on getting it right.

As a director, something entirely different happened. I trusted my instincts. I trusted my vision. I trusted myself. Directing felt less like learning a new job and more like remembering something I had always known. For the first time, I wasn't searching for confidence. I had found it. That confidence didn't make me complacent. It made me work even harder.

Actors are sometimes given the opportunity to direct because they're already on a television show. I wanted everyone around me to understand that this wasn't a vanity project or simply another credit I intended to collect. I wanted to earn that chair. I prepared relentlessly. I asked every question I could think of. I studied every detail because I never wanted anyone to believe I had been handed an opportunity I wasn't prepared to honor.

Years later, when I decided to transition from acting to directing full-time, those same people remembered. On paper, my résumé wasn't always the strongest. I hadn't gone to film school, and I hadn't followed the traditional path. There were people with more experience, more credits, and certainly more formal education. But the people who had watched me work knew something a résumé couldn't tell them. They knew my dedication. They knew how hard I worked. And they trusted that whatever opportunity they gave me, I would show up prepared to earn it. Those relationships eventually opened doors to directing jobs I might never have gotten on paper alone.

For much of my life, I carried an insecurity about my education. I often walked into rooms assuming everyone else knew more than I did. (Sometimes they did.) But somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that meant I had less to offer. Education matters—I wish I had gone to college. But I've learned that knowing what you don't know can be its own kind of wisdom. It makes you ask questions. It makes you listen. It makes you prepare. And when hard work, passion, talent, and purpose come together, they can take you places no résumé could have predicted.

Maybe that's why, when people ask how I got here, I still struggle to give them a simple answer. I didn't have a master plan. I followed what felt true. When acting interested me and I discovered I had talent for it, I followed it. When that path led from Chicago to California, I went. When directing awakened something in me that acting never had, I was willing to leave behind a career in which I was already successful and begin again.

That may be the most important decision I made. Because there is a particular kind of courage required to walk away from something you're good at—not because you've failed, but because somewhere inside you, you know there is something else you're meant to do. My life didn't become what I imagined as a little girl. It became bigger.

We spend so much of our lives looking ahead, trying to figure out where we're supposed to go. We make plans. We compare ourselves to other people. We listen to all the reasons something is impractical or impossible. And sometimes those voices become so loud that we stop trusting what we already know. I've learned that sometimes the clearest map is found by looking back.

When I look back now, I see that little girl sitting on the living room floor, lining up her dolls, handing out her homemade Cinderella books, and creating a world for her family to enjoy. She thought she was just playing. She wasn't. She wasn't dreaming about becoming a director. She didn't even know that was something she could dream about. But something in her already knew she was a storyteller.

It took the grown woman a few decades to trust what the little girl seemed to know instinctively. Maybe that's what the quiet voice has been all along. Not an instruction to become someone new. A reminder to trust who I already was.