Sacred Spaces

Nobiscum Deus.

Dans tout Paris

…Je m'abandonne et je m'envole.

I’ve decided that in two years, if I am still alive, my life doesn’t shape up how I hope, or I am just coasting, I’m going to move to France. Right now though, my artistic life has presented opportunities I feel I need to stay (in America) and keep refining. Some might call it escapism or impulsive, but this is no new idea. Packing my life in a few bags is also nothing new. Just months after returning from my cultural exchange in Russia and Turkey, I almost moved to Paris. I hadn’t even visited yet, but I felt a romanticized pull to this foreign place of love, art, and beauty. I interviewed, had a second lined up, and mere paperwork to fill out before securing a placement. But that still, small voice in my head suggested,

“Maybe wait. Maybe pursue what’s right in front of you. Maybe don’t run away yet.”

France was one of those places I longed to visit, a farsickness (or “Fernweh”) that seemed to call with no words at all. 2020 happened, the world shut down, and my heart felt bleaker than the leafless trees and grey, winter skies. One day, I wandered into a New York & Company going out of business. I’ll never forget the moment I spied a glorious dress in its clearance section. I picked it up. I had nothing of importance or real use for this abstract dress, yet I tried it on.

“One day, I will wear this in Paris.”

I tucked it away in my closet. With it, I tucked away my dreams, my farsickness, my visions of a country I’d never met. When life leaves my heart broken, I find that clinging to a romanticized idea - something of beauty to long for - gives the leafless boughs of my heart room to anticipate something lovelier. It’s like a silent trajectory of finding hope for something beautiful, even when it feels so far away.

Often times, I’ll idealize a situation or place and it will fall painfully short of my expectations. My mind will create something of grandeur, and I will vividly picture how it will look, what will happen, and most of all, how I will feel. Most of the time, the fantasy world in my head falls short of reality.

France surpassed my expectations.

I spent the first week with my beloved Argentine Tango teachers in Tours. I was introduced to authentic, french cuisine, walking streets, trains to old castles, Argentine Tango workshops, and a slow pace of life that encouraged the art of savoring, rather than rushing. I will never forget practicing in their living room floor in socks before my first Milonga, or hopping in a car with their french friends - strangers to me - and taking off to the middle of nowheresville, countryside of France for dancing. The second week, I trained to Paris and spent it with a long lost friend from a decade ago. We urban hiked, stayed out until 1am almost every night because sunset isn’t until 11pm, found West Coast Swing in an underground social dancing club, cried taking portraits of each other, wore black dresses for the occasion, and spent a day with a distant cousin I’d only known as a digital penpal…who of course happened to also be an artist and photographer, also related to my great-grandmother, who is the face of my business card.

I decided the beautiful Frenchmen and waiters in button down shirts were definitely my type. A year and a half later, it is still hard to find words to encompass such a vibrant place. I love how art and music is integrated into society. In America, the arts have adopted an elitist mentality. It’s designated to Hollywood and stages and screens and museums and expensive tickets. It is all about the ego and self gains.

In Europe, it is an integral part of society. Music floods the cobblestone streets, the corners, the alleyways. One moment, teenagers read books and play games on the grass, and one street over, there’s a crowd social dancing. History and architecture is preserved and beauty is celebrated. Musicians traipse the metros and city streets. Cafe chairs face the streets, suggesting that you look out, admire, and appreciate. An opera singer locks eyes with you at the Louvre and sings to you, as if it’s a sacred gift.

                                                                                           Photos courtesy of Erin Kass

a) Elopement

b) Extremely handsome waiter met on street

I will never forget how I felt in France.

It was as if it breathed life into my soul and traded scraggly clothes for a ballgown. If a European city could tell you that you are beautiful with a bare face, au natural is normal, Amazon prime evening gloves “just because” is acceptable, and no man is required to feel really, truly, deeply loved…that is Paris.

Makeup is not required, bodies and BMI are not overly glorified, bras are optional, baguettes are not just a cliche, and beauty goes beyond surface level.

Parisians handle the ebb and flow of life like champs. One minute, there’s a gas explosion, and an hour later there’s a music festival. One night, there’s riots and protests, and the next morning, there’s a roller derby parade on one street and social dancing on another.

In Paris, you’ll actually sit to drink your coffee because to go cups do not exist. You’ll have pre-cocktail cocktails, eat dinner at 10pm, followed by more cocktails. You’ll go by foot everywhere, convince yourself you can step no further, only to suddenly be in the arms of strangers for three hours of Argentine Tango or West Coast Swing.

There’s something about walking into a ballroom, hundreds of sweaty Europeans of all ages, no air conditioning, a foreign language, the strongest body odor imaginable, that makes you feel so beautifully human.

You’ll be thousands of miles from home, and you will feel so “at home” with the way of the Parisians.

Je remue le ciel, le jour, la nuit. Je danse avec le vent, la pluie.

Un peu d'amour, un brin de miel et je danse…

Drowning In My Questions [Self Portrait Narrative]

2/11/22

I went to bed last night and had this vision of a house filled with water. The concept of drowning is interesting to me. Actually, a lot of physical concepts interest me, because I now know they can be just as metaphorical and emotional as they are literal.

It might seem kind of silly at first glance, but I think that we can be in the comfort of one's own home, surroundings, and environment, yet still feel like we're drowning. 

Maybe it's in heartbreak. Maybe it's in debt. Maybe it's in motherhood. Maybe it's in divorce. Maybe it's drowning in questions.

We can move from place to place, ease into brand new or familiar territory, run from our problems, run from here to there, stay busy, stay occupied, even stay home...but who we are on the inside can still be the same. And who we are on the inside will follow. Our grief, our despair, our questions, our "inner demons". 

Lately, there's been one question I've asked God over and over:

Why?

"I looked to You, drowning in my questions." 

Tonight is one of those nights where I don't have the answers. Many of us are in that tender, restless spot. But even when it feels like drowning...keep looking up.

Film Premieres, Language Exchange Partners & Reckless Ballroom Dreams

What a strange year it’s been. I am learning more and more that conflicting emotions and seasons of being and ideas can also be simultaneous. I can feel peace among chaos, be stressed to the max yet grateful, laugh on the outside while crying on the inside, immensely dislike aspects of people or politics or opinions, yet still deeply love the people and find truths in each side of the spectrum. My prayer life and experience of God has felt surreal too, and especially in my thought life and dreams. There were some situations that left me feeling quite gutted this year, and He has felt distant at many points, yet closer than ever at others. It’s like I’ve known he is there, but he feels far and I have felt at a loss for words. Somedays, all I can muster is, there is nothing left in me. I feel like nothing. I feel depleted. I feel empty. I feel lost.

Yet, I feel found.

So very found.

Between a fall of ballroom dancing and tango-ing, a wedding, music, a new job, a short film premiere, an online language exchange partner turned real life friend (Я люблю тебя, русская сестра!), a medical issue that I saw as a curse and now strangely a blessing…it’s been quite a journey.

I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in six months, stowed away my run shoes the last week, quit drinking caffeine in September, made (and am still making;)) some ballsy moves in my artistic life, and of course, chronically overthinking life, wrestling some “voices” in my head, and the constant ebb and flow of the high and low of life.

When the appropriate time comes, I will write more. It feels strange and almost wrong to write such a short, scattered post. Words are to me like keys are to a frustrated piano player seeking to decompress and make sense of life. I’m learning (and tonight, apparently practicing) that I don’t have to always go at everything so intensely and pour out everything in me. Rest is literally a lifeline; a safe haven and sacred escape from a world that demands us to never be powered off. Perhaps this is why God’s voice can often feel so muddled.

For now, here is but a small glimpse of some happenings the last four months.

My heart is heavy.

Yet, my cup runneth over.

Inner gold for Argentine Tango.  

First time seeing myself on a big screen for a short film premiere. Thank you, Ben Elias! 

Language learning. 

Ballroom dancing hangover. 

Random things I’m loving:

-Be Thou My Vision in the style of Audrey Assad

-Mind Over Matter

-Gold flakes (clearly)

-People watching at coffee shops

-Dr. Gabor Maté’s teachings and compassion towards humanity

-Reading rap like poetry

-Funnyface

-The slow pace of afternoon walks on the greenway

-Dénes Szabó

-Impressionist paintings at Ambleside Gallery

-Decaf coffee on a cold morning

-The way bitterly cold, sharp November air cuts at your skin…

Yet makes you hyperaware of your aliveness.

You Don’t Know Me

If you’re young, attractive, keep good shape, and don’t look like anything is wrong, you can’t possibly have any problems or struggles behind the scenes. If you open up and tell what it’s like to be you, sometimes you’re believed. Other times, you’re an attention seeking whore of sorts, who just wants validation. If you’re independent and strong and a woman, you can’t possibly deal with anything difficult. In fact, you could fall over, bleeding out with a knife in your chest, and a patriarchal male would glance down and say,

“I think the pain is just in your head.”

People are the kings and queens of aimless assumptions. Lately, I’ve wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, accompanied by my favorite “F” bomb with a really pronounced “ck” at the end:

“You don’t know me.”

Really, truly, you don’t know me. You know the version of me you want to know and no deeper. I am a project to be fixed; a problem to be rationalized.

