Begin Again

How I found, lost, and rediscovered my creative path

Ashes to Ashes…

I saw the thickness of the dust coating my equipment while beginning a big move one day. I realized the life I’d built as a photographer had unceremoniously ended. It’s August of 2024 and the last thing I needed with the sweltering heat are eyes blurred by the tears of grief. I knew between being a full-time student, working part-time, and becoming a father meant my life could not be the same. I was prepared for that. But seeing the physical passage of time engulfing my most beloved passion was not something I had prepared for.

How it began

I feel like it’s a trivial thing to get emotional about. Life goes on and changes in ways we don't expect. My attachment to photography runs deep though.

My love for the craft started in my teens, in the 2000s. My dad photographed at a studio in Oak Park mall in Kansas. He had a short-lived interest so there was a Canon kit tucked away in his closet—one of my favorite hunting grounds for forgotten treasures. The weighty piece of tech mesmerized me. “I can my images on the cover of The New York Times now,” I thought, holding my dad’s Canon Rebel XTi. I hadn’t used a camera like this before. The exposure triangle was a complete mystery to me; the dials were covered in hieroglyphs. But I have a natural pull to puzzles. I was not going to be bested by this fancy box of plastic and glass. It held too many secrets! And once I figured it out—OH! I was in love.

In reality photography took a much bigger role in my life than I imagined. I was one of those suburban kids who felt bored with life. The countless cookie-cutter homes and endless labyrinth of cul-de-sacs imprisoned me. I found solace and escape in photography. So, I let the camera be my guide through life itself.

I came to understand myself more, like most people, as I progressed through early adulthood. The worst part about me: I lacked emotional intelligence to a crippling degree. I had trouble understanding other’s emotions, especially the subtle ones, and I lacked the tools to articulate my own. It was not uncommon for girls to be attracted to me because of how hard to read I was —only to break-up with me soon after realizing the library was closed indefinitely. There was substance but no one could access it, least of all myself.

Once I reached my late 20s, I realized I was subconsciously expressing myself all the time. My emotions, like an unwavering, raging river, pushed their way out through the path of least resistance: my camera. I’m not referring to the emotions of intentional art. I mean the kind that go beyond your realizing. The kind of emotions that you spew all over your friend during a blackout night of drama-mixed fun, you then find yourself waking up on the bathroom floor wondering if you should do a victory lap for surviving the night or start drafting an apology text to someone but you’re not sure to whom. What felt like a documentary impulse to understand the people around me as much an attempt at trying to understand myself. I can see all the things I wish I could have said or done when I look back in my archives. It’s clear to me now. When I had so much to say but no words to express my camera spoke volumes.

The Vision

Despite not knowing who I was I knew who I wanted to be. W. Eugene Smith, Gordon Parks, Diane Arbus; I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be published in Life magazine. I wanted to be paid to travel the country and tell stories with my camera at my hip.

Reality’s a bitch though. I graduated high school in 2008. As I came into the world to begin my journey as an adult everything burst into flames. The news industry had already been taking punches thanks to the internet. But this period of market crash on top of tech advances was a cheap shot to the nuts. Newsrooms were gutted. Worst of all local news publications were hit the hardest; giving birth to a new monster: news deserts.

My romanticizing being a press photographer waned further when I noticed the trends of my idols’ personal lives: substance abuse, divorce, affairs, familial connections strained and broken. I was already aware of the other dangers, such as low pay and risking my life in particular situations. And yet, it was these interpersonal, emotional risks that gave me pause. Even as I began my second attempt at college at 30, I held on —but reality hit again.

It was given to me straight about the downfalls of press photography as a profession. Professors and active professionals spoke to me directly. They gave me their own tales of interpersonal struggling and the imbalance of work-life. My hesitation sank deeper.

