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.

Jeremy & Eirena as Lovers

-A Wedding Preview-

Thirteen years ago, a scrawny teenager with a learner permit, I photographed my first wedding. My mom dropped me off in the family mini van and I anxiously stepped out with my entry level camera. A Triad wedding photographer took a chance on the newbie who sent her a hopeful email. I emailed as many wedding photographers as I could get my starved resume and novice, over saturated images to; anticipant that I could persuade just one of them to let me shadow and shoot for free. There’s one reply I’ll never forget. It was like being friend zoned by a cute boy. In that email, sat paragraphs explaining what a burden I’d be as a newbie in the industry. A wedding was not the best “teaching time” for her and they were a “monster” to tackle. I felt gutted. Despite my knobby knees, introversion, and unbelievably awkward social skills screaming anything but “Fighter”, I committed to fighting my way forward.

And now, thirteen years later, I’m wrapping up my last wedding season before I retire them from my collections. I’ll reserve that “why” for a future post (it’s gonna get a little dark and gritty), but tonight, my heart is warmed by the many faces who have sought my creative eye to stalk and freeze time on the day that changed their lives.

Jeremy & Eirena are long time friends of mine. Actually, I recall her mother holding her as a newborn (yes, my psyche goes far back, haha) and my lens has seen her as a ten year old for family portraits, a senior in high-school, engaged, and now married. It was quite a trippy moment to realize that as we took some bridal portraits. She and Jeremy’s love stirs something so differently within my soul. I’ve told Eirena multiple times that if I ever needed a style guide, I’d hire her in a heartbeat. She can pick up the kitschiest shoes and whack off her hair to micro-bangs, and somehow, it just works so freakishly well. She’s unafraid and unashamed to run wild and free in her own skin. And her husband kinda loves her for it. I had no shadow of a doubt that Doc Marten’s or Converse would be on the wedding wardrobe menu, and lo and behold, my speculations were right on track. Jeremy and Eirena are like two old souls from the 1940s, trapped inside a retro, offbeat, cutting edge, modern 21st century couple. Frank Sinatra streamed through my laptop speakers as I edited and felt so fitting. I have a huge crush on Eirena’s wardrobe and am still trying to make friends with Jeremy’s insanely creepy handshake (if you know you know) and have had way too much fun getting my lens all over them.

There’s something really beautiful about photographing two people who are so contrastingly different, yet so much alike. They swing dance (and kill it every time on the floor). They are introverted and have wicked dry humor. They have fantastic aesthetic taste. They both seem quiet at first glance, but are incredibly empathic and open with others. There’s this feeling of ease and like you can truly exist in your own skin, march to the beat of your own drum, and be yourself when you’re with them. Behind Jeremy’s 24/7 stoic expression and Eirena’s platform Chuck Taylor’s, is what I can only describe as a genuine warmth. There’s something about each of them that really sees people down to their soul; even if you only get one - maybe two - words from Jeremy, who I am convinced abides by the philosophy of stoicism. And then there’s Eirena, who I’m convinced is either Eleven from Stranger Things or Millie Bobby Brown’s burgundy doppelgänger. Anyway.

Thank you, Jeremy & Eirena, for letting me spy on you as lovers for the day. Happy Honeymooning & wishing you alll the "one flesh vibes”! ;)

I Skipped Church Today

“Church time!”

He marched out the coffee shop in his polo and slicked back hair; not bothering to hold the door and wait for his girlfriend. Leaving women in the dust was nothing new for him though. I bit my tongue. Didn’t I just see him and his friends rubbing up against other women, beers in hand, when my friend and I were out for dinner? Didn’t I see him roll up to a side street bar in his souped up car and walk a woman young enough to be his daughter inside, while I was on a run? Faithfulness and respect and commitment to one person were not on his menu. His bachelor lifestyle always irked me, but especially when it filtered into my work life and personal life. You could say that he and I exchanged some words. I knew too much. He embodied a modern day Hugh Hefner; minus the silky robe and mansion. Bunny ears would have been fitting though.