I had a breaking point last week. I’m not sure if it was the multiple, unsolicited opinions over a recent health crisis, or sheer exhaustion from the stress of life. I’ve realized how unheard young people are when they’re struggling.

If you fix your hair, ink on some liquid eyeliner, smile, and happen to be young and female and good at some things in life, then you have absolutely nothing to complain about and nothing can possibly be eating you alive inside. Let’s not forget that there are problems way worse than yours, forever and always, and constantly something else more devastating and painful to trump whatever you are going through. The wars of your heart and treachorous seasons you’ve walked through don’t matter. If you’re young and independent and look pretty, you have no reason to cry. You have no reason to be anxious or depressed. You should just shut up and keep doing what you do best:

Being independent and young and pretty.

You’re strong, so you can’t possibly be weak. So just shut up and keep facading your inner turmoil in makeup, endless forced energy, and devotion to everyone else, and don’t forget to smile.

There are starving children, natural disasters, war, people bed ridden. How dare you, strong, independent, pretty woman, have the audacity to feel pain when it comes. If you’re young and strong and independent, you are an immortal goddess; a trophy wife incapable of any ounce of human suffering. Nothing can ever be wrong. You must be stainless steel; shiny and and polished and cleanable. You cannot be the red wine spilled on white carpet; blemished and stained and ugly.

You are not allowed to express how you actually feel. People will want so badly for you to open up and trust them and surrender your most vulnerable feelings. And the minute you do, they will try to fix you, like a hair out of place or a flake of dead skin to be picked off your face. You are invincible and deflective to the pressures of the world, strong woman. You have no reason to react the way you do. Even if your labs and clinical diagnostics give clinical evidence to your life skeptics, you’re still fine. Maybe you’d do better to carry a pocket size version of your labs and PDF file of your past trauma with names, dates, grotesque detail, and then you might be taken a bit more seriously.

They have been there, done that, so stop expressing what it’s actually like to be you, strong woman. Nothing you’ve experienced actually matters. None of it could possibly affect who you are today. You have the power to change and be someone new. If you break your leg and fumble around in a cast for a month, surely you should be able to walk with normal gait, no pain, and no altered physiological changes. Surely your open heart surgery wouldn’t require recovery, suture scars, and time to heal.

It’s the same for you, strong woman, who finds herself in a broken, desolate place.

Whatever you’re going through, it doesn’t matter.

Your life stress of trying to wear all the hats, juggle all the things, show up for everyone - including the 20+ unread texts - and do it in good spirits while running on sleep insomnia, doesn’t matter.

Your closeted health issues, collapse in your apartment floor with the worst seizure of your life, cocktail of brain scans and magic pills with a side effect of 3pm depressive numbness and new pile of medical debt, doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that the weight of the world is on your shoulders.

Suck it up. You’re fine.

You have emotional indebtedness to others to pay off. You’d better show up with limitless capacity, answer every text within 24 hours, reciprocate every good deed done to you, and just get over everything.

Your vivid nightmares and sleep insomnia are clearly a spiritual issue. It has absolutely nothing to do with the chaos and circumstances out of your control, or the fact that your personal space was invaded in a really hostile way. It’s definitely not PTSD. Psychologists and therapists and psychiatrists are evil. You’d better get right with God and figure out what unforgiven sin is causing this. It’s definitely not outside circumstances you had no control over. It’s definitely not someone else’s actions or uncontrollable health issues causing distress and restless nights.

Somehow, it’s your fault for someone else’s harmful actions and it’s all a reflection on your faith. Maybe if you’d gone to church more, prayed more (5x a day?), read the Bible more (an entire chapter and hermeneutics course?) done something more, none of it would have happened.

Your sudden episode of seizures, sleep insomnia, and inescapable nightmares are also a spiritual issue. It’s somehow your fault for that too.

Everyone will unsolicitedly diagnose you by way of their own subjective opinions and judgments.

It really doesn’t matter if you slept until 1:30 PM, moved in with your parents for two weeks to be on night watch, and now have a bottle of anti-seizure medication as your evening routine.

You’re independent and pretty and strong, so you owe your inbox of 20+ people needing a reply, teachers, and everyone else not only an explanation, but 100% of yourself. And if you can’t give 100% right now, you will owe it to everyone later. Or, they will care for 5 minutes and then expect you to function as the independent, strong woman you should be. It doesn’t matter if you quite literally can’t think straight and thought you were having a stroke the night before and feels like something broke inside your head. It doesn’t matter that every episode felt like running a half marathon. You’re young. You’re fine. You’ll bounce back quick enough.

You need to be perfect, strong woman, because that is how you survive in the world.

Others have been more traumatized, experienced more tragedy, look more tragic, and extremities and tragedy are the gateway for more empathy. Remember, pain does not exist for you. No matter what you’ve gone through or are feeling, there is worse happening, and you should probably just shut up and keep being pretty and strong, because that’s what you do best.

The strong, independent, alpha woman is the ultimate passport to surviving life.

I’m sure that’s why Cheslie Kryst jumped a 60 story building.

Or why Norma Jeane became Marilyn Monroe and why Marilyn Monroe’s pills for survival became the pills that dug her own grave.

Maybe we love people for who we want them to be, or who they could be, or the idealized version in our heads.

But we don’t love their broken, shit version.

We know about them…but we don’t know them.

And you don’t know me.

Lauren & Her Twins: New Life [Preview]

This year has been a strange one. Life is fascinating in that it can present with the most unexpected, gut wrenching of situations, yet a simultaneous peace among it all. Ecclesiastes is one of my favorite books in that it is so beautifully, poetically, and authentically describes the idea that life is bleak and dark…and life is also a sacred, beautiful gift.

Photography is a (literal) lens to that very concept. My heart and mind have been in a strange place lately, as I’ve dealt with a so many unknowns of life. Photography forces me to pause and seek beauty. I especially love documenting the connection and day to day life of families. The moments frozen in a nanosecond of time is captivating, and the innocence and purity of children at play is like balm to my soul. I think children are absolutely brilliant. They are geniuses in tiny bodies and I think we can learn just as much - if not more - from them as we can our teachers, our elders, our societally dubbed idea of “intelligence”. This is why I am drawn to lifestyle and in home sessions nowadays. People are so fascinating just by existing. There is nothing to prove, pose, stage, or some magical moment to construct and create. People are so fascinating, so stunning, so mesmerizing because they are alive. They need not do more, be more, or prove more.

Lauren & Kevin’s family are always a delight. This lifestyle session with her gorgeous twins was a gift. If you know me well, you know that twins have an extremely close place to my heart. Initially, I was supposed to photograph the birth of these sweet babes. Unfortunately, reality had some other plans and that did not work out. I was touched when, nearly nine months ago, Lauren reached out and asked if I would be there to document such a special moment. I’ve had the joy of photographing one birth, and it was one of the most powerful experiences of my life. Even though the birth of Lauren’s twins did not happen as anticipated, I was thrilled when she invited me to her home to capture their first couple weeks as living, breathing, teeny little human beings.

As I edit and look through these images, I find myself a bit emotional. Not only does Lauren wear motherhood so beautifully by the joy of her heart, but her newborn twins are the sweetest reminder of new life.

Welcome to the world, little loves.

FD Company: Winter Wardrobe Preview

This week marks 5 months of “digital abstinence” from social media. It’s been quite enjoyable - even therapeutic - to write and create galleries on this blog of mine, rather than quick blurbs on social media. It’s felt intentional and forced my fast paced brain to slow down. Words are my love language too. Here, I can share as many words and paragraphs and photographs as my heart desires. It isn’t trapped in the confines of social media’s quick fix. My life feels much more private now, which is both a strange and liberating feeling. I’ve liked it. I’ve also felt more creatively challenged than ever before.

Photographing movement makes my soul feel on fire. There is something so gritty and beautiful about watching people in the grit of their sport. I was delighted when Lena of Family Dance Company (FD) asked me to photograph her winter collection. I have had the pleasure of knowing Lena and her family the last two years. We first met at a ballroom studio in Greensboro, NC, where she and her husband became my teachers, after I took nearly a decade hiatus from the performing arts. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. They are some of the loveliest people to know and I am grateful for them. Lena is a fiery and fierce woman with the softest heart. I think her sixth sense is seeing into people’s soul and understanding exactly what life is like in your shoes. As Jo from Funnyface would say,

“That’s empathy!”

She reminds me of a Ukrainian Jennifer Lopez and is the epitome of “Soft and strong” all in one. She’s a wife, mother of three beautiful girls, and a force to be reckoned with on the dance floor.

Two years ago, my heart found refuge from the chaos of my personal life at their studio, as they and several other families found refuge in us from the war. It felt like a hiding place of sorts. It felt like balm to my soul to be surrounded by so many beautiful, slavic accents. I’d recently returned from a cultural exchange in Russia, just before the war, and struggled with reverse culture shock. I missed the slavic culture, rhythm of life, but especially my beloved language teachers turned sisterhood, and my roommates. It was an indescribable connection and bond that ended too soon. Returning home to the USA, I felt so lost. I felt disconnected. I felt sad. Suddenly, a little studio in Greensboro brought such a beautiful culture to my hometown. It brought a peculiar solace to the chapter of life I deeply missed. It felt like I was somehow there again, while also being home. Was this a dream?

