A Portrait of Passion
There something beautiful to me about capturing a moment, space and time frozen in a still, a moment of life that can never be repeated. This is my passion. A passion that I have long neglected, like a plant left unwatered, watching as days and years pass by, silently crying out for a drink — to feel alive again, to burst back into color, and to bring color back into my life. It remained, lovingly watching despite my neglect, waiting patiently for the moment we’d engage again. I give to it, and it gives back to me. Once again, full of color and vibrancy, I can finally breathe — a breath infused with love and lightness, unburdened by the weight of searching for purpose. I describe it as a flower, yet perhaps it is more like a lover. A passion that calls to me, holding me with an intensity that no substitute could match. I tried other pursuits, but each felt forced, incompatible — a feigned connection that was never sustainable. In chasing what I thought was the thrill of a “hotter” pursuit, I failed to see the beautiful presence patiently waiting before me. Photography and videography are, simply, the right ones for me. With them, I feel natural, and in return, they give me fulfillment. I now do things that only love can inspire, and I feel her embrace — the happiness, the contentment she brings as the one who has always been right. I walk miles just for a shot, push myself beyond comfort for the perfect capture, even find myself in risky situations — all for that one frame. Through this passion, I see the world in its rawest form and live experiences that are otherwise unreachable. This is not just photography; it’s the lens through which I truly see, feel, and connect with life.
It surprises me now, looking back, how I didn’t recognize the depth of my love for photography and videography sooner. Even one of my earliest baby pictures is me standing with my grandmother’s old-timer camera. When I trace it back, my earliest memory with a camera takes me to when I was around 13 years old, back in 2009. I had my father’s Flip Ultra video camera, this small, pocket-sized device that held endless possibilities. That camera felt like magic in my hands; I could capture the world around me, preserve moments that would otherwise disappear into the ether. Looking through the lens, I was struck by the freedom and creativity it allowed a world entirely my own to shape and craft. Every clip I filmed held the potential to be something bigger than it was — a fragment of life that could tell a story. Even at that young age, there was a quiet thrill in seeing the world unfold through that tiny screen, a thrill I couldn’t have put into words then but that I can feel so clearly now in retrospect. Back then, it didn’t feel like “passion” as I know it today. It felt like play, like exploration. But in every shaky clip, every hurriedly captured moment, that passion was growing, taking root, waiting for me to recognize it for what it was. The love for photography and videography was there, subtly guiding me, but it would take years before I understood how deeply it was woven into the fabric of who I am.
With this camera, I filmed my cousin’s wedding — a cousin who had flown all the way from England to be married in our small hometown in the U.S., right at the courthouse. It was a modest ceremony, with just eight family members present to witness the exchange of vows. I was there with my camera, filming each small, precious detail, capturing moments from different angles and perspectives to freeze this day in time. Afterward, I went to work, editing and compiling the footage into a video that I burned onto a DVD. I created menus, designed a play button, and crafted a scene selection menu — something that would play like a film. I remember the moment I inserted the DVD, and we all gathered in the living room to watch, their wedding day playing out on the screen like a carefully directed movie.
As I looked around, I felt a strange vulnerability. There I was, a little self-conscious at how tenderly I had edited it, layering it with wedding music that drifted in and out, gently tying together the different shots and angles, the heartfelt speeches, the captured glances. Love wasn’t something I was used to, yet here I was, revealing it through every frame, every cut. We all watched, and at the end, the bride and groom were in tears, showering me with compliments on how beautiful it was, how deeply it touched them. And yet, as they praised it, all I could see were the imperfections — a perfectionist’s eye unable to see past the tiniest flaws.
I moved on afterward, not really thinking about this talent or the spark of passion it revealed. Life swept me into other currents, leaving little time to explore what had briefly surfaced. In middle school, MySpace exploded, and with it, my fascination with photo editing. I’d spend hours crafting images and custom designs for my profile, making something uniquely mine. My dad, being a web developer, taught me HTML and CSS, which only fueled my creativity. I remember one day getting a little too experimental, tweaking the CSS on my dad’s web hosting server, thinking it was harmless fun, like editing my profile layout. But in reality, I was unintentionally altering live sites — needless to say, I was in big trouble.
Yet even those missteps had a lasting impact. I gained a deeper understanding of the digital world, of computers and design, and soon I found myself creating logos for my dad’s projects, working with whatever I could get my hands on. Photoshop was out of reach, so I used knockoff programs like GIMP or cracked versions of Photoshop, teaching myself the tools that felt just out of reach. It wouldn’t be until college that I’d finally get to use Photoshop, but by then, I’d already made a foundation.
The passion continued to resurface. In high school, I’d film skits with friends, gathering short clips from different angles, editing them in makeshift programs, trying out new effects, piecing together stories in video. I wish I remembered the logins to those old accounts, the names of our YouTube channels. Somewhere, those videos float in the vast void of the internet, forgotten but full of memory. My editing skills kept expanding. When my dad decided to write a book, I found myself as both editor and designer. I was just a tenth-grader, proofreading and designing the cover through the knockoff version of Photoshop, learning as I went. I didn’t get credit as an editor, but that didn’t matter. Looking back, I’m glad; as a high school sophomore, I didn’t have the English skills I have now, and though I loved the process, I didn’t yet have the polish.
