
A Lifelong Love of Photography
I’ve loved photography for as long as I can remember. Cameras were the go-to gifts for birthdays and Christmas, and I can still picture each one. I never knew exactly why I loved it so much—I just knew it made me feel good. The moment I lifted a camera to my eye, the rest of the world vanished. Hours disappeared in what felt like a blink.

Discovering Mindfulness Through the Lens
For someone who has wrestled with severe anxiety and PTSD, I recently learned there’s a word for what photography gave me all along: mindfulness. Anxiety is a time traveler—it drags us into the past, replaying conversations and moments we wish we’d handled differently, or it catapults us into the future, making us worry about what might happen.
Mindfulness, though, anchors us to now. It’s the practice of naming what you can see, hear, feel, smell, and taste in this very moment. When my doctor first walked me through the exercise, I was instantly transported—not to a particular beach, not to a single time or place, but to the essence of all the beaches I’ve ever stood on with a camera in hand. Behind the viewfinder, I’d been practicing mindfulness my whole life without even knowing it.
That’s when it clicked (forgive the cheesy pun during a serious moment, I can’t help myself). Photography has always been my happy place—my zen on the beach. Now I understand why.
Healing After Spinal Cord Surgery
As I recover from spinal cord surgery, I lean on photography more than ever. The injury and surgery were brutal—six years of pain and searching for answers, until a final diagnosis led to a procedure that opened my spinal cord, relieved the pressure, and gave crushed nerves a fighting chance at healing. Recovery is slow, both physically and mentally, but each photo I take feels like part of that healing process.
A Print on the Wall, A Reminder of Hope
And tonight, on a rare date night with my wife at Greg’s Tavern & Restaurant, I got to see one of my prints freshly installed on their dining room wall. A reminder, framed in front of me: never give up hope.