I was fascinated by all these gorgeous Ukrainian people. Anthropology is a great love of mine and can be a dangerous pair with my chronic inquisitiveness. The Ukrainians were different from most people I encountered. I think that’s why I was smitten with Lena’s designs before I even knew she was a designer. Among a room full of bright colors, flashy designs, sequins, and shiny things, my eyes migrated to a simple, black dress on the hanger. It looked like something a mid 20th century star would wear. It was classy and mesmerizing to my nostalgic palette. I saw an “FD” logo on it. It just felt different from everything else.

One day, I was given a stash of them to try on. Out of all the colors, strings, and feathers on the rack, I was instantly drawn to another black dress for smooth dancing. On it, there was also an “FD” logo.

“That’s my dress!” Lena said, as I pointed to it.

At first, I thought she meant it was quite literally one she owned and was just renting out. I soon learned she was the mastermind behind the dress and entire company itself. I love the nostalgic yet eclectic punch to her designs. They feel timeless, elegant, and fierce, but don’t scream for attention. They remind me of a woman who simply exists in confidence and doesn’t have to prove it. She doesn’t puff up or shrink down. She just exists in who she is. FD Company designs have this way of saying, “I am here,” without any words at all. It was a joy to photograph her winter collection, featuring one of her three beauties, Liza.

Cutting My Teeth On Your Hoodie Strings

Self portrait narrative // Created & written April, 2022

How many times do we hang onto something that feels normal, but actually is sabotaging comfort?

How many times do we migrate to the things that feel like a security blanket, but razor blade us to bleed every time?

How many times do we convince ourselves we need something...

…Even when it hurts?

I ask myself these questions often.

"Hoodie" by Hey Violet has been stuck in my head. It's about a girl who self confessedly wears an ex's hoodie, sleeps in it, and still chews on the strings, all because it is a reminder of them...

…Even though it hurts.

It's funny, because although this exact scenario is not my story, I was hooked by the kind of humorous honesty of the lyrics.

So, while it may look like a kooky girl w/string in her mouth...to me, this is the addiction of pain, the sabotaging comfort of things - whether people, substances, relationships, habits - that should be given up.

It is something that feels so familiar...

…Yet prolongs the bleeding the longer you chew on it.

The Painted Piano Festival

Beauty is fascinating, in that it is sometimes hidden and tucked away in places we least expect it. In our modern society of art museums, prestigious films, digital editing, and a new era of social media “content creation” and filters, we can be mistaken that beauty exists in only certain capacities. It’s easy to overlook what’s right in front of us. Sometimes beauty is found in the grandeur: The exotic vacation, expensive travel, elitist art gallery, or cinema screen. Sometimes, beauty is created by us. Sometimes, we are the ones to see what something could be and cultivate beauty around its potential, no matter the location or infrastructure or initial judgements.

Thomasville, North Carolina, once a proud hub of the furniture industry, is often a book misjudged by its cover. At first glance, you would see a small town, abandoned furniture plants graced in kudzu and rust, buildings that have certainly seen their days, historic neighborhoods and streets that have also clearly seen their prime, and just enough stores, cafes, and local coffee shops to sustain the locals. Everybody knows everybody (and if they don’t know you, you’re likely 10th cousins or have at least 10 mutual friends), and it’s easy to pass through and merely see something that once was. Many would even call it an “Eyesore”.

Stay a little longer, and you just might discover something different. Take a stroll downtown, peruse the antique store, record store, all American made goods at BL Maker’s Market, kick back in Nature’s Cottage - the town’s very own organic, green spa - as you realize you’re actually in an early 20th century theater, enjoy southern hospitality as the waitresses not only serve you up a cup of sugary sweet tea, but also call you sugary sweet affections of “Honey” or “Baby” or “Sweetie”, and it’s totally platonic. As you walk downtown, take an extra good look at the storefronts.

You’ll notice an array of painted pianos.

I first noticed them about a year ago. I was marathon training and looped a long run downtown before dawn. It was dark, the streets were silent, and it was just the starry sky and me. That is, until I heard something in the distance. I heard what sounded like someone playing a piano. I took out my earbuds and listened. It wasn’t just a few plunked keys. It was something of absolute beauty. As I ran closer to the sound, there sat a homeless man in tattered clothing, completely engrossed in a festively painted piano. It felt like time stood still. As I ran by, I told him his music was beautiful and to keep playing. And that, he did. It was an unexpected gift and perfect soundtrack to a grueling 18 mile run. It was like life was breathed into an old town. As an artist, I absolutely loved the idea that someone thought to place a bunch of eclectic pianos at the storefronts downtown. Who would think to do this though? And why? This definitely piqued my curiosity. Almost a year later, I unexpectedly met the face behind it all.

That face was Priscilla Oldaker.

She is a singer, piano teacher, performer, and arts lover. We met by happenstance, but looking back, it felt like it was meant to be. In June, I sat outside The Blend Coffee Shop (also known as my digital “office”), writing a blog and editing photos. A fellow coffee shop regular joined me outside and we talked for a moment. Priscilla happened to be leaving, and overheard me speak of my writing and photography. She introduced herself and we connected instantaneously over music, art, writing, and the fact that we were both old souls. There was a warmth, classiness, and enthusiasm about her that I really loved. She shared about this upcoming festival downtown, featuring all the painted pianos in Thomasville. It was that moment I learned she was the mastermind behind the beauty I heard nearly a year ago during my run. Indeed, it is what we now know as the annual:

Painted Piano Festival.

My heart was warmed by the idea that someone desired to bring life and beauty to our sweet, small town. I’ve lived all over, traveled all over, seen gloriousness from the grandeur of Montanan mountaintops to European cathedrals, yet my heart remains fond of my hometown, Thomasville. It is forever my safe place, refuge, and place that, to me, has a beauty and lovely potential of its own. I was thrilled to meet someone like Priscilla, who echoed these same thoughts.

Born in Ohio, she grew up in a family that could be considered the American version of the Von Trapps. After their farm was tended to and supper was finished, her family would read the Bible, pray, and sing together. Priscilla’s mother was compared to Swedish opera singer, Jenny Lind, and the family would often travel on weekends and sing.

When her son was born, she wanted him to also experience the gift of music and learn the piano. Finances were tight as a young family though, so Priscilla (quite literally) took matters into her own hands. She taught him herself. Thus began her joy in teaching piano, which she has done for 24 years now. That joy has now turned into an annual street phenomenon, now known as the Painted Piano Festival.

“Several years ago, we visited a town that had some pianos out on the street that were beautifully painted. My daughter spent the afternoon playing them. It was just a magical afternoon. I really wanted to do this in Thomasville,” she said.

Priscilla’s vision resonated all over the community. Numerous people reached out to her, offering to donate pianos for the town’s project. Because of their generosity, the annual festival and music downtown is alive. Downtown Thomasville’s street closes, turning an old town into a mesmerizing world of local artists and food vendors, live painting, Disney princesses, lineup of late Miss Thomasvilles, complete in their tiaras, vocalists, and of course, piano players. Each year there is to be a theme, and 2024 was coined as the year of the Voice. It reminded me of my time in Europe, where the arts and street performers are integrated as part of the culture. For a few hours, Thomasville became just that. It traded its worn out clothes for a ballgown and became a magical world of its own. It just needed someone to see what it could be; dig up its hidden beauty.

And as Fyodor Dostoevsky, one of my favorite authors, was quoted in Italy,

“Beauty will save the world.”

Wade & Elizabeth: Wedding Preview [Greensboro, NC Photographer]

As Elizabeth’s day unfolded, I found myself caught in so many flashbacks. It all felt really sentimental. Not only was her wedding my last after twelve years of photographing them, but I have known her and her family since I was in 2nd grade. I literally remember playing Barbies with Elizabeth and going to a baby doll themed birthday party when she was a teeny little girl. Both her parents were teachers of mine in elementary and high-school, and Elizabeth and her younger sister were one of my first ever photo shoots. I was fifteen years old, novice, and barely had any experience. I photographed with an entry level DSLR that was bought from every nickel and dime saved from babysitting. In that shoot, she and her little sister wore dresses they’d worn for a wedding as bridesmaid and flower girl. And now, here we were, a leap in time.

Elizabeth was suddenly the bride in front of my lens.

Time definitely stood still for many moments. It was like this full, glorious circle right before my eyes. I had no doubt Wade and Elizabeth’s wedding would be joyous. On a stupidly windy November evening, we froze our tushes off under a gloomy sky, cold air, and captured their engagement photos. The weather wasn’t exactly what I’d call “miserable”, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Elizabeth’s nose was red, my fingers were numb, but their dry humor, acceptance of my dirty jokes, and good spirits made it an absolute blast. I knew their wedding day would echo the same things.

And so it did. Their ceremony was held in Elizabeth’s home church, surrounded by close friends and loved ones. They read handwritten vows to each other, as they shared a private moment before the day unfolded. Elizabeth’s smile is like pure, authentic giddiness and joy blended together. I love it. Her connection with Wade magnified it, and especially in their moments alone. I don’t think I have ever witnessed a reception where the party stayed partying the entire time. It was like two solid hours of Wade and Elizabeth encircled by glow sticks, perfectly buzzed guests, and nonstop dancing. It was fantastic. The only way I can describe it was like this hype, joyous circle of absolute love, high energy, and scream singing. They definitely brought the house (or barn;)) down.

