When I was in school, my favorite professor, who had assisted Ansel Adams in his youth, told me a story. They were in the darkroom where Adams, a pianist, had a metronome instead of a timer and used the beat to time his work. They were packing up for the evening, and someone had turned the metronome off when Adams said, “Let’s do just one more.” No one turned the metronome back on, but Adams moved one last print through his extensive dodging and burning process. At the end, the print was exactly like the others.

”You see, he didn’t really need the metronome at this point. That was for me. He felt the process of his work in his heart,” my professor said.

I feel photography in my heart too, in a way I’ve never related to anything else, as cheesy as it is to say. Though I’ve always been creative, my interest in making images changed the way my introverted self related to others, how I saw the world, and how I moved through it. It has challenged my relationship with failure and creativity, showing me that my taste often evolves faster than my technical ability and teaching me endurance, patience, grit, and kindness. I’m grateful for the way it has shown me the beauty in everything and everyone. It has pushed me to work quickly in the pit of a concert venue and slowly on days when the changing light has to be just right. Most importantly, it has taught me how to keep going.