When I was in sixth grade, my father handed me a small developing kit I could set up right in our bathroom. It was only for black and white images, and at first, I only had his old negatives to work with.

But I was hooked on the mystery of it—the way you could hold a tiny strip of film up to the light, guess at what it might be, and then slowly bring it to life in the developer.

Before long, I wanted to make images of my own. That urge grew naturally, and by the time I reached high school, I had a camera in my hands and never really put it down.

It took me years to find real patience in the process—to slow down enough to enjoy it fully. Digital photography, and especially the craft of processing images afterward, deepened that joy. It kept me engaged in the act of “capture,” but also in what comes after.

These days, my process is simple. I go somewhere, sit for a while, and let myself feel the space. Then I begin to approach it like a quiet problem: How can I tell this story? Sometimes the answer is to come back at a different time. Sometimes it means moving, changing lenses, or just sitting a little longer. It’s a puzzle—and one I never get tired of.

The stories I’m most drawn to are about endurance—places or things that have witnessed time, been shaped by it, and somehow persisted. Though, if I’m being honest, sometimes I just like an image because it’s beautiful.

Enjoy.