Wade & Elizabeth, it was a delight to spend the day “freezing time” on you. May your days ahead be blessed and may your love only grow stronger (and, you know, spicier)(all the one flesh vibes, baby!). Enjoy a glimpse of your beautiful day!

xo

Costa Rica, Abstinence & 3 Months in Squares

Dehydrated, I cracked open my crusted eyelids. I felt like absolute garbage. A pounding headache and unquenchable thirst were the first to greet me. They lingered the entire day. I snacked on ibuprofen and felt lightheaded during a family dinner, wondering how I had such a wicked hangover. I couldn’t function. You’d think I partied all night and chugged down endless bottles with the best of company.

Reality was that I had two glasses of wine in the solitude of my apartment. I’d gone for a walk with a friend that afternoon, stopped by an art gallery that evening, engaged with the owner, a lovely man in his eighties, and planned to unwind with the book he gifted me and some wine that night. Nothing about it screamed “party girl” and I certainly had enough restraint from it to ever be considered alcoholic. I wasn’t an addict. I could live without it. But lately, I wanted and craved it, and especially when I’d get home and all was quiet...too quiet. I’d been struggling with a nagging depression, stress from life, and thoughts that felt too difficult to just sit with in silence. I’d noticed my body began reacting to alcohol much differently than it used to. Its intoxicating lift hit way faster and the unpleasant side effects seemed to take precedence over its temporary, reality numbing promises.

I did not want to take anti-depressants again. I also didn’t want to dabble in THC, even if legal and low dosage. It all seemed to only exacerbate the anxiety I worked hard to minimize. I wasn’t addicted, but I was definitely coping and began to feel a reliance anytime the depressive low and anxiety became too much. Each time I’d drink and settle into that buzzed haze, it only put me deeper into the depression I was trying to escape. I was shocked how awful I felt for having only consumed two beverages. It felt like I drank half a bottle. As my hungover body slowly awakened, it was like this still, small voice in my head said,

“Look at what you’re doing to your poor body.”

The ROI on alcohol was not that great. I knew deep in my heart I needed to learn to self regulate in far healthier ways than running for the bottle, the pills, or even the running shoes when life spiraled out of control. I decided to quit drinking for the rest of the year. I don’t know why, but it just felt right. And then, I decided to quit a lot of other things. I wasn’t sure if it was God or my instinctive reaction, but it felt like a Holy nudge. I deleted all my social media apps, quit running for 33 days, quit practicing Tango in 3” heels every week, surrendered all my CBD teas and edibles, and made the executive decision to abstain from alcohol for the rest of the year. It didn’t feel as terrible as my mind thought it would be. I think our own limiting beliefs can set us up for failure before we even try. Instead of consciously deciding to “replace” one former habit or coping mechanism for another, I took a different avenue. I didn’t want to merely swap habits - even if it was for a healthier one - because the new habit would only feed into my obsessive/compulsive thought patterns; the very rigidity I sought to break. Instead, I allowed myself to explore things I’d always wanted to do but never had time for, and find one simple activity to replace the quick fix of social media when I was bored or wanted to numb out. I also chose to find things that did not require as much of my physical body. The only “rule” was that anything I began to pursue had to be done with intention, rather than rigidity and obsession.

It’s been quite a ride, but sometimes things falling a part is actually what puts life back into place. Below is but a glimmer of that, featuring non-alcoholic “beer” and baristas who sharpie extra love onto your iced americano. There’s much I’m still working on resolving in my personal life and headspace, but I’m thankful for people and beauty and the small joys of everyday life. My cup runneth over.

33 Days Without Running

“Maybe running was the problem.”

My run coach was shocked the injury still persisted. I was too. 33 days of no running later, and here I was, still seeking treatment and answers for it. Yet amidst it all, I felt mentally okay. I didn’t miss it as much as I thought I would. I didn’t fall a part.

Nine months ago, a rainy October morning, I ran a marathon. I ran it injured. I crossed the Finish line even more injured than I started. Within the first five miles, I felt an unpleasant tug in my achilles. It wasn’t excruciating, but it certainly wasn’t promising to feel when there’s 21.2 more miles ahead. Had it been a training run, I would have dropped immediately. But for a marathon, one I’d prepared for months and planned my entire life around, there was no way I was going to drop out. So, I ignored it. It was aggravating at first, but as the miles became more grueling, I focused on the other parts of my body that were in pain until the achilles pull felt more like a whisper. I finished. I crossed the line. And then was out from running for almost three weeks. I couldn’t walk without limping. It felt something could snap. A stationary bike and first session of dry needling were my new friends. My mental health plummeted to pathetic levels. Was I really this fragile? I thought I was so much stronger than that. I did not like it. It felt like every voice my seventeen year old psyche wrestled with and saw in the mirror and stuffed down as every other high of choice replaced one after the other after the other, came with a vengeance. I was shocked at the thoughts and depressive low I found myself in. I truly though I’d recovered and put those thoughts to rest. I had no idea how much baggage was trapped inside. I plugged in earbuds, hopped on a stationary bike, and I didn’t stop.

During that time, my love life briefly resurrected itself. The same day we connected was the same day a friend asked me about my weight. I asked her if I looked bad. I saw no difference anytime I looked in the mirror. Others did. Usually my muscular stature could hide that anything was ever wrong. Even when I shed pounds and fat, I never went to a nothingness, skeletal twig. This time, my behind the scenes work was apparently more noticeable.

“…Just don’t lose another five pounds.”

I felt a twinge of guilt. Am I too broken and dysfunctional to pursue something romantic right now? Am I faking it? Am I hiding something from him? It felt slightly wrong to talk to someone who seemed so good, and especially knowing how dismantled my thoughts had been. It also felt wrong and slightly awkward to begin initial interactions by mentally dumping my problems on a love interest. How does one express vulnerability without sounding like a fragile snowflake? I didn’t know if I was self sabotaging or if I truly needed to get better help before trying to date again. I sat down with a trusted friend. I told her my fears. I’d chicken scratch written nearly 30 pages of them in a journal. I didn’t want to bleed my own problems onto someone else. In my tangled web of thoughts and upon speaking to my friend, I realized something.

Seeing such light and goodness in another human being made me want to change.

It made me crave the Light I saw in them. It made me want to be whole, not out of approval and politeness to them, but out of my own desire to have what they had. They made me want to fight for wholeness - and Holiness - and healing. Sometimes people come into our lives, be it friends or lovers, who leave a Holy fragrance behind them. Just as a dust of a good perfume makes you wonder which scent someone has spritzed on, so it goes with those who wear the quality of Light among such a dark world. The voices stayed loud for a while, but as the relationship deepened and as yet another marathon training cycle came into the picture, they quieted. I returned to regular patterns of eating. I had the rigidity of morning runs. I had a love interest and endless butterflies. I had meaningful work and trips and opportunities to look forward to. I had the most beautiful distractions. The “fat girl in the mirror” eventually came to a hush.

Five months later, I ran another marathon. That relationship ended two days before. The next 48 hours felt like a controlled, high functioning, out of body experience and detachment from reality. Still, I was going to run, no matter how sleep deprived, calorie depleted, and heartbroken. I showed up to the race in a mental fog hazier than a hangover. I wanted to at least finish what I started. When I arrived at the Start line, sea of people in spandex and colorful socks and that weird “race day smell” of sunblock and anti-chafe cream, it all seemed absolutely meaningless. The only reason I ran was to prove to my own fragile psyche that nothing had power over me. My pacer kissed another runner, her boyfriend. They wished each other luck and he moved to his corral. That’s when the meaninglessness of a marathon hit me. In a mere 10 minutes before the race, the moments I should be hyped up and ready to kill it, I thought,

“None of this matters.”

At the end of the day, a time and the Finish line and all the things we obsess over are utterly meaningless compared to the connection of a person and the feeling of being seen, understood, and loved. A race and unit of measurement gave none of that.

Nonetheless, apathy and all, I ran. It rained. A humid fog settled over the course. I found several “race day angels” who became my silent heroes and pacers. My brisk, 7:45/mi pace turned to a grueling, salt crusted death march. I got cold chills. I got a wicked cramp in my foot. I jog shuffled the last five miles. I felt a sense of hatred towards life. I couldn’t keep another sip of water down. I ditched my last energy gel. It would be so easy to just quit the course and walk off. I felt like utter garbage. I mentally agreed with myself I’d keep trudging forward until I passed out. I really didn’t care if I fell flat to my face. Reality outside of the marathon sucked anyway, so I really had nothing to lose. That thought was truly the only thing that kept my fatigued legs moving. I crossed the Finish line. I felt nothing. The only emotion I really felt was relief that it was over and to see my mom and a close friend. They videoed me crossing the line, and there’s zero expression of victory or delight. It’s as if a stoic, bored, dehydrated girl with a wilted side braid who feels no enthusiasm for life or the fact that she just ran 26.2 miles, crossed the Finish. I didn’t get my desired time. I certainly didn’t get the anticipated race experience. I wasn’t bummed. I also wasn’t thrilled. It was strange.

