Some people fall into photography by accident. For me, it was more like gravity — an irresistible pull that’s been tugging at me since the day I first picked up a 35mm film camera in high school. I still remember the weight of it in my hands, the click of the shutter, and the faint smell of film. There was magic in the idea that I could freeze a moment in time, and that magic has never really let