Yet here he was, paying his godly duties, checking the evangelical checkbox - going to church - because church was clearly going to salvage his salvation.

Last week, I walked into that same coffee shop.

“Sundays are the hardest day for me,” the barista confessed, fixing my iced americano, “I think it also has to do with the idea that it’s supposed to be a day of rest, but they always feel chaotic.”

She wearily smiled, handing me the iced coffee. I felt for her. I’d been mentally debating skipping out on church that morning as is. Coming off a week of being around people all day, every day, consumed by tasks and work and being powered “on” all day, every day, I needed a break. I craved solitude more than the iced americano. I dressed as though I would attend church and spritzed some perfume. I also purposefully slid on some bright blue shorts that would not be considered appropriate for a service. That way, I could dress code myself out of it. Technically I could still go, but my young legs would definitely get silently judged. I believe in dressing well and respectfully in certain, environmental dress codes and standards, such as church services. Therefore, the tiny blue shorts gave me my church exemption card for the day. I felt very much like Bilbo Baggins and his frustrated desire to be alone and write his books. I loved everyone at my usual church of attendance. I had authentic connection. I felt at home. I had no problems with it, specifically. But today, I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to be around anyone. I didn’t want to be real and respond, “I’m not doing so great,” when the usual, kindhearted faces asked me. I wanted a date with my journal and ink pen. If God was truly omnipresent, existed outside of time, and the idea of Emmanuel - “God with us” - was alive and well, surely He was with me just as much on a coffee shop patio as He was inside corporate worship.

The western world, growing up as a PK, experiencing an array of churches and services and denominations and rules and boxes of doing things…I’ve learned a lot about 21st century evangelical norms. Your corporate service attendance directly reflects your salvation and levels of holiness. It doesn’t matter if you’re a shit of a human outside the 90 minute service. As long as you roll up on time, or at least scurry into the back five minutes late, your salvation won’t get a tardy. You can yell at your wife, berate your husband, lie to your neighbor, cheat on your significant, gossip about people whose lives you subjectively dislike, post yourself half naked on Instagram, snapchat yourself half naked to someone else, get hammered and get lucky with some loser the night before, grab some Playboy bunny ears, but as long as you show up to church the next day, you’ll be fine. If you raise your hands during the service, sign up to volunteer for something, or copy and paste Jeremiah 29:11 in your bio above your shrine of filtered selfies, you can do whatever you want. Corporate church will save you. 21st century, western evangelicals will also likely host a breathy worship leader or pastor in Nike Airs to reassure you they won’t judge you and to “come as you are”, because stagnancy and enabling unhealthy behavior always leads to change.

Be a whore. Be a glutton. Be a liar. Be a life sucking loser. Be whatever you want, do whatever you want, live however you want, because they won’t judge you. Attending church - and especially their church and its morning service, noon service, early afternoon service, and Facebook Live - is ultimately what dictates your depth of faith and salvation.

Maybe they would encourage me to shove a finger down my throat instead of running off my body image issues too. After all, I’m perfect the way I am. How dare they judge me, or the man in the coffee shop whoring out women’s hearts? If you dare explore the idea of experiencing God outside the walls of corporate church, and especially honing in on the idea that the Church really is the people, called to live in Love, you are a backslider; a lukewarm heathen. It doesn’t matter if you have rich spiritual community in other places - maybe it’s a coffee shop or work or your friend’s backyard - forgave someone, helped someone, encouraged someone, listened to someone, meditated on Biblical truth, fasted, prayed, partnered with a local nonprofit or humanitarian effort, sat with someone in their grief, shared your story, shared a meal, shared your home, shared your time, if you didn’t go to church, it all wasn’t enough. Your membership will eventually expire. Your name will go on a list. Your faith will be questioned, because your faith doesn’t quite feel the same as the prerequisites of the western evangelical, checkboxed mentality.