Two weeks later, I ran another marathon.

With that much training under my belt, surely I could shave a few minutes off and qualify for Boston. I sent a text to my run coach a whopping 24 hours after the marathon I’d just run. I was sore and tired, but felt strangely rejuvenated, considering the last 72 hours of quite unfortunate circumstances. I stood outside a gas station en route home and hit “Send”. My run coach said it was not a good idea and came with high risk. I could get sick, injured, fall a part, and very rarely could people recover fast enough and well enough to pound out another within two weeks’ time. I texted back and prodded a little more. My run coach texted back.

“Alright. Let’s bargain.”

Under the strict guidance and the race day strategy being, “I can quit anytime at any mile and run at any pace,” and essentially reject every other race method I’d tried, I could go for it. For two more weeks, I had something to obsess over and fixate on. The rawness of the breakup was slowly drowned out by planning yet another marathon to pound out. I didn’t know if this solution was absolutely genius or utterly foolish. Breakups were always the key to my weak spot. Their sting had a way of making me feel my worst fears: Undesirable. Unworthy. Unlovable. Unattractive. I’d quit eating, sleeping, functioning. I’d wall myself up and whither away and everything would feel bleak and meaningless and purposeless. I’d convince myself I’d rather be in pain with someone than without them. I was in agonizing pain both ways, but if I had to be in pain, I wanted to be in pain with them. Breakups made me feel like the voice of seventeen year old me, the one that stared back in every reflection and confidently reminded me I was the repulsive fat girl in the mirror. The hunger pangs and endless cups of caffeinated coffee ripping up my empty stomach felt like a satisfying high; a brief escape from the chaos I had no control over.

Now, I had no choice but to eat. I had no choice but to sleep. I had no choice but to keep pressing forward and living, or at least for two weeks. I never understood how guys always seemed to distract and move forward so quickly after a breakup. I’d feel sub-human, and meanwhile, they were already onto merrier things and back in the dating pool within a month. I mentally decided I’d commit to, sign up for, and fill my time with as much as possible.

“I’m going to process this like a guy.”

I showed up to the Start line. I showed up by myself. I was going to run it, whether or not I had support. I broke every single “marathon rule” I ever followed. I brought completely different energy gels and new fuel. I listened to music. I sipped gatorade and beverages I’d never practiced with. My legs definitely felt tighter. 7:45/mi pace did not feel as quick and flighty and doable as it did two weeks ago. It was a push. I found a group of race angels. I drafted two men and a speedy lady with blonde hair and black spandex, who felt like our “race mom”. She’d check on everyone and periodically glance behind at me, ask how I felt, and give a high five. Together, we all ran for 22 miles. They were going for 3:30:00. So was I. It would have been an honor and a joy to cross the Finish line with them. The American Tobacco trail was nearly perfect. The dirt felt amazing on my legs, the cool, spring temperature was ideal for running, and the race angels I found and connected with felt like I suddenly had a marathon family. A deep burst of joy surged through my veins. Lindsey Stirling’s whimsical music streamed through my earbuds, making the trail feel like an enchanted forest. Her violin and the crowd of runners made the marathon feel like a cinematic movie scene. I ran with strength, joy, and determination, until I didn’t. I kept reminding myself what my run coach and I agreed on for this. If I felt bad at all, I needed to drop the race.

You’ll always feel like crap at some point during the marathon, but there’s two very different types of pain. One reminds you that it is painful, but you can still dig deep and push further. The other reminds you that something actually might snap, break, or cause more detriment than victory a Finish line could bring. At mile 22, my beloved angels moved forward and I nursed a cramp on the sidelines, while beginning to dry heave gatorade. I run shuffled back onto the course and tried desperately to catch back up to them. I knew in my body that it could not give what I asked of it. Still, I tried. I checked my watch. There was still a glimmer of hope for a BQ. I just had to pick it up, lock in, and tune out the death march that began to ensue. The 3:35:00 pacer passed me. That was my finishing time two weeks ago. A BQ definitely was not on the charts today. And now, not even a PR. It was settled. I glanced to the side of the trail and saw a suburban neighborhood. Two weeks ago, I set out to prove nothing had power over me and I could run the race. Now, I set out to prove nothing had power over me once again.

This time, it was the power of a DNF.

I stopped running. I hopped off the trail and onto a curbside. I phone called my mom, who was en route with a friend to wait in hopeful ambition at the Finish line. I nonchalantly told her I DNFd the race. Two weeks ago, that would have crushed me. It would have ruined my week and felt like a scarlet letter. It would have told me I wasn’t good enough, fast enough, committed enough, tough enough. Today, I wanted to prove to myself that even my own expectations had no power over me.

I recovered. I took a few days off running. I left the country for a few day with some friends. I returned. I began a new training cycle for a summer of 5ks. My run coach and I set some lofty goals. I was stoked. I laced up my shoes. My body was not the same. Something felt really wrong. I couldn’t walk without limping. I equated it to all the hiking and walking in Costa Rica. I expected it to ease up in a few days. It got progressively worse. I sought physical therapy and dry needling and rest. I added cross training. I took an entire week off physical activity altogether. Nothing changed. The same foot that had fractured years prior, had an achilles injury from my October marathon, and somehow sustained two more marathons within two weeks, was injured yet again. It was like the emotional roller coaster of the previous six months manifested itself in my lower left side. My body screamed for rest. My mind screamed for rest. My spirit screamed for rest. I had no choice but to give it rest. I decided to take an entire month off running. At first, the stillness and silence felt crippling. Months of processing life “Like a guy”, even if much was meaningful and good, was about to consume my thought life with a real vengeance. Running, my joy and high and coping mechanism and “fat girl in the mirror” quieter, was gone.

33 days of no running.

Just one month. For just one month, surely I could give it up and be okay. One month, and then I could drive myself into the ground again. I stowed away my run shoes. With it, I stowed away my marathon and 5k dreams. I stowed away my obsessions. I stowed away the voice that convinced me running was the golden hem of healing for my negative thought patterns and body image issues. I had to prove, yet again, that it had no power over me. This time, I had to prove that I could run for joy and not for a voice at my psyche’s conference table of endless opinions and scrutiny and toxic negativity. I thought I’d crawl out of my skin. A few times I did. Otherwise, I felt strangely okay with it. I took long walks. I rode my bike. I caught fireflies at dusk on the greenway. I spent quality time with loved ones and friends. I went paddleboarding. I slept an hour later than I usually would on a summer day. I picked up and explored some new creative avenues and said “Yes” to opportunities I dropped nearly a decade ago in my artistic life. I said “Yes” to last minute gatherings and early morning meetups, whereas my run schedule always dictated it all in the past. I listened to Lindsey Stirling’s new album on repeat. The slower pace awakened something within my restless mind. Actually, it forced it to slow down. It forced it to process and reconcile. It forced it to learn the art of solitude and stillness; something I continue to both learn and make friends with. At times, I missed running. But it felt simultaneously like a friendship or relationship that you must let go for the meantime, but could someday be healthy in its proper time and place.

Three days ago, I laced up the shoes I stowed away. I ran again. I barely ran 3 miles. I ran 2.75 miles, to be exact. Mere months ago, that would have barely felt like a warmup. Now, it felt like a long lost friend. I took off hard and fast on an 85 degree evening. It felt 10x harder than it did 33 days ago. I couldn’t run a 5k fast and furious, even if I tried. My body drenched in sweat, legs wobbly, heart beating fast, lungs breathing in humid air, I felt so alive. I didn’t care about how many miles I pounded out, how fast I went, or if I was going to shed something. I clung to the feeling of running wild, free, and without restraint.

I clung to the feeling that, eight years of running later, maybe running didn’t have to be a toxic companion.

Maybe running could be a friend again.

Lily Elif - Wild & Free [Greensboro, NC Photographer]

My alarm buzzed at 4:00 AM. There in the floor lay my hiking boots. In my thirteen years of photography, I’d never had anyone take me up on the offer to shoot at sunrise. It’s an early wakeup call when the sky’s still threaded with stars and the world is sound asleep. To me, watching the night sky transcend to a cloudburst and color palette of a new day is powerful. It is Holy. It makes Heaven and Earth, even if but a handful of minutes, feel merged. It makes something stir in my soul. A week prior, I sent Lily the same text I did to anyone else for portrait options. We’d planned to shoot somewhere in the enfolds of nature, and thought a mountaintop would be super epic. We could shoot in the evening haze near sunset, or we could chase the sunrise. But, it would require an early wakeup call, some strategic preplanning, and getting on the road shortly after our 4 AM wakeup call. She enthusiastically opted for chasing the sunrise. When we left for our senior portrait mountain adventure, there was still a full moon. Whatever unfolded, I knew it would be magical. Lily is the kind of person who reminds me of the beauty of staying present, holding expectations loosely, and experiencing life’s glories in whatever unfolds.

