Nobody tells you the hardest part about starting over. It's not the decision. It's not the fear. It's not the "what ifs." It's the morning after — when the world is quiet and you're exactly where you chose to be, and you can't quite believe it yet.
For seven years I photographed other people's extraordinary. Every sunrise from a ship deck, every glacial reflection, every golden hour over a coastline I'd never see twice — I was behind the camera for all of it, and none of it was mine to keep. That was the job, and I loved it, and I was tired in a way I didn't have a name for.
This is the chapter where I step in front of my own story instead.
This is what every morning looks like here.
I don't have a dramatic before-and-after to show you. What I have is a coffee going cold while I look at the light. A walk with Roa that has no destination. A desk with the window open. Small, plain things that took me a long time to let myself notice, because for seven years noticing was work, not rest.
The one moment that made me stop this week: nothing happened. That's the whole thing, and it's taken me a while to understand that nothing happening is the point.
Have you had a chapter like this?