Life Through My Lens

Life Through My Lens: Capturing the World from the Outside In

Photography is more than just art to me; it’s a quiet dialogue with life, spoken in light, color, and contrast. It’s an invitation to see without needing to be seen. I’m drawn to its spontaneity—no intricate setup or grand design, just moments as they unfold. I still search for my style, perhaps never wanting to pin it down, allowing discovery itself to become the art.

Each photograph I take feels like a step in a story only partly told. My favorite images capture beauty that feels borrowed—a landscape or a fleeting expression I couldn’t recreate even if I tried. In this sense, my photographs hold pieces of my journey, even as I remain outside the frame. They are memories of unspoken stories, of hidden treasures that reveal who I am without the need for words. Each scene is a reminder that life’s beauty is often best observed, cherished quietly, and left as it was found.

The Freedom of Being Unseen

In a world that celebrates visibility, standing behind the camera feels like home. There’s comfort in observing rather than being observed. Much of my life, I’ve been a witness rather than the subject. Through the lens, I find peace and belonging, glimpsing a world that moves to its own quiet rhythms. I seek beauty in the details—the forgotten corners of architecture, the play of shadows on stone, the edges of nature where color fades to dusk. Alsace, with its textures, colors, and deep-rooted charm, pulls me in, and through my lens, I can share what captivates me without having to be part of the scene.

A Practice in Presence

Photography, to me, is more than documenting scenes; it’s a practice in stillness. It invites me to pause, to disconnect from the rush, and connect with what is. It’s not just about capturing; it’s about noticing, about learning to see without expectation. I have no rigid process, just the instinct to press pause, allowing each image to unfold as it may. It’s a way of finding peace, a brief rest in the journey of self-discovery, where I can set aside expectation and simply exist in a moment.

To those who know me, I am the observer, the one who finds beauty where others might pass by. My photos speak of who I am in ways I cannot, showing a world that’s not always obvious but, to me, is endlessly alive. Each image is an expression, a reflection of the quiet understanding I’ve come to cherish: that life’s beauty doesn’t demand attention—it simply waits to be noticed.

Chasing the Light: My Lifelong Love Affair with Sunsets

The Eternal Sunset: A Journey Through Time and Freedom 

From the time I was young, the sunset has represented something more to me than just the end of the day—it symbolized freedom, the kind I didn’t have growing up in group homes and foster homes. As a teenager, there were moments when I would stare at the sky, longing for the beauty of a sunset I couldn’t see. The sun’s descent beyond the horizon became my promise to myself: one day, I will be free. Free to watch the sky transform into something extraordinary, day after day.

I found that freedom when I turned 18 in 1999. Every day since, I sought the beauty of the sunset, always keeping that promise to myself. But between 2018 and 2023, life weighed heavily on me. I entered a dark period filled with medical issues, trauma, and the overwhelming stress of the pandemic. In those years, I lost touch with my cherished ritual of watching the sun set, unsure of what the future held.

In 2023, I made a conscious decision to return to that grounding habit. I realized that in those moments, at the end of the day, the sunset was what anchored me, calmed me, and brought joy to my heart, even if only for a short time. No matter where I was in the world, I found a place to witness the sky’s final act of the day, and I promised myself never to let go of that again. If I happen to miss a sunset I feel a sense of emptiness that day. 

Now, whenever people see a sunset, they think of me. I’ve become the sunset girl to those who know me best. Friends and acquaintances send me photos of their sunsets, a small gesture to say I see you, I’m thinking of you. It’s the greatest compliment I could ever receive. For me, each sunset is a reminder of the beauty we so often miss in the rush of our daily lives. It’s a call to pause, to breathe, to take in the world as it is—before the sun disappears and the day fades into memory.

Existential Beauty in the Ephemeral

There’s something deeply existential about a sunset. It marks the end of a day, a chapter closing, yet it offers the most stunning display before it leaves us in darkness. It’s a reminder that endings aren’t inherently bad—they can be breathtaking. Sunsets teach me that life, like the sky, is full of colors we can only see when we take the time to stop and look.

No two sunsets are the same. Each is a masterpiece, fleeting and unique, much like the moments that make up our lives. Missing one could mean missing the most beautiful painting nature has to offer. I’ve watched many people walk by, oblivious to the beauty unfolding above them. But I can't let these moments slip by unnoticed. They ground me, bring me back to the present, and remind me that life’s most profound beauty often happens in the quiet moments when we’re still, when we’re paying attention.

Gratitude in the Stillness

For me, the sunset is more than just a visual spectacle. It’s a moment of gratitude. It’s a chance to reflect on the day, to release its worries, and to be present with the earth as it prepares to rest. I often think about how fragile life is, how tomorrow is never promised. Watching the sunset is my way of making peace with the day’s end, knowing that if I don’t wake up tomorrow, I’ve spent my last moments connected to something timeless, something beautiful.

I don’t chase sunrises in quite the same way—there’s something about the sunset that feels more natural, more in sync with the rhythm of my day. Maybe it’s because I’ve always associated it with closing chapters, with the hope that comes from making it through another day. The sunset is my time to breathe, to exist, to witness the final gift the day has to offer.