I had a D in English, mostly because I would write only a half-page for assignments that required multiple pages, believing I could say everything that needed to be said in a few concise paragraphs. My family found it amusing and called me a “man of few words.” But the truth is, I had many thoughts; I simply didn’t want to share them with people with whom I didn’t feel safe. I sometimes think of that book, of the people who bought it when my dad and I sat at a mall table, as he offered signed copies to passing shoppers. He sold a few, and I wonder what those readers thought of that raw draft.
I have so many fond memories wrapped up in photography and videography — capturing vibrant moments with friends, finding a strange peace within the process. At the time, I didn’t know this was passion; I just knew it was fun. Photography was with me not only in these good times but also during my darkest moments. I saw more than a kid ever should, yet through it all, I turned to my camera, framing pieces of the world I grew up in: the homelessness, violence, the drug houses, the scenes of poverty. To the forests and tents I lived in — these were the fragments of my reality. Some of my photos are from just before or after some of the hardest moments of my life, images I keep as proof of where I’ve been, as a reminder of how far I’ve come and the cards I was dealt.
There’s a weight to these memories, a trauma woven into them, yet photography gave me a way to look at it all differently. The lens allowed me to step outside of my story and find a strange appreciation, even beauty, in the darkness. Though it was painful to be a character in it, I could shape it into a dark movie, one filled with action, drama, and horror. This view brought a sense of distance, a way to see even the bleakest scenes with a new perspective. I knew it wouldn’t last forever; each photo would become a marker of time, a piece of my story preserved as I moved forward, a testament to resilience and transformation.
Even if I didn’t see it at the time, every piece of that journey was shaping me — every small project, every moment behind the lens, every edit on a program not meant for professional work. It was as if photography, videography, and design were planted within me, waiting for their moment to bloom, even if that moment would take years to arrive.
In college, when I wasn’t drinking and partying, I often found myself in the creative lab, tucked away in a quiet corner, working on Photoshop into the late hours. Editing images became a personal ritual, an escape, a place I could retreat to when the pressure of college life — of drugs, alcohol, and endless partying — became too much. I enjoyed the fun of partying, but with my houses being the hangout spots, I felt sometimes pulled into it beyond what I truly wanted. The creative lounge became my sanctuary, a space where I could slip away from the loud chaos that often blurred into anxiety.
Sometimes, I’d stay there editing photos until 8 pm, knowing my friends would be waiting, ready to pull me back into the party. The editing felt therapeutic, and in those hours, time passed differently. There was a calm there, a kind of peace I struggled to find elsewhere. I’d take random images from my friends’ Instagram feeds, layering colors, adding effects, and creating edits that would surprise them. Their reactions brought a rare warmth, a simple joy that made me feel connected to them without the weight of expectation.
At my small D3 university, we all knew each other to some extent — who we ran with, the faces that floated in familiar crowds. I had half the campus on my Instagram, and I’d occasionally edit their photos, sending them the results via airdrop in the middle of a class or at the library. It was fun, a quiet game, to see them post the edits on their stories, proudly making my art their new profile picture, unknowingly sharing a small part of my creative world. Recently, I found an old drive with many of those forgotten edits. Looking through them felt like opening a time capsule, seeing friends I’d nearly forgotten, reminded of moments that had slipped into memory.
I wasn’t just editing photos, though. I’d also make vlogs with my friends — messy, wild clips of our drunken and drugged escapades, capturing the unapologetic thrill of those nights. We’d post these videos to YouTube, and they became something of a campus hit, everyone recognizing the unfiltered freedom they portrayed. Those vlogs I can’t reach anymore; I’d set them to private, once I ran for public office, but sometimes I wish I could find them again. There was a theme running through all of it, even when I didn’t see it: photography, videography, the joy of capturing moments and then losing myself in the editing.
Reflecting now, I realize that, even in my highest-anxiety times, I found peace in this process. That deep contentment of taking a rough clip or raw image and shaping it into something whole — it is where I feel most like myself. The passion had been there all along, quietly anchoring me.
In recent years, I’ve taken this love into new forms. I’ve started streaming and making gaming content, creating TikToks and sharing media in ways that resonate with who I am today. Each project, each creative outlet is a continuation of that same passion, weaving its way through my life, evolving with me. And now, I see it clearly: this was never just a hobby. It’s the thread that ties so much of my story together, my true companion through every phase. In the past year, I’ve embarked on a journey of crafting cinematic videos for my YouTube channel, rediscovering the joy of photography along the way. With this newfound clarity, I’ve acknowledged and restored my connection to my passion, igniting a spark of excitement for how my creative pursuits might evolve. Each frame, each shot, brings me a profound sense of peace and fulfillment, and I find myself grateful to have reunited with my lover — my passion.
It’s genuinely something I cherish, a pursuit that fills my days with joy. As I share my work and hone my craft, I’ve begun to see recognition blossom around me. It’s thrilling to witness the opportunities aligning themselves as I follow this path, a testament to the magic that unfolds when you chase what you love. Yet, it still feels surreal, for this journey is one I undertake purely for myself, a beautiful expression of who I am becoming.
