learning to listen

i want to be the first to tell you something. i had major, grand plans for my studio’s garden this year. there were going to be cosmos, and sunflowers, patches of the most fragrant stock and snapdragons….

because of our very mild 2024 winter, i was able to get a head start in january. all of the garden was well on it’s way until the middle of spring, when the weeds had major, grand plans of their own. it was incredibly discouraging to pour my heart into this small plot of land. i was defeated by a full-time job, working 6 days a week, and i had no energy to keep up with the garden. by the time my transition at work went to part-time teaching, the weeds had won, and i had a bug filled, messy plot.

for all of summer, i stopped showing up. i stopped caring about it, and i stopped imagining what could have been in the studio’s garden. i guess in such a way, i did the same thing with my camera.

when i was in college, i worked as the campus photographer holding a camera up to my eye, capturing major campus events, and club meetings. my colleagues started to see my work, and would ask me to photograph their senior recital photos. we would go on great adventures around central washington, and get the coolest shots. it was wholesome, and spontaneous. i remember even one session happened in downtown at midnight with a ginormous upright bass, just for the moody shots.

as I started to get inquiries from outside of the music department, it seemed my photography was growing. i believed, one day, i would reach the same level as the photographers i admired. at the height of what was becoming, i was diagnosed with a mental health disorder. i went into full shock, defeated and discouraged. it became my biggest secret that i was suffering.

for years when i moved back home, my camera bag hung in the closet on a hanger, literally collecting dust. i felt ashamed to even attempt to capture photographs. where i once felt alive chasing adventures and golden light, suddenly i couldn’t do it anymore. clients stopped reaching out, and that was the end of the story.

after my diagnosis, my life was really never the same. i’ve worked so hard everyday to ensure stability. i think it’s safe to say, i’m doing better on the other side. my life now is quieter and intentional whereas before, i was constantly trying to measure up and make an impression. this spring, i decided i would give photography a chance again.

what’s wild to me is how simple of a decision that was. someone learned i took photographs and reached out that same month. there was a session in may, followed by june and every month since now leading into october. yesterday’s family session under the fall trees felt like proof that time isn’t wasted when it’s used to heal. i saw color differently, light differently, even people differently. i realized that maybe the garden and the camera were never separate stories. they were both teaching me to wait, to listen, and that it’s okay to start over without shame.

i think i’m finally learning to listen. to life itself. i’m learning to trust that even when nothing seems to grow, or when everything pauses, something beneath the surface always is growing. the garden will come back. so will the light. and when it does, i will be ready. this time, slower and more alive than ever.

🤎