This past weekend, I fell into a documentary double feature that was less popcorn and more psychological ponderings. First, the freshly Emmy-nominated Martha Stewart documentary, and then “Billy Joel: And so it goes” (because let’s be honest, we’re all in the mood for a melody, and Billy must sing us that song tonight or else there will be unrest).

At first glance, these two might seem like an odd pairing. One folds napkins into swans, the other belts out barroom ballads. One has a line of copper cookware, the other lines about a waitress practicing politics (who is actually his ex-wife). But watch long enough, and the overlap starts to unfold like one of Martha’s impeccable tablescapes: two kids from modest (or downright gritty) beginnings, hustling through the American dream on slightly different ladders.

Billy Joel’s early life was filled with rough piano bars, boxing gloves, and a carousel of near-hits and label disasters. When he wrote Piano Man, he wasn’t riffing. It was his life those were the real patrons, the real dreams deferred. A song that started as survival became a national anthem for emotional honesty. He held up a mirror and sang what people saw in themselves. Every note a confession. Every lyric a shared ache. And now? It’s mandatory that he plays Piano Man at every concert. Authenticity can become a contract with the crowd.

Then there’s Martha. Glamorous, precise, and the queen of curated domesticity. She looked like she floated in on a handmade monogrammed cloud. But what’s often overlooked is her humble beginnings and fierce work ethic. She built an empire out of chicken pot pie and candlelight. And then, the stumble. The prison sentence. The public shaming. The loss of control over her carefully built narrative.

But here’s where it gets Martha-level interesting: she came back not by doubling down on the fantasy, but by leaning into the flaw. She roasted Justin Bieber. She roasted herself. She stopped airbrushing the image and showed up with both sides of the mirror: the pristine perfection and the mess behind the scenes. And America? We loved her more for it. Her authenticity wasn’t in the flawless pie crust. It was in the humility she found when it all crumbled.

What struck me about both stories is how being real isn’t always enough. You have to survive your own myth. You have to confront it, roast it, sing it at Madison Square Garden for the 187th time, or fold it into a new version of yourself with better lighting.

Billy and Martha both sold us something potent: the idea that we can be both the polished and the peeling. That you can hit rock bottom in different ways financially, emotionally, reputationally and still find a way to serve something up: whether it’s a melody or a meringue.

Because deep down, we’re all in the mood for a melody. Or a redemption arc. Preferably with good lighting and maybe a piano accompaniment.

Now if only I could get Martha to organize my junk drawer while Billy plays Vienna in the background.