I sat criss cross in my tiny, blue shorts; sun warming my skin. For the first time in months, I felt like I was fully present; both with myself and with God. I could authentically gut my soul on paper without restraint. I had no trajectory other than to just allow my mind to unravel, word dump, and be alone with my thoughts. I took off my shoes. I shuffled Spotify to Lana Del Rey. It was settled. I decided on the inevitable:

I’m going to skip church today.

I skipped church, but:

I was honest with God and my chicken scratch pages. I observed lovers walking to and from the coffee shop, and in turn, got my mind pondering the idea of love and biblical love and existing in Love. A friend encouraged me. I encouraged her. Two little girls ran and embraced me, unaware their purity and genuineness was like balm to a broken heart. I had a heart to heart conversation about brokenness, pain, and suffering with a man with beautiful sleeve tattoos. I heard his story of God rescuing him from agnosticism. I processed and reconciled burdens of my heart. I felt intellectually and spiritually and creatively stimulated. I cried watching an old couple hold hands; the husband shakily opening the coffee shop door and then her passenger door. True love doesn’t die.

I skipped church, yet I experienced church all around me. To be “in love” is to exist in it, and if God is love, then do we not carry His love with us, and is it not a natural overflow from our DNA that functions as a temple for Him…without requiring the walls?

Spying On Lovers

-from the journal-

4-28-24

A woman just walked into the coffee shop and brought out some sort of fancy looking frappe with whipped cream atop. She hopped in the passenger seat. I assumed she bought one for her husband and one for herself. Or maybe he was just being a kind, sacrificial husband and making an inconvenient jo run before the Sunday hustle. Either way, I inwardly envied the simplicity. How does love come so seemingly easy? There was just something about the woman, short hair, crocs, T-shirt, passenger side door waiting, that made it look so effortless. I glanced up and another car took their spot as the woman and her frothy coffees and assumed husband or lover drove away. This time, it was a younger couple.

I caught them mid embrace, having a moment as lovers do, and I saw the young man self consciously glance my way. To his fortune, my sunglasses and this chicken scratch journal guised my polite observance of them. He kissed her temple. I couldn’t see her face; only her head full of thick, beautiful, raven black curls. They held each other in between my parked SUV and their sedan. Maybe they hadn’t seen each other in a while. Maybe they were new lovers and exploring the honeymoon phase and its butterfly vomiting euphoria and fresh Dopamine high. Or maybe, they were just living and existing in love and enjoying each other. They untangled from their embrace and walked to the coffee shop entrance. Her face was as radiant and beautiful as her black curls. Her smile had a really authentic glow and content looking joy.

I saw a book in her hand. Exploring the Presence of God. They must be heading to corporate worship soon. Or maybe she was in a small group and catching up on her homework before the Sunday school bells ring. Or maybe, she just sought to grow closer to God, and this book brought beauty and wonder to her life. Meanwhile, I sit here, more couples passing by; some church ready and others’ baggy T-shirts screaming they are perhaps taking a truer sabbath (which technically was yesterday, but hey, welcome to western, evangelical culture) than the hustling, corporate church goers. Whatever the case, they all make love look easy and simple.

I’ve wrestled a massive low and episodes of depression over my roster of much failure in that arena. It can feel like the heart is something for rent; something as disposable as an old razor when it’s done the job and discarded.

And maybe that’s the story of all the lovers who roam in and out of the coffee shop too. Maybe one or the other is a liar, a cheater, an addict, or just emotionally unavailable. Maybe one or the other just learned to tolerate it because they are convinced and mind numbed to believe being in pain with someone is better than without. Maybe they turned 28 or 29 or 30 and felt they missed the societal memo that screams,

“You must be wedded and bedded and procreating before age 33.”

Maybe they looked good enough on paper and checked the checkboxes, even though marrying for logic and the mind’s grandest, idealized, “Build your own” preference for a human being is more likely a sign & symptom for a divorce paper.

Maybe they’ve gone through hard times. Maybe they married a societal lie. Maybe they live a beautiful facade and feel isolated and unloved on the inside. Maybe it’s all fun and games.