My despair, however, turned out for the better. I was forced to think more deeply about the possibilities. I came to realize what I’d actually wanted —in telling more meaningful stories with greater depth— was to be a documentary photographer. “Well, duh,” I hear. I know, I know. Sometimes we overlook the simplest answer when we’re blinded by our desires. For the first time in a while I felt emboldened and reinvigorated. I knew the path I wanted to pursue with conviction. It felt good! Although it most likely meant working another job as my primary income to fund projects it still felt like having my cake and eating it too. I felt like I’d finally gotten a handle on life as I dreamed it. Life, however, is a comedian. And there isn’t anything a comedian loves more than to fuck with you.

Challenges

It’s 4 am in May of 2022 and my fiancé and I are sitting in the ER. We’re filled with anxiety about her having a miscarriage. After months of trying for a pregnancy, we found ourselves with a successful attempt! But now we’re at an emergency visit at the hospital only 7 weeks in. An excruciating pain has my fiancé clutching her side. She’s sweating through her clothes and throwing up an impossible amount of fluids. I learned later the pain she was experiencing was comparable to testicular torsion. The very idea makes me shudder so deeply I can feel my ancestors collectively clutching their genitals in agony. I never felt so sorry or worried for her.

After several hours a doctor finally came in to spill the goods. The bad news: her CPOS reached a critical stage. A cyst grew to an abnormal size; it strangled her left ovary to death. The pain she’d been feeling was the state of necrosis setting in. The good news: her pregnancy is still viable, albeit she’ll now have to take hormone shots for seven weeks to make up for the lost ovary. The unexpected news: they found three eggs…yeah.

This pregnancy upended everything we’d planned. One baby would’ve been hard enough; I was mentally prepared for that struggle. It seemed possible to continue to pursue my passions adjacent to raising a child. But three? On top of being a full-time student and working part-time‽ We had to complete rethink our approach to parenthood. But my creative journey wasn’t over. It only took a sharp, unexpected turn. I realized I was living a unique experience. Many people had questions, other parents in particular. If I had to put exploring the outer world on pause, then I had to explore my own. I returned to my roots and turned the camera inward.

I’m not finding it as simple as I’d hoped. For one thing, I’m exhausted as all hell. Far beyond what the average parent would be. Needless to say, my wife and I were in constant need of assistance for even the smallest of tasks for the first two years. When my friends would check in on me, I often replied with a gif of a shriveled and starving alien.

Another struggle is the lack of my own presence in my images. I was used to documenting from my own perspective when I first began photography. Capturing this life of mine now from an outside viewpoint is tricky. After two years of capturing this journey, it remains my biggest challenge.

Finding the way back

I see now that I will never be who I was before the kids again. This feeling and realization feels like my white whale in this project; how do I capture that? Even when the gremlins leave the nest there is no going back. I won’t be that same photographer, artist, or storyteller as I was. I am forever changed by their influence and the experience of parenthood. I’m happy to say that I’m ok with that.

So, what am I doing to find that creative in me again? In a word: everything. In more words: I’m taking the path of least resistance. I am doing whatever is bringing me joy. I’m a parent to triplets in the “terrible twos” phase, of course I’m tired and overworked as fuck. But I need an outlet. And as much as I love photography, it feels like too much work right now. In exchange, I’ve embraced other methods of creative expression: I’ve started sewing again, I’m experimenting with meals, and above everything I’m trying to write more.

I won’t get too deep into it but being constantly plugged in and held prisoner to the almighty algorithm did a lot to kill my sense of inspiration and creative drive. I’m trying to do more analog crafts to restart myself. Above all I want to show my kids that entertainment and creative expression does not have to involve a screen. It feels good to work with my hand feel the physical fruits of my labor.

“History doesn’t repeat itself. Man always does” - Voltaire.

My path with the camera came about out of an urgent need to express, mixed with untethered time. I still feel that desire and sense of urgency. What’s holding me back are the constant changes in my life breaking that desire and leaving me wanting nothing more than to stuff my face with my kids’ leftover potato chips and watch YouTube. It’s a struggle, but I’m an optimist. Even though the path I’d sought was gone I can’t help but wait for the moment when I repeat the habits that started it all —the good ones that lead to self-development. It doesn’t matter how much dust settles because I know my camera will still be there, ready to capture. I’m sure, just as before, it’ll happen before I even realize it. I just hope the batteries are fully charged when that day comes.