There are all sorts of different people in the world. There are those who you meet in passing, share a brief conversation or some polite words with, and then go about your day, never seeing them again. There are others who you engage with for several minutes more, maybe even a couple hours, and perhaps trade phone numbers. Some become friends. Some remain a moment passed in time. And some walk into a room, and it’s as if the light in them illuminates throughout their every step and interaction. Some you share a few words with, and in those few words, it’s as if you share a brain, live on the same wavelength, and feel like they viscerally, spiritually understand exactly who you are and your own human experience. Some are kindred spirits. My thoughts often feel as chicken scratched as my journal pages in how I speak to them, and it baffles me when someone genuinely tracks along.

That is Lily.

Her middle name, Elif (derived from her family’s Turkish roots) translates as “The girl who spreads light". I couldn’t think of more fitting words than what’s quite literally in her own name. I’ve had the delight of knowing this brilliant young woman since November, when we met at a dinner one of our ballroom studios hosted. I was shocked when I learned she was only seventeen. She spoke with the wisdom of a philosopher, the abstract beauty of an artist, and the eloquence of someone who had seen at least seventy years of life. There was a warmth and ease in how she connected; a confidence that didn’t have to prove itself. We shared a zeal for writing and philosophical poetry, ballroom dancing (obviously!), art that makes you feel something and contemplate life a little deeper, anthropology and life abroad, and of course, the great outdoors and its splendor. We’d happen to show up at the studio at the same time, happen to be wearing nearly identical clothing (I have photographic proof of this), happened to land at the same live jazz event on New Year’s Eve, and I laughed to myself upon finding out of her Turkish heritage…and her learning I spent 3.5 months in Turkey. What are the odds? Lily’s joy is contagious and being around her makes you crave the purity of life and its simple yet profound beauties. Luna from Harry Potter is her doppelgänger. Hands down. Talking to her is a gift in and of itself.

As we drove down the moonlit highway to chase the sunrise, piano music in the background, I told her she really needed to write a book. I still don’t know how she was so lively for having slept under three hours. She apparently stayed up until 1 AM to make muffins for a 4 AM drive. We arrived to the parkway in plenty of time before the first peek of light, only to find the gates closed. I was determined to find a place off the road or nearby to park the car, even if it meant taking a mini hike to our actual hike. Nothing. Our entire game plan of photographing her during a hike as the sun rose over a mountaintop was off the table. Most people would allow that mishap to ruin their entire day…but not Lily.

“Wherever we go and no matter where we catch the sunrise, even if it’s the side of the road somewhere, joy and freedom can still be felt!”

We found a nearby park, and guess what? The gates were closed. But that didn’t stop us. We parked at a vacated car wash nearby and hopped over the gate. At first sight, it seemed a rinky little park in the middle of nowheresville…definitely not as glorious as a mountaintop. We kept walking. Nestled within it was a river and sandy beaches scattered throughout. Suddenly, it was as if we were in Narnia itself. There was this distinct moment where we stopped in a brief trance of sorts; captivated by the burst of color seeping through the trees and illuminating the early morning sky. Everything was green and gold. It was as if the world was painted just for Lily. It felt like Heaven met Earth, and as Lily ran wild and free - barefoot in the river, yoga and cartwheels in the grass, hugging oak trees, and savoring the first of the morning light on the rocks - it was like watching a living, breathing metaphor of freedom itself. As we sat on the rocks, feet dipped in the river, I checked the time. I asked Lily if she wanted to climb a mountain, as we originally planned. I did not want her to be disappointed. She smiled with the deepest sense of ease and delight,

“We had that mountain experience right here.”

Beauty is everywhere. We need not traipse across the country or the Atlantic or spend thousands of dollars on airfare to find it. Look up. Look in front. Look within. Beauty is there; tucked away in every crevice and corner. We just have to seek it. And just as it’s said that when we seek God, we will find Him…so it goes with beauty. We just need to look. May our eyes be open.

Dear Lily Elif,

Indeed, you spread light to those around you. May your next venture to Costa Rica to teach English, teach yoga, and most importantly, teach the gift that is admiring and appreciating what’s right in front of you, as you’ve taught me…be immensely blessed beyond what your mind can even fathom. May you forever see life through the purity of childlike eyes. May beauty follow you. And may you continue to find it.

Maybe I Should Shove a Finger Down My Throat?

Courtesy of Janelle Putrich Photography, 2014.

“Your skin is terrible.”

I sat in the interview room, seventeen years young, desperately hoping she would sign me to the agency. Those were her first words. Before she could even ask a single question - my age, skills, acting experience - or see my actual talent, the flaws of my face were the bigger topic of conversation. She was appalled at my teenage acne. She abruptly left the meeting and quite literally drove to her home to bring skincare samples. We had just sat down. I pretended not to care. I nervously laughed and agreed that my skin could be better. Six months prior, I sat in the doctor’s office, many episodes of feeling ill, bizarre symptoms, and almost passing out later. There I sat, just as nervous as I did in the interview chair with the talent agent, clenching the seat as I confessed to skipping meals, purposefully losing weight, and seeing a “fat” girl in the mirror. I barely weighed 100 lbs. The PA prodded a little more. She brought up the inevitable; the dirty secret held within the napkins I spit food into and locked up tight: Eating disorders.

“I feel like I need to lose weight,” I said,

“But I’m not like…throwing up.”

I thrived off the high of the stage, lights, live audience, and the way I felt like I was in an entirely different dimension during a performance. It was a high unlike any other. Soon the curtains would close, the euphoric high stripped away, and the lowest of low made itself at home. I felt like a shell of myself. My teenage body did not know how to handle the suffocating low - the depression - after such massive hits of Dopamine and learning to live off adrenalin. Neutrality was a nonexistent concept. Chaos was my accidental BFF. Most girls spend time in their head dreaming up their wedding day and what kind of dress they might wear. I dreamed of becoming a successful artist. Freshman year, I told my teacher I didn’t want a husband, would adopt children, and wanted to be a working actress. It didn’t go over very well. Personal success in the arts was my pedestal of arrival. Anyone could get a husband. But very few could find their way to the top of Hollywood’s dirty playing field and facaded angels. I wanted that. I quit theatricals and instead ran full force into what some call The Devil’s Playground.

“I booked it.”

My seventeen year old dreams came true. I signed with the agent. I got my comp card and expensive headshots. My weight, eye color, hair color, and height were printed at the top. I got the sides to a FOX pilot. I got noticed. I got ego stroked. It became my new identity. In show business, you sell yourself. You are the product. Your body and face will either be gawked over or scrutinized. I will never forget the first time I went to a fitting for a feature film. It was no major role, but I was excited for the scenes I booked. I was given a stack of thick, scratchy 1940s wardrobe to try on. I was mortified when that stack included a bikini. With each piece, I stood against a white wall in front of a zoo of other people and a photo was taken for the director. The costume designers and stylists spoke very clinically on what looked good, what didn’t, what type of body you had, and what would work. I felt like a clothing wrack; self conscious and inwardly whithering away at having to stand in a bikini in a room full of people. Supposedly, this was what I always wanted, even though my disordered eating habits spiraled out of control the more I realized how un-5’11, 22” waisted, long torsoed, flawless skinned I was. I spent my quiet hours perusing biographies of dead Hollywood actresses and their addictions, mental health crises, alleged suicides, and finding things to fix about myself; chronically pinching my sides in the mirror with every piece of apparel I tried on. I had no show to throw myself into, no pages upon pages of scripts to memorize and obsess over. I thought my new adventure in the TV & Film world, home of always needing to do more, be more, and then still not being quite enough, would replace the stage’s high. I was wrong. I found a new obsession; something else to dedicate precious time and energy and devotion working to perfect and fix and become my mind’s new preoccupation. Its name was,

“I just want to be skinnier.”

If I could describe the last of my high school years in one word, it would be: Hungry. I’d pack a banana for an entire school day and call it “vegan”. I became a pro at spitting food in my napkin and finding strange solace in going to bed on empty, no matter how shaky and upset I felt. To push my mind’s threshold of comfort and tap into a discomfort felt victorious. It felt like I was conquering my own weakness and finding a victory of sorts. If I was angry, sad, or hurt, this new high allowed me to numb out and feel absolutely nothing. On top of it, I was rewarded by the idea that I was bettering myself and gaining something, that something being skinniness. Maybe skinniness would make me more lovable, beautiful, and wanted. My immense fear of vomiting, I truly think, was the unseen grace that kept me from shoving a finger down my throat at the porcelain throne. Hunger pangs began to feel like taking a hit of something. I’d never smoked a cigarette or special greens in my life, but the euphoria that hunger brought seemed to numb life’s troubles. That is, until all my other temporarily sustaining highs stopped working.

“It’s just for the marathon.”