The Sky's Final Symphony

The sunset, in all its glory, is my constant. It’s the moment I look forward to every day, no matter where I am. It reminds me of the freedom I fought for, the beauty that exists in even the simplest things, and the peace that comes from just being present. Sunsets, to me, are more than a fleeting image in the sky—they are my reminder that no matter what happens each day, there is always beauty to be found in the end. It’s a beauty I will never take for granted.

The Power of Distance: How Moving Away Is Helping Me Find New Peace

Family, Identity, and the Unraveling of Truth

The revelation that my father wasn’t my biological father shattered my world. After 42 years of believing in one version of my identity, this new truth made me question everything—my family, my past, and ultimately, my sense of self. Now, in the serene landscapes of France, I find myself confronting the complexities of who I truly am and how these revelations have shaped me. France has become more than a destination; it is a mirror reflecting my inward journey, a sanctuary where I can finally unearth the raw truths I had long buried.

France: A Place of Distance and Clarity

Being miles away from the family I’ve always known has offered me a space to process the emotional weight of my past. Here, the suffocating memories and the deep pain that once felt inescapable now drift like distant clouds. I’m beginning to untangle years of feeling unseen, especially by my mother, whose love always seemed just out of reach. Learning that my biological father was someone else only deepened this complexity—why was I always treated as an outsider in my own home? But in France, this distance provides me with the safety to finally ask these questions without the fear of being silenced or dismissed.

This country has offered me the clarity to reflect on my relationships without the noise and emotional chaos that once clouded my perspective. It is the geographical and emotional space I didn’t know I needed, allowing me to see my story for what it truly is.

The Weight of Neglect and the Search for Belonging

Throughout my life, I never felt like anyone’s favorite. My mother’s love always came with conditions—it felt as though I had to be invisible to be accepted. As a child, I spent so many years trying to earn a love that never arrived, convinced that something was inherently wrong with me. When I learned the truth about my biological father, that longstanding feeling of neglect sharpened. I was never truly part of the family; I was the secret. Tolerated, but never fully loved.

That realization hurt, but it also brought clarity. Here, in this chapter of my life, I am slowly learning that my worth is not defined by the love I didn’t receive. I’ve spent so long searching for belonging, and while the world may not have given me the security I longed for, I am now building a home within myself. The streets of Strasbourg and the quiet moments in the French countryside have become the backdrop to rediscovering who I am, beyond the labels and expectations others placed on me.

Montaigne and the Power of Acceptance

Montaigne’s reflections on human nature have become a compass on this journey. He believed that life is full of uncertainties and that our imperfections are what make us whole. For so long, I thought healing meant finding answers—why I was treated the way I was, solving the puzzle of my family’s secrecy. But Montaigne’s wisdom has shown me that healing is not about resolution. It’s about making peace with ambiguity, accepting that not all questions will have answers.

Montaigne’s embrace of human frailty resonates deeply with me now. He saw life’s unpredictability not as something to be feared but as something to be welcomed. I am beginning to see that I don’t need every answer, nor does my path need to be perfectly tidy. The imperfections in my story, both internal and external, are part of its beauty. There is a profound strength in letting go of the need for certainty and, instead, trusting that even in the messiest moments, I am growing.

Finding Peace in Solitude

France has offered me a solitude that feels less like loneliness and more like freedom. Letting go of the expectation that friends from home will remain constantly present in my life has been hard. While I sometimes miss hearing from them, I’ve realized that this space has given me the chance to forge new connections—with myself and the world around me.

This solitude has given me the time to reconnect with a deeper part of myself. Instead of seeking constant distraction from the outside world, I’ve found a quiet contentment in simply being. Here, in this stillness, I am relearning the importance of living in the moment—without the need for external validation. It’s not about filling the silence, but embracing it as a place for growth and inner peace.

The Reality Check of Setbacks 

This week, I was reminded that no matter how far I’ve come, setbacks will always be a part of the journey. I faced rejection, stumbled with my language skills, and felt overwhelmed during a workshop on starting a business in France. At times, the path I’ve chosen for my visa feels uncertain, and I’ve found myself questioning whether I’m on the right track.

But instead of seeing these challenges as failures, I’ve started to view them as opportunities to learn. Unlike in the past, when setbacks left me discouraged, I’m now shifting my perspective. Each stumble teaches me something about resilience. Each rejection gives me a chance to realign my expectations and adjust my goals. Montaigne’s philosophy that life is filled with uncertainty has never felt more true, and it’s by embracing this uncertainty that I’m discovering my strength.

Healing in the Uncharted

France has become my sanctuary, a place where I can finally confront these deep truths about my past, my family, and myself. This journey is no longer about finding all the answers or resolving the pain that has lingered for so long. It’s about learning to live in the uncharted—accepting that life will always be messy and that healing is an ongoing process, not a destination.

