As a criminal investigator, my job was to document truth in its rawest form: crime scenes, evidence, and the quiet, haunting aftermath of human conflict. Photography was a tool for justice - precise, clinical, and unflinchingly honest. Although I enjoyed photography, by the end of my career I was emotionally drained, jaded, lost, I wrestled with depression.

I knew something had to change. I turned to hiking with my dog and photography. The lens that once focused on human harm began seeking humanity itself. No longer photographing crime scenes, I found myself drawn to quiet landscapes. To the intricate patterns of tree bark, the piercing eyes of an eagle, the gentle gestures of people who live in harmony with the earth. I began to feel that the same camera that had once served law and order could now serve something deeper - connection, healing, preservation.

I learned to change my focus from the cold clarity of criminal investigation to the warm, untamed world of nature, conservation, and ultimately, Indigenous cultures.

Photography became my bridge between worlds. I began documenting the natural beauty we often take for granted - ancient forests, wildlife, untouched landscapes. Eventually, my work took me into the lives of Indigenous communities whose stories are too often overlooked. I found wisdom in their traditions, strength in their connection to land, and deep purpose in sharing their voices through my lens.

Each image I now capture is an act of advocacy. Whether it’s a beloved pet, captivating landscape, close-up of an animal or a portrait of a tribal elder, my goal is the same: to foster respect, spark awareness, and remind people of what’s at stake.

My path from crime to conservation may seem like a leap, but in truth, both forms of photography share a common thread: the search for truth. One exposed what went wrong. The other reveals what’s still right - and what’s worth protecting.