Running became my next great high. I signed up for a marathon and it very quickly filled the obsessive void I craved. But in order to run fast and run far, one thing had to change. I had to eat. Running almost felt like the high of the stage, but without a live audience or countless hours of memorization. It was just me and the road, my earbuds and a new challenge. It allowed me to eat without guilt because I could just burn it all off. It scratched the itch I needed from the insane hits of Dopamine within a few minutes. It gave me a sense of purpose because I was constantly striving for more miles, more time, more of something. It pushed another threshold and gave a reward for pain. Even though I was only pounding out a unit of measurement and could objectively witness how mentally unhealthy many of its spandex partaking creatures were; how addictive and all consuming running was in their lives - how mildly annoying they were - I was convinced I was doing some act of greatness. I think a lot of people do. Running offered a new threshold and mental barrier to push past; to obsess over. Slowly, the voices that told me I was the “fat girl” staring back in the mirror became a mere whisper. They were still there, tucked away, but their shouts and demands were hushed because a new high took their place. I lived off rice cakes and bananas for fuel. I set my alarm for 4:30 AM and then 3:30 AM the longer the runs got, because I was that self conscious of anyone watching me. So I’d do it in the cold and in the dark and on 4 hours of sleep. My discipline was praised. My dedication was praised. My long runs were praised. Meanwhile, my body was a disaster. I lost my period for six months. My weight fluctuated. My sanity was miniscule. I was exhausted every day and slept in my car during lunch breaks at school. I was depressed. The voices got louder.

Do more. Be more. You’re still not enough. Run more. Wake up earlier. You’re still not dedicated enough. Eat less. Sleep less. You could still lose five more pounds.

Running worked for years…until it didn’t. When my life fell a part, when my hip was injured, when my love life blew to smithereens, I needed a new hit. This time, I tried the real thing.

“I don’t feel anything. Did I do it right?”

…Were my famous last words with my new acquaintance, whom we shall call Mary Jane. My friends and I sat in a circle. Our lives were falling a part in their own special ways, so special greens seemed quit fitting. The hand rolled goods stuffed with Colorado’s finest was passed to me. I was hesitant. I never craved or desired to try recreational drugs. It smelled terrible and I always judged individuals who succumbed to its skunk meets Starbucks like aroma. I thought marijuana was for apathetic bums who had no drive in life. Turns out, it also was for heartbroken 23 year olds having an existential crisis and severe depression. There I sat, a bunch of alcoholic beverages on my fragile stomach, my stoned friends giving a DIY tutorial on how to properly inhale. I took a puff and felt my throat burn and started coughing. Disgusting. I felt nothing. My friends, very philosophically into their high, assured me it would kick in and to give it a few minutes. I didn’t believe them. I took another puff. And then six more. I still felt nothing, until suddenly, I felt everything. I laughed and probably made jokes that made no sense. And then I left the stratosphere. I ate my friend’s box of ice cream sandwiches, even though I didn’t even like ice cream. I accidentally broke the tea pot with spiked tea. I spilled multiple cups of water on the floor. I coiled by my friend’s feet, cried, and told my life story. She hazily reassured me as she drifted off in the chair. A few drops of water sloshed out of my cup. I cried again. I compared my life to the cup of spilled water. I kept crying. I poured another drink. I got really paranoid. I became convinced my friends were out to get me. They were going to betray me or blackmail me. How dare they. I was, what some might call, crossed. Blankets and pillows were placed on the couch. My support group of stoned friends reassured me everything would be okay. They led me to the couch.

“Anna, just lay down.”

Nine months ago, I ran a marathon. I ran it injured. I crossed the Finish line injured worse than I started. I was out from running for a whopping three weeks. My usual high was gone. No morning runs, no hit of Dopamine, no structure, nothing to fixate on, nothing to obsess over. It was as if every voice in my head that had been stuffed down crawled right back to the top. This time, they were screaming. The “fat” girl in the mirror was back. She came with a vengeance and nothing seemed to quiet her. I didn’t want to gain weight. I didn’t want to gain fat. I hopped on a stationary bike and I didn’t stop. That didn’t scratch the itch that running did. I’d plug in a podcast or ethereal, cinematic music to trudge through it (first world problem) and still feel like it wasn’t enough. I cut my normal eating patterns and mentally decided I’d eat normally again after two weeks, once the injury recovered. I didn’t even realize I was dropping pounds. Others did. A few close people in my life, out of concern, asked if I’d lost weight. I was shocked. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw no difference. I mentally decided, along with pushing away food for two weeks, that if one more person asked about my weight, I’d take it seriously. Just five more pounds. Just five. Then I’ll stop.

“Where did the rest of you go?”

A friend stared me up and down. She was the last straw. I needed help. I couldn’t drown out my thoughts in as many alcoholic beverages as preferred because I was staying in my parents’ home. I couldn’t run for special greens because this was North Carolina, not Colorado or California, and I felt too convicted in my gut. I couldn’t run because my achilles tendon wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t book a plane ticket and run from my problems because I was diligently searching for a place of my own and needed the money. But I could deal with a few hunger pangs. I could use its long lost euphoria in my better interest. No matter how many questions of concern, cups of coffee ripping up my stomach and masking hunger pangs, I saw no difference. The same seventeen year old voice still lingered. Just a few more pounds. Maybe there was a way to lose it faster. And then, I’d return to normal, even though “Just a few more” or “One more time” or “One more day” is never, ever just “One more”. Every addict or deeply embedded habits knows this. Vomiting terrified me a decade ago, but I’d seen enough life and experienced enough medical issues it lost much of its power. A fleeting thought crossed my mind.

“Maybe I should shove a finger down my throat?”

No sooner did that thought cross my mind than I shocked my own self at even having the thought.

No way. That would be too explicit. That would be too far. That would scream,

“I am broken and dysfunctional and in desperate need of help.”

Seventeen year old me would have even agreed. One high after another high after another high. Each high assured me it would be the one to change something, yet nothing ever seemed to change. The ROI was much lower than each one promised.

At the end of the day, the euphoria always fades.

It’s just me, and reality is still the same. The low of reality is what I dance in circles around, trying desperately to escape. Yet in my escapism to avoid the crippling low, the low is exactly what I need to experience, sit with, and walk through.

A Domination of Lust or Love

I’ve found solace in coffee shop patios and solitude lately. My thoughts have been a bit of everywhere and it’s difficult to allow myself to just think and write and be when life’s chaos knocks at the front door. Lana Del Rey was my #1 Spotify Wrapped artist of the year for 2023, and she likely will be again. Her music has streamed through my headphones frequently. I don’t listen much to pop radio these days, but her music’s melancholic feel and poetic writing is soothing. One interlude, in particular, stood out to me a couple months ago. A charismatic, slightly aggressive voice suddenly overpowered the calming resonance of her voice. I heard scriptures and God mentioned, which I found surprising for a Lana album. I couldn’t quite understand the words, but was afraid it might be poetic blasphemy. Pop culture tends to find this sexy. I don’t. So, I skipped it. I did what all millennials do and did a quick Google research. I typed a few words.

“Judah Smith Interlude”

I was stunned. Lana Del Rey featured a pastor on her album? At that time, I had no idea he was a prestigious megachurch pastor. I didn’t even recognize the name. To my utter shock, the words spoke to me deeper than most of those in the Christian genre. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of being “In love”, and how Love is a verb. I’ve prayed and been trying to make a conscious effort to “Exist in Love”, which is quite literally what it is to be “In love”. Being in love is not just a romantic butterfly. It is an action and a way of life. It’s being Love (And God is love) for what’s right in front of you and around you. The words to Judah Smith’s interlude mimic these thoughts in the most fascinating way. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was…powerful. I added it to a playlist and kind of laughed to myself,

“I didn’t expect a Lana Del Rey album to minister to me.”

And that’s the thing. God is indeed integrated and interwoven in strange ways; ways we don’t anticipate. So often we segregate a Sunday service or small group or daily devotion as the only culturally accepted ways to experience God. But omnipotence and omnipresence aren’t made for boxes. Beneath its Glory, boxes are ripped and crushed and enfolded and sometimes disposed. May our eyes be open to such splendor and surprise. The Judah Smith interlude stitched into Lana Del Rey’s blend of moody, retro songs is worth a pause. Keep reading below, and if you’re feeling edgy and audacious, search up “Judah Smith interlude” and give it a listen.

…Don't you understand what that means?

It means quit lusting after your neighbor

That's a heck of a life

You get to love your children in front of you

You get to love, you have to talk to somebody about a new life

I don't love my wife anymore, I don't love my kids anymore

Missin' out on life, they're usually my age

Does that sound like love?

It's a life dominated with lust…

…Help me love what's in front of me

Help me want more of my wife and more of my friends

And help me serve the city I live in

And not wish it away and hope I can move

Help me, God.

CeCe - Urban Nostalgia [Greensboro, NC Photographer]

This shoot was timely. It’s funny how life can be so chaotic and you find yourself stuck in what feels like the fight or flight cyclone of making it to the next given task. The last couple months presented some challenges, and mentally, I felt really shut down and in survival mode. Creativity and photography are truly like gifts from Heaven, because it forces my brain to think differently. It causes me to step back and admire and appreciate beauty. It’s always felt as a lifeline; an IV of wonder and joy and awe. Spending the evening wandering around Greensboro’s parks, finding kitschy wall art in parking garages, and fangirling over the contrast of CeCe’s amazingly Black Widow-esque hair and retro green dress with the hues outside was like therapy.

CeCe is a beautiful soul; someone who has a generous heart for humanity, zeal (and immense talent) for performing arts, always kills it on the ballroom floor, and who I’m convinced is Scarlett Johansson’s younger doppelgänger with a Billie Eilish flair. We couldn’t have asked for a better evening. It rained just an hour prior and right after we wrapped, but had the glorious blend of golden hour haze diffused through the gloomy sky just in time for this session. If the timelessness and nostalgia of the mid 20th century married the eclectic and cutting edge style of the 21st century, this portrait collection would just that. My cup runneth over.