The truth about my father will always sting, and my relationship with my mother will likely never be what I once hoped for. But here, in the winding streets of Strasbourg and the rolling French countryside, I am beginning to find a peace I’ve never known before. A peace that doesn’t depend on everything being perfect, but on accepting that some things may never be resolved.

I am still exploring the uncharted territory within myself, and I’ve come to realize that this journey has no end. And for the first time in a long time, I’m truly okay with that.

Rushing Through the World: When Travel Becomes a Task

The Weight of Travel Fatigue: A Different Kind of Journey 

After a month of continuous travel, I find myself more than just physically tired—there’s a mental and emotional exhaustion that lingers. This trip wasn’t like any other I’ve experienced. For the first time, I wasn’t the lead guide. Instead, I found myself behind a different leader, adapting to a travel style that felt disconnected from my own values. Montaigne once said, “The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” His words echo as I reflect on how travel, when it loses the element of connection, can feel hollow. What began as an exciting journey became a lesson in the importance of staying true to oneself.

A Fatiguing Experience: Adapting to Another’s Style

Following someone else’s itinerary, I quickly realized how much I cherish a slower, more immersive approach to travel. The tour leader’s style was rigid, focused on efficiency, ticking off as many sights as possible in a short time. Meals were pushed to late hours (food seemed like an afterthought most days), and we rushed from one destination to the next, leaving little time for meaningful exploration.

For years, I’ve embraced spontaneity and flexibility in travel, believing these qualities are what allow for genuine discovery. I guide with the idea that travel should leave room for the unexpected, for a place to reveal itself slowly. Montaigne often reminds us to “know oneself,” and through this experience, I became acutely aware of how deeply I value travel that fosters connection. Trying to fit into a rigid plan left me feeling not just physically tired but disconnected from the very places I longed to explore.

The Difference Between Seeing and Experiencing

It wasn’t just me who noticed this disconnection. Travelers expressed a similar sentiment—while they “saw a lot,” they didn’t feel like they truly experienced the essence of the places we visited. Luzern, Switzerland, was a prime example. We arrived, ate a quick meal, and immediately moved on, barely scraping the surface of what the city had to offer.

This hit me hard. As someone who believes that true travel comes from understanding a place’s heart, it was difficult to watch this rushed style unfold. Montaigne would likely have questioned the value of such an experience, emphasizing that wisdom comes from pausing to reflect. Moving too quickly through life, or through travel, can rob us of the lessons we might have absorbed had we allowed ourselves time to breathe. I found myself yearning for those moments of stillness—where a traveler can sit with a place, absorb its energy, and engage with its people and culture.

When Travel Feels Like a Task

For me, travel has always been a source of renewal, healing, and learning. It’s a deeply personal experience, and it usually brings me back to myself. But this trip felt different. Rather than sparking the usual sense of discovery, it felt like we were racing against time. What should have been a journey of immersion turned into a series of destinations checked off a list. We moved so fast that the joy of experiencing a place was replaced by a mechanical process, a task to complete.

For the first time, I found myself questioning the essence of my work. How could something that normally fills me with life feel so hollow? How could the act of guiding, which has always been about connection, leave me feeling so disconnected? This trip reminded me that travel, when done without intention, can lose its meaning. It’s not about how many places we visit—it’s about how deeply we engage with them. I don’t want to lead journeys that feel like tasks. I want to guide experiences that transform.

The Importance of Connection

When we arrived in France, I had the opportunity to take a more active role as a guide, and the difference was immediate. My approach is centered around connection—whether that’s through sharing a meal at a local restaurant, walking the streets of a village, or visiting a market. The travelers noticed the shift. They enjoyed the slower pace, the chance to interact with locals, and the opportunity to experience daily life, rather than just pass through it.

One of my favorite moments was exploring a local farmers’ market. It was a simple activity, yet profoundly meaningful. We discovered seasonal ingredients, spoke with local vendors, and shared stories about food traditions. For me, this is what travel should be—an immersion in the everyday life of a place. It’s not just about seeing landmarks, but about understanding the culture that breathes life into them.

Realizations About My Role

This trip has made me reexamine my role as a guide. The fast-paced, rigid style I encountered was a sharp contrast to the mindful, intentional travel I’ve always valued. It has helped me recognize that while there are many ways to travel, I am most aligned with a philosophy that prioritizes depth over distance, connection over speed.

Montaigne’s words come to mind again: “The soul that has no fixed purpose in life is lost; to be everywhere is to be nowhere.” Rushing through travel—or life—without truly experiencing it is a loss. I don’t want to guide travelers who simply pass through places; I want to lead those who wish to belong to the places they visit, even if only for a brief moment.

Moving Forward with Intention

As I prepare to return to Strasbourg, these lessons are more present than ever. Though this journey was exhausting, it has reaffirmed the importance of intentional travel. Montaigne reminds us that it’s not the quantity of places we visit that matters, but the quality of the time we spend there.

In the next chapter of my work, I’m choosing to guide journeys that foster connection—whether that’s with the landscape, the people, or ourselves. I want to leave my travelers with stories of meaningful encounters, not just photos of places they passed through. Travel should transform, and that transformation begins with intention.