Or maybe, they’re just a “beautifully mysterious complication”, broken, fucked up, riding through the ebb & flow and strangeness of love & life. Maybe they’re still figuring it out too. Maybe the war of our hearts are just fought in different ways.

In Love With A Ghost

-Exploring my dreams-

Last night, I dreamed I had a husband.

I sat on the iron staircase of a film production set and glanced down. To my utter shock, a bulky, silver wedding ring was on my finger. It felt almost like plastic. It certainly was nothing of real value and beauty. It was very unattractive and far too big, but an excited feeling of those old, familiar butterflies washed over me.

“Wow! I’m married. I don’t remember this happening.”

It was the strangest feeling and emotion. I was shocked and thrilled to know I had a wedding ring and the seal of a supposed “oneness” with a lover. It was a deep, visceral security in knowing I had the stamp of foreverness, permanence, and commitment with someone. I couldn’t remember my own wedding. I wasn’t entirely sure who my husband was, but the new identity felt good. Finally, I wouldn’t be such a disappointment to people’s expectations of my love life. Something actually worked out. I didn’t remember having a love life that worked out, but this time, he was here to stay. I sat on the stairs, ironically moving the ugly ring from my right finger to my left. I had every outward attribute of marriage. I had the ring, governmental piece of paper, vow under God, and everything that legally and spiritually yoked two people together. I couldn’t get over how ugly the ring was and couldn’t remember my own wedding, but that was okay. My heart was gratified in knowing I had someone who wouldn’t leave. The fact I had someone I got to refer to as “My husband” to others - not a boyfriend; not an ex - was consoling. Yet, I still felt a nagging void.

“Is this what it feels like to be a wife?”

I was married, but I did not feel very married. Something felt stagnant. I looked around. I realized my husband wasn’t with me. I looked up from the ugly, oversized silver ring, and a hologram of sorts appeared. I could see into his world.

He was in great distress; his face agonized. His family surrounded him. They spoke harsh words of me and beat it over his head that his decision for marriage to a woman like me, was an impulsive, regrettable mistake. It was like watching a livestream narrative of why I wasn’t a worthy enough woman for him.

She is a disappointment and a mistake.

That was the conclusion. My heart felt like it fractured. I looked down at the ring again.

“Is this what it feels like to be married?”

And that’s when it hit me.

I had him legally, but I didn’t have his heart. I had a marriage license, but not a real marriage. I had all the material proof and labels of a husband, but he wasn’t really with me. I was in love with the idea of being loved, but I wasn’t really loved.

I was in love with a ghost. And a ghost was in love with the idea of me.

Love Is Like Open Heart Surgery

-A self portrait narrative-

They say that love is like putting your heart out on the line.

There’s always a risk.

Sometimes, it comes with great reward and heartthrob, and other times, accompanied by great loss and heartache.

The bravery of opening the heart is like trusting a surgeon to perform open heart surgery. There is a risk. And hopefully worth it.

If you have ever been brave enough to:

Hold a hand.

Then let it go.

Say “Yes”.

Say “Goodbye”.

Open your heart.

Sew up it’s broken pieces.

Write a love letter.

Then a breakup letter.

Begin a chapter.

Write it’s end.

Feel butterflies in your chest.

Then pull out a knife.

Do life with someone.

And then run for your life

from someone.

Commit.

Sever.

Laugh.

Cry.

Begin.

End.

Bear a scar, yet a healed story…

Then you too understand that love is just as risky as open heart surgery.

Imposter Syndrome

-A Self portrait narrative-

I can’t be everything for everyone, all the time. That is a truth I’ve only begun to realize in the last two-ish years.

In my teenhood and early twenties, I felt immense pressure to power myself “On” and chameleon, depending on my surroundings.

Do more. Be more. And then, you’re still not enough.

Lose weight. Starve. Wake up with the shakes. And then, you’re still not beautiful enough.

Beg for love. Beg for crumbs. And then, still convince yourself having your face shoved in the dirt is love.

