Then something changed. It began quietly. A walk in the woods with my dog, camera in hand. A photograph of a bird mid-flight. A photo of a fleeting moment of my dog’s delight in our hiking. I started noticing life again—not just through the lens, but in my own heart. Nature is a good healer. The stillness of a forest. The patience of a fox. The rhythm of waves crashing against the shore. Being in those spaces brought a calm I hadn’t felt in years. It slowed me down. It grounded me. Photographing these moments became more than art - it became therapy. Every frame I captured gave me something back: peace, clarity, connection.

Then came the animals - especially pets. Photographing them reminded me of the simplicity of trust, of loyalty without condition. Their presence, their quirks, their honesty - it all cracked open a part of me I’d forgotten. The part that could feel joy, laughter, and tenderness.

But perhaps the deepest shift came when I began photographing Indigenous peoples and communities. I didn’t go to “take” pictures - I went to listen. To learn. To witness. Their connection to land, ancestry, and tradition moved me in ways I can’t fully explain. There was no artifice - only authenticity. Through those experiences, I started to heal my own sense of disconnection. I saw how stories matter. How identity matters. How protecting what’s sacred is an act of resistance - and of hope.

Photography gave me back a purpose. It reawakened my passion - not just for creating images, but for being present. For noticing. For advocating. For caring. What started as a tool for justice became a pathway to meaning. Now, every time I pick up my camera, I’m reminded that healing isn’t a destination - it’s a process. And this process, for me, is made of light, land, living beings, and love.