Why I Bring My Camera Into The World

Globally, around 5.3 billion photos are captured every day, or 61,400 per second. I often wondered why I kept reaching for my camera in light of this number, why I felt drawn to capture the world around me even when I know my photos likely wouldn't be groundbreaking. 

Well, my answer to that question evolves all the time. But a few repeating themes have kept coming back to me year after year. Some are more philosophical and “deep”, I suppose, while others stay more at the surface level. I’m so excited to share them with you! As you read through this post and future blogs, expect dashes of creative writing, storytelling, and insights into how I see the world. I sincerely hope you enjoy!

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If you’re anything like me, you’ve gone through stretches of life where everything feels like it’s running on autopilot. Not just in your own routine, but on a broader scale—like the world itself is caught in a loop of misplaced focus, fostering complacency, stress, anger, and distraction. But every now and then, something random breaks the spell. Maybe it’s the way a flower catches your eye, drawing you in to notice its delicate patterns and design for the first time. Or the way staring up at the night sky stirs a strange mix of awe and insignificance, a reminder that we’re floating through an unfathomable universe on a majestic rock. Or perhaps it’s stumbling across a piece of social media so dystopian that it jolts you out of the illusion of normality. 

Moments like these pull us into a wider perspective, offering a rare glimpse of ourselves untethered from ego. I wish it were easier to stay in that space—to balance the zoomed-out awareness with the zoomed-in focus of daily life. But alas, life isn’t that easy. Still, I hope that through my writing and photography, I can inspire others to shift toward a more intentional way of seeing and existing—one that feels less mechanical, less misdirected, and more alive. 

When we grow accustomed to the location that we’re in, or the routines we've delicately crafted, or the patterns of thinking that we tend to every day-- when we run on autopilot -- we may begin to feel like a pool of stagnant water. We crave excitement and newness, longing to feel more like a flowing river. Sometimes we crave so deeply that we practically invent a second life in our imaginations—one that includes a version of ourselves that has everything figured out. I know I’m guilty of this. In the meantime, our bodies move through the motions of daily life, while our minds remain focused on what ‘could’ be, disconnected from the present moment. We walk and talk, but we're not really here, not fully engaged. Why would we be if there’s a potential life out there that is exactly what we (think we) want? It can be easier to live in that imagination than to face the stressors that might appear if we actually chase that dream. 

In reality, where we are right now in this exact moment, and who we are right now, is unimaginably special and unique. It makes me laugh to think that someone on the other side of the world might be doing exactly what we are—imagining a different life, one that is exciting and new, one that might even look a lot like ours. Meanwhile, the real world around us all waits patiently to be noticed. 

It’s interesting how shifting our focus and tweaking our perspective can make even the most familiar places seem new again. I’ve experienced this firsthand, not just in the Shenandoah Valley but in all the places I’ve called home. At first, when I moved to Harrisonburg, it was just another place, nothing particularly special about it. Everything that could be found here could be found somewhere else on a grander scale. But when I really slowed down and looked through the lens of my camera, I no longer needed to be anywhere else — everything I needed was right here. 

To make this idea of shifting perspectives more tangible, let’s imagine someone seeing the Shenandoah Valley for the first time—someone from a completely different world. Enter Mario, an exchange student from Spain.

This morning I drove to the Dulles International Airport to pick up Mario. As I approached the terminal, I saw a curly-haired, bright-eyed backpacker standing next to a bus stop. I peeked at my reference photo to confirm it was actually him. “Mario?” I said curiously out of my passenger window. He responded enthusiastically, like we were best friends when we were children. “Aron! Mucho gusto amigo!”. I chuckled at his pronunciation of my name and went to help him place his belongings in my trunk. Conversation filled the car for the first hour of our drive home, but the car eventually became quiet and contemplative. Mario’s attention shifted to this unfamiliar world. I occasionally peeked over at him, each time seeing a new expression on his face. His eyes widened at the view of the mountains. His brow furrowed at the billboards, their bold letters screaming messages he wasn’t used to seeing so publicly. His head tilted slightly as he muttered in Spanish, trying to convert MPH to KPH in real time. Excitement at the sight of a Chick-Fil-A and sudden disbelief when I told him that it’s a Sunday… And a slight expression of homesickness that seemed to ebb and flow when his mind wasn’t occupied. 

Over the next few days, I introduced Mario to my favorite hidden gems around Harrisonburg. We started with brunch at The Little Grill, followed by jazz music at Clementines on a lively Thursday night. He marveled at the sheer brilliance of Costco samples (!), we wandered the trails around Switzer Lake, and took a quick roadtrip to Dayton to see the horse and buggies. He met my friends—who instantly adored him, just as he did them. We sifted through trinkets at Gift and Thrift, spent time with the farm cats, and, of course, paid a visit to our old goat, Chester. The list goes on, each moment adding to the tapestry of his experience—one that felt new to him, yet so familiar to me. 

Let’s pause for a second. The point I’m trying to get across is that Mario and I were exposed to the same exact scenery, the same live music, the same food, the same interactions with people… but our experiences were so different. He was entranced by the intricacies of life around here, whereas I felt like I was just running another lap around the track. He inspired me to wonder: how could I tap into new experiences and emotions in a place that feels so familiar—so predictable? How could I refill my awe for my surroundings, regardless of how thoroughly I knew the area? 

Perhaps… a camera…? A device that inspires me to be intentional with my attention (like noticing a flower). A device that encourages me to mix up my perception of a familiar place and add to my experiences there, rather than feeling like I was just repeating an existing memory or living a monotone reality on autopilot (like watching Mario’s experience). A device that gets me off the couch and into the world (like the motivation that comes from looking up at the night sky and wanting to make something out of this weird opportunity called life). A device that snaps me out of normality (like a piece of dystopian social media). A device that helps me to turn off my incessant thinking mind and return to my body and environment. 

I hope you can see why the “ocean” of digital data and existing photographs doesn’t seem so relevant and daunting to me anymore. Photography is not about contributing to the ocean, it’s about helping myself and others transform from still water into flowing rivers. This is one of the many reasons why I bring my camera into the world.