Photographer.

Adventurer.

Explorer.

I started taking photos when I was young. My family always had photo albums from every trip and family event. That’s what I remember at least. When I first picked up a camera, I think it was at a wedding of a relative of a family I was living with. They gave everyone disposable cameras to photograph throughout the reception. It wasn’t until I was about 15 when I got my first camera. All I remember was it was an Olympus and it had a zoom focus. I repurchased that camera last year when I was shopping in a thrift store while on a date, but currently lives in storage with the rest of my life. I always knew why I wanted to take photographs. My childhood was outside the norm. So since a young age, I’ve dealt with traumatic experiences in a way that I felt helped me through them. When I would take photos, they were the moments I knew would make me remember that’s it’s not all bad.  And then we all know the love story “The Notebook”. My great grandparents lived that. And so it put extra emphasis on capturing moments. Hopeless romantic I am. But back then, my child self thought it was magic. Photographers, even now, know the feeling of waiting to get a roll of film developed. Real prints take time, but even 1-hour photo seemed just as long. I picked them up. I smiled. I cringed. I laughed. I judged. But they were moments I cherished. A physical copy of a memory I held in my head. They’re mostly digital now, but still the same. When I would have those moments. The depression, anxiety, stress, and everything else that comes from trauma. Those photos were a memory that meant the world to me. A reminder. Proof. I’m not gaslighting myself. These things actually happened. And those things were photos of every moment I remembered how much the world was a magical and happy place to be.