When I first met Angela Roaché-Peña in 2016, she was in custody, standing before a mental health court judge. I was observing the felony mental health court, trying to understand how Cook County Jail—the largest mental health institution in the country—had come to be. In 2012, half of Chicago’s public mental health clinics had been shut down, mostly in the communities with the fewest resources. And here we were, watching the consequences.

Angela would become a central figure in my documentary Any Given Day, alongside two other participants: Dimitar Ivanov, a Bulgarian-born anthropologist navigating the court system and cycling in and out of jail, and Daniel Brown, an aspiring chef from Chicago who was working to get his first apartment and seeking purpose spent over five years filming together. This wasn’t just a story about court-mandated treatment. It became a story about housing, family, connection, recovery, and survival.

 

We all became close over the years, but Angela and I shared a different kind of bond. We were both mothers, and something in us deeply recognized the other. She was like a mirror—not because we were the same, but because she reflected back the parts of me I rarely showed. Angela wasn’t just a participant. She became my friend. That sentence is simple to write, and endlessly complex to live.

We weren’t supposed to be friends. Not in a city like ours. I’m a white, middle-class documentary filmmaker. Angela was a Black woman who grew up in foster care, surviving layers of trauma with little support. In segregated Chicago, our lives would never have crossed paths if not for the camera. She didn’t trust the system. She didn’t always trust me. She quit the film—twice. I questioned myself constantly. Was I doing harm? Was I re-traumatizing her? Was I putting the film before the person?

But Angela kept showing up, and so did I. We worked it out—by talking, by listening, by being willing to pause everything when it no longer felt safe. There were many moments when I questioned whether I was doing the right thing—including with my own story. I hadn’t planned to be in the film, but it became impossible not to be. I’ve struggled with my mental health since I was a kid. When I saw women getting treatment in the jail, I saw myself. I’m not unfamiliar with the inside of treatment facilities. I know what it feels like to be disconnected, to be haunted by past trauma, to experience dissociation and even psychosis. The people I was filming weren’t just subjects—they were me. As Dimitar once told me, “You’re one of us.”

But I was always one of us. That was the reason I started making the film in the first place. I was filming others navigating their mental health while trying to manage my own. I was struggling with anxiety, depression, and the emotional toll of being so deeply entwined in everyone’s lives. At a certain point, it became dishonest to stay out of it. Including my own story made the film more true. And it helped all of us feel less alone.

 

In 2021, just before our Chicago premiere—the first time the film would screen publicly in our own city—Angela wanted to remove some scenes. I told her she came first. If she wasn’t okay with it, we would pull the film. We brought in a film therapist and talked it through. She decided to let the scenes stay—not out of pressure, but because she knew the power of being fully seen. And she wanted others like her to know they weren’t alone.

That decision rippled.

Any Given Day was first broadcast in 2022 on America ReFramed, an independent documentary strand that, for over a decade, brought community-rooted films to public television through the World Channel and PBS. People saw themselves in Angela, Daniel, and Dimitar. They saw their families, their own experiences, their fears and hopes reflected with dignity. The film sparked conversations that were personal, urgent, and overdue.

Angela passed away in May 2025. The week before, she showed up at my front door unexpectedly. We sat at the kitchen table and drank sodas, talking about our kids, our relationships, and the things weighing on us. When it was time for her to go, I walked her to the elevator and then outside. I hugged her and told her I loved her, and that I would always be her friend. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see her. But I realize now that I had a chance to say goodbye.

What stays with me isn’t just what Angela shared on camera. It’s the fullness of who she was—a loving mother, grandmother, daughter, and friend. Someone who gave deeply, even while carrying so much.

 

That’s what I carry forward.

That relationships are the real archive.

That when we center care, it shows—and it stays.

 

Angela said she was glad she shared her story.

She knew it would help someone.

Stories like Angela’s matter. They deserve to be told with care, and they deserve to be seen. That’s why we must protect the platforms that make space for these stories to reach the public—including ITVS, which provided major funding for Any Given Day and now faces the risk of losing federal support. Learn more at www.protectmypublicmedia.org.

 

Watch Any Given Day through ReelAbilities Stream.