CeCe, may you continue to seek and find and create beauty wherever you go, and may it follow you. May this next season of your life be blessed! Enjoy this preview of some of my favorite images from our time.

Katelin & Charlie [Greensboro, NC Lifestyle Photographer]

There is something really beautiful about being invited into someone else’s home. This is largely why I love lifestyle shoots. They allow you to just be. People often underestimate how fascinating they are by existing in the awe of their own simplicity and natural being. Traditional portraiture asks that you polish up, dress well, make sure the kids are behaved, make sure the family plasters on one emotion - usually a forcible smile - for 60 minutes, and present as one societally polite version. There’s nothing wrong with these images and they are still beautiful, but they don’t get to the heart of who you really are and how you are connected to your loved ones. Lifestyle is all about connection. It celebrates every emotion. It does not require one specific reaction or type of wardrobe. It is as laid back and relaxed as it gets. It probably doesn’t even feel like a shoot. And that’s because it really is a documentary of you. I act more as an observer and a friend. It’s no different than inviting a companion over for the afternoon. I just happen to have a camera, follow you around, get to know your home, and find beauty and tell a story through moments frozen in time.

Lifestyle is the reminder that you are beautiful as you are, fascinating as you are, dang interesting and mesmerizing…as you are. The dynamic color of emotions and micro-experessions captured in lifestyle are things that cannot be cued or replicated in a standard shoot. On a warm, sunny weekend in May, I got to spend the afternoon with Katelin and her sweetest baby, Charlie. We hung out inside and played with the (very compliant;)) cat, spread a blanket on the lawn, chased bubbles, and enjoyed the slow pace of life. I’ve loved watching her wee one grow. My lens has seen him from the outside perspective as he grew in utero, as a teeny two week old, and now at almost one year. I count it an honor and a joy to be part of people’s lives in this way.

From my lens to you, enjoy motherhood on Katelin and her wee one.

She Said to Me, “Soften Up”

“Soften up.”

Those words in Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Surrender My Heart” stick with me lately. I’ve intentionally designated a month break to my usual sports, and specifically, running. My body hurts both mentally and physically. I’ve decided to intuitively move and see if I can make friends with stillness and ease and ease into the squeamishness of the voices in my head that try to convince me that I am a “fat girl in the mirror” and need to shred something. I don’t want anything in life to have power over me. Not boyfriends, not exes, not words, not obsessions, not even my own thoughts…at least the jaded ones. I signed up for a month pass to a yoga studio. Yin yoga, in particular, is my favorite. You hold a static stretch for 3-5 minutes and learn to really breathe into discomfort. It is restorative and gentle, yet deep . Some postures feel delicious and easy and doable. Others ask that you surrender. They ask that you unclench, and it starts mentally. The headspace reminds me of the same one I tap into for long runs and marathons, except in yoga, Yin style asks that you back off and perhaps do less if you’re physically and mentally forcing something your body is not quite ready for. And it’s okay. Yin asks you to, in the words of Carly Rae Jepsen, “Soften up”.

I had an epiphany as I sank into a restful child’s pose last week. I took a breath and felt my clenched shoulders soften. It’s interesting how we often tighten and clench even during something restful. I felt my entire body surrender, which made the posture feel, you know, good. And that’s when it dawned on me.

“I am not soft.”

I am rough around the edges. I am vulnerable and open within my safety net, but closed off and shut down in the very things I need to open up. My heart is calloused and my mind expects the worst. It’s as if I wear boxing gloves and a face shield when I sense someone’s found my weak spot. I brace for discard, for pain, for anxiety, and wear a suit of armor for lovers. Bracing and arming and callousing the hands will indeed protect one’s weak spot.

But, armor cannot be touched and loved and hides the body and soul underneath. Something’s got to give. Something’s got to surrender.

Stripping the armor and showing your soul in its nakedness is to be vulnerable.

And to be vulnerable is to be soft.

When I lost someone, it hit me rough
I paid to toughen up in therapy
She said to me, "Soften Up"

Holy Communion

There’s just something about being among a Catholic mass that puts my soul at ease. I grew up as a Methodist turned Baptist pastor’s kid, church hopped and denominationally tried and questioned everything in my teen years, deconstructed, doubted, and reconstructed my faith, yet am always drawn to the beauty and splendor of the church that is Our Lady of Grace. It is always a blessing to spend time here and document their masses. I love the way worship is seen in so many forms. There’s a Holy hush and beauty to be felt during their prayer, readings, liturgical chants, and the way they bring Latin - a supposedly “dead” language - back to life again. The richness of the symbolism and desire to pursue aesthetic excellence, to me, reflects the beauty they see in God.

From my lens to you, enjoy some of the beauty from First Communion two weekends ago.

Hit Me

“You know, Anna, I feel like I love women back to security.”

We sat in his car with the seats leaned back. His intuition must have felt me viscerally brace as he extended his arm. I thought it was about to reach for the side of my face to pull towards his. He reassured me he was reaching for something in the back and not trying to make a move. A wave of relief washed over me. We spent the entire day together and bonded almost instantaneously. We’d only phone called once - the evening before - but in that four hour conversation, we mutually noticed a kindredness. He was going for a drive while we phone called. I told him I loved driving with the windows down, music loud, and driving just to drive. He suggested that instead of a traditional date, he could pick me up and we could just drive. It could be that simple. I was thrilled.

Most people like the car or the backseat because it’s the golden opportunity for a make out session and thirty second thrill of connectedness. I’m an old soul. I enjoy the car because I love the drive. You can sit so close to someone, yet simultaneously have space, silence, or conversation. You can connect or disconnect. Something about the swoosh of the tires on the highways and backroads and hum of the engine is like white noise. It creates such a natural ebb and flow and feels therapeutic to my restless mind. It’s like Xanax for a first date. Or at least, it is to those of us who chronically overthink everything and pre-scope menus to see which food will be easiest to cut, chew, and digest on an anxious stomach. A drive requires no eating utensils, menu, activity, critical thinking, or having to stare across a table at someone’s face, as you mentally wonder if your skin and wardrobe and face makeup look okay and if they find you attractive or not.

I stared out the windshield from the passenger side; the car in a vacant parking lot downtown. We’d just finished gutting our souls in a conversation. He told me about his love life roster and struggle with emotionally dysfunctional women and feeling used. I told him about my unhealthy pattern of dating pagans and returning to abusers and addiction and expectation of pain, because it all felt normal. We didn’t shy away from our darker parts. He turned towards me; his voice soft and sincere.

“What can I do to help you?”

“You got a bat in your trunk?” I laughed.

“…Want to take a swing?”

He didn’t find it funny.

A week later, he called me up. I will never forget this moment. I was about to head out for the evening. I’d just fixed my makeup and slid on a striped dress in preparation for a photography project. I picked up the phone. His softened voice had hardened.

“You just want an F-boy.”

“What are you talking about?”

He laughed, clearly pissed off. He meant a “F*ckboy”. How dare he.

“You don’t want a committed relationship. You just want someone to hurt you and torture you.”

It felt like something inside of me shattered. A punch of shock hit my stomach. I combatted his graceless sentiments. I told him it was untrue. I fought for myself. He interjected over me. I could barely mutter a full sentence. I asked him not to raise his voice. It kept raising. We hung up the phone.

I sank to my bedroom floor in my dress. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think straight. It all was so wrong. He misinterpreted me in the worst of lights. His speculatively cold words and accusations felt like bullets to my soul. It felt like my insides were suctioned out of my body. I felt like hollow nothingness. Amidst his brutal honesty and generalized speculations, he still desired to continue dating.

I sat with my feelings. Actually, I sat with them in the dark all night. My roommate gently knocked on the door. There I sat, coiled by my bedside in the dark, words replaying like a record.

“AG…are you okay?”

It was all so wrong.

…Except that he was so right.

Maybe the electric shock pulsating throughout my body was the hyperawareness of things true about myself I couldn’t readily admit. Maybe he was wrong about a lot. But maybe he was right about a lot. Maybe I was a walking red flag. Maybe I was the very thing I tried to avoid. Maybe it really did feel abnormal to talk to a human being who had morally upright character and values to protect and preserve someone else. Maybe I was still in the addictive cycle and traits of mistaking pain for love. Maybe bracing for anxiety, for discard, for emotional pain was my new normal. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I didn’t know how to convey that in a healthy way to him. Maybe I didn’t know how to properly stitch together the pivotal situations of the past in a sensible fashion.

Maybe I unzipped my soul to him partially…but maybe I kept the other half zipped up; my deepest agonies stuffed down. If I could have created a powerpoint or filmstrip of the looming burdens I wanted to acknowledge and overcome - the real reason I felt indebted to “bad boys” and felt unworthy of goodness - maybe it would have taken my scattered pieces and created a clearer picture. Maybe it would have done a lot of things.

And maybe - just maybe - he was the better wounds of a friend.

Maybe today, two years later, I thank his wounds from afar.

They hit me. But their soul ripping truth helped heal me.