Sometimes, life feels like changing a hat or a wig. Being in my own skin did not feel adequate enough, and so I’d change myself for others, even it meant selling myself short.

Have you ever stepped foot in a room and immediately felt like a robot; like your every move and gesture and appearance must be mechanically tailored to blend with everyone else?

Be nice, but not too nice. Be honest, but not too honest. Be funny, but not too funny. Be real, be you…but really, be anything but yourself.

It’s the fear of being seen for who we really are. If our skin could be unzipped - if the guts of our soul and its secrets were exposed - what would be found?

Someone called me their “whore”.

That statement felt like someone spit in my face. You know what I did?

I laughed.

…Despite knowing the truth of my virtue.

And then, I said something.

Because that’s what we learn to do when we allow our facade - the kitschy pink wig that’s not even truly “us” - to shred our own worth down to nothingness and crumbs.

We avoid someone else’s reaction, and in turn, stuff it all down.

We learn to just take it. We say nothing. We agree for sake of “peace” and politeness. Or, we laugh. We laugh to deflect our own emotions. We laugh it off and then say something, or nothing at all.

It’s like saying, “Hit me.”

The hat, the wig, the beautiful facade looks appealing and is certainly agreeable to the masses. It’s comfortable. It’s safe. It hides the pain and shame and guilt and disgust and pieces we hate about ourselves. But here’s the thing:

It also quashes our values, our voice, our authenticity, the real beauty and Truth and imprints of our God created being, and sucks the everliving life out of our soul. For years and years, I wanted to be free, but I did not want to be broken open.

Freedom comes at a cost. And that cost requires vulnerability and letting go of the protection over our image.

Finding my voice - unmuting my voice - and the ways God wired up my DNA, required me to break open and caused me to feel gutted of the very things I stuffed down for so long.

But the more I confessed, the more I opened myself up to others, to the Father, and allowed my cracks and crevices to be exposed in all their grit and ugliness…

…The more freedom I felt, and the more whole my cracks and crevices and ugliness and grittiness felt whole again.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but He sees you.

It’s time to come out of hiding. It’s time to show yourself. It’s time to ditch the facade; the wig and hat and glasses that hide the beauty of your soul.

Bracing For Discard

-A self portrait narrative-

I often struggle with projecting my thoughts of who people think I am, with what really is my own internal dialogue of myself. "Fear And Loathing" by Marina is one of my favorite songs, and these lines hit close to home:

"Now I see,

I see it for the first time

There is no crime in being kind

Not everyone is out to screw you over

Maybe, yeah just maybe,

they just want to get to know you."

I live realities that have not yet proven to exist, create thoughts and judgments I have not directly heard, and prepare my heart for a warfare that hasn't even weathered the ground.

I defend myself when there's nothing to defend, shut people out when I need to open the door, and brace for discard, even when there is nothing to brace for.

I take an emotional knife and stab my own heart and simultaneously convince myself it is protection.

I don't want to feel used or thrown away or discarded like a piece of scribbled paper, and so, I brace for discard before I can even be discarded. I strap myself down with an emotional seatbelt; an illusion of protection. But here's the thing:

Bracing won't take away the hypothetical, potential pain any more than letting walls down will. Pain is pain. Hurt is hurt. Whatever unfolds...is what is going to unfold. And I think that sometimes, the brace for discard creates an entirely new layer of destruction and pain, suffering and torture, sabotage and inward warfare; an addition that doesn't have to be there in the first place.

One Last Drink

-A self portrait narrative-

How many times have we said those assured yet guilt tainted words? How many times have we promised others - even ourselves - that “this time will be the last”, as we succumb to our flesh and indulge?

We often think of this concept as booze or drugs or sex, but if we were to really look inward, I think we’d discover our human nature’s indulgent crave is far deeper than first glance:

The social media doom scroll.

That intoxicating second and third glance at their exquisite charm and beauty and body parts on Instagram.

She, who is not your wife.

He, who is not your husband.

…Despite having a wife; having a husband.

Last night’s dinner purged into the porcelain throne.

