Photography, for me, begins long before the shutter closes. It starts with noticing—the fall of light across skin, the quiet geometry of morning shadows, the way a moment almost slips past before I reach for it.

Sometimes it’s instinct, other times it’s slow and deliberate. But always, it’s about presence.

I’m less interested in taking the perfect photograph and more curious about what draws me in. What makes me pause. What story I’m trying to tell, or simply hold.

Some images are framed with precision. Others happen by accident. Both matter. Both speak. And I’m learning to listen—to what’s just outside the frame, to what’s left unsaid, to what only feeling can translate.

This is the practice: looking again. Seeing what I missed the first time. Trusting that a photograph doesn’t have to explain itself to be meaningful. It just has to be real.

What I collect through the lens isn’t just imagery. It’s memory. Mood. The trace of a moment I want to remember—not for how it looked, but for how it felt.