Binge watching utter garbage on Netflix.

Running back to an abuser.

Saying “Yes” to things you have no capacity to accomplish.

Going to bed at stupid hours of the night when the alarm is set for 5AM.

Blowing money to soothe an emotion.

One glass of wine that turned into five.

“After this,” we lie to ourselves, “I will stop.”

Just one more intoxicating drink. Just one more click onto her page. Just one more click onto his page. Just one more seductive fling. Just one more chance with the abusive partner. Just one more shift with the abusive employer. Just one more night shitfaced with the life sucking losers. Just one more puff. Just one more irrational transaction and credit card swipe. Just one more purging episode. Just one more rationalization.

And yet? We don’t stop.

“Just one more” is never just one more. We know this full well. If we are doing it, we are still in the cycle. We often search for a more pleasant middle ground; an attempt to escape the unpleasant feeling of withdrawal and our own human nature rising to the surface.

But there is no cozy middle ground. A cycle is either:

A) Repeated B) Broken.

Repeating - even dabbling and testing the waters - feels safe, comfortable, inviting, and maybe even numbing.

But a pleasant feeling does not always equate to a fruitful life. Often times, it gives us absolutely nothing.

Every time we dabble or repeat and assuredly say, “Just one more,” we only but fool ourselves. “Just one more” really should say, “I consent to repeating the cycle.”

It might feel hopeless or daunting; that “one thing” that is the thorn in your flesh.

There is great strength to be found in these moments though. To feel an urge and ravenous desire to fulfill the said urge…but to then say,

“You were wonderful, sabotaging comfort….but I don’t need you anymore,”

…And then walk away, is the lost art of punishing the brain to save the heart.

“Just one more” was yesterday.

But this is today.

And today, “one more” can change to “No more”.

Cheers to breaking the cycle.

Cheers to fighting the good fight.

People & Places Of 2023

“You know, we really don’t need to go into a gallery to see beauty. Florence is the gallery.”

My Turkish friend, Ayca, and I sat atop the infamous stairs of Michelangelo’s Square; miniature bottles of red wine in hand. Picture this with me.

You’ve spent the last 8 hours roaming by foot, but you muster up the energy to climb just 2 km up a winding backroad to overlook the city of art. Imagine a mountaintop of Florence, Italy, just before sunset. Whereas you felt like a mere speck by the cathedral earlier, the cathedral and entire city now serve as mere specks as you gaze below. If you’ve been to Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles, imagine just that, but a country of old, Italian beauty, much less metropolitan, and a Holy hush of sorts. You kick off your shoes, stretch out on the stairs warmed by the afternoon heat, and feel your entire body melt into a celestial trance of sorts. Your feet are dirt ridden and disgusting. You smell like a blend of sweat and leftover perfume. Your soul is at ease.

Just a few stairs below, a man strums his guitar. It echoes throughout the mountaintop. Beams of sunshine pierce through the clouds’ evening haze. You wonder for a brief moment if you just ascended to eternal Glory. It’s about a hundred people packed together. Yet, there’s a peculiar quietness, despite the crowd. There’s a soft spoken chatter, but everyone is admiring, appreciating, listening. There’s a reverence that’s felt among everyone, but towards what, exactly? Beside you, a young woman closes her eyes as she sways to the guitar’s melancholic rhythm. She wipes tears from her eyes. But she’s smiling. On the other side, two girls stare into the distance, awestruck. You’ve never experienced Heaven, but right now, it feels so familiar and so close. The people surrounding you feel familiar too. You all share something in common, but what, exactly? Last year, you wept from physical and emotional pain that felt inescapable. Today, you and the weeping woman catch each other’s eye for just a nanosecond…and you cry too. But today, you cry from beauty; a beauty so captivating and so Holy that it seems to breathe life into your very soul. It’s a beauty that can be felt.

No one looks down at their phone. Everyone looks out. It’s as if Florence itself is the movie screen. Together, a melting pot of nationalities and strangers suddenly share common ground. Together, despite differing religious beliefs and ethnic contrasts and cultural backgrounds, you all gather together and admire, appreciate, and savor one thing:

Beauty.

Photography and the many faces in front of my lens remind me of this very moment in Florence. People are fascinating and beautiful just as they are. They don’t need a specific BMI or makeup or social class or cool clothes or any 21st century pressured facade to be “human enough”. Florence doesn’t need a gallery because Florence is the gallery. And people, by their Divine imprints, are the gallery in and of themselves.

When people rest in their natural state of being, when they feel free or focused or forget your lens is freezing some time on them, there is something raw and sacred that happens. Being in front of a lens can make you feel naked and ashamed. Suddenly, you’re hyperaware of your own self. It can feel vulnerable and awkward. It can bring feelings of unworthiness to surface. And that is precisely why photography is so powerful. My greatest joy is to show people what I see when I see them. In them, I see a beauty so far deeper than their flesh.

I see beauty in the mangled feet of a dancer, the tears of a bride’s father, the trusting cling of a child to its mother, the grit and sweat of a runner. I see beauty in the scars and laugh lines and the stories behind the faces. In a world where our sadistic side hobby is to often stand before a mirror, pinch our sides, loathe our skin, wish for something to change, photography is that still, small voice that says,

“Maybe you just need to see yourself in a different light.”

As someone who spent six years loathing her body image, imprisoned to voices that said, “Just lose 5 more pounds,” unattainable demands, and that my worth and identity were sealed in doing more, being more, yet still not being enough…I understand. Mirrors and cameras and I had a toxic relationship, but almost two years ago, a camera became my lifeline. Beauty became balm to my soul. In 2022, my personal life fell a part and I landed in an unthinkable crisis.

My mental health plummeted to levels I never thought possible. To cope, I simultaneously relapsed into old habits on top of the uncontrollable circumstances in my life. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or function. I felt anything but beautiful. I felt broken. Numb. Lifeless. No swig of alcohol or therapy session could quash the turmoil I wanted to escape. The idea of non-existence sounded more enticing than a spa day. In my photo recap from last year, I shared more of my story from that time, but my saving grace - God’s grace - was my camera and experiencing beauty in others. In one of my darker moments, I prayed for beauty from pain. Little did I know, a camera, a girl and her open heart, and some honesty in the “inner demons” of her pain, her angst, the thorn in her flesh, would be the beginning of a life she thought was unredeemable. It did not heal me by some superpower, but when I felt deeply unseen, it made me feel seen.

I forced myself to sit in front of my camera and create, even when I didn’t feel like it, when I was at my worst, and when I was my most unattractive. Yet in my brokenness, God so tenderly opened my eyes to see beauty among my own cracks. I assumed some of the rather grotesque and darker images would push people away. Instead, I felt like Hagar when she is found in the wilderness and proclaims, “You are the God who sees me.” The more I allowed my ugliest, most unfiltered parts to be exposed to light - and in photography, this is quite literal - the more freedom I found. When I photographed others and saw them so alive and free and beautiful…

“If I see it in them,” I thought, “Maybe that same beauty is within me too.”

Have you ever felt seen?

It is terrifying. And it is powerful. I pray that every human being, at some point in time, experiences the soul quashing weight of what it is like to feel really, truly seen and known.

Photography is the reminder that you can come as you are. You are interesting as you are. You are fascinating as you are. You are beautiful as you are. You are enough as you are. So, come as you are. You need not add more to that. Your beauty and worth are not equated to how much you can plaster on or shred of yourself. No number of hairs on your head or makeup on your face or number on the scale determines how lovable, how beautiful, how worthy, how captivating you are. The fact that you are a human being, reflective of your Maker, is enough.

Just as Florence is the gallery, so are you. You are a walking, living, breathing, human masterpiece. You need not do more, be more, or add more.

You are the art. You are the gallery. You are the beauty.

My friends, I invite you to stay a while to admire and appreciate the beauty of some of my favorite moments captured in 2023.

“Beauty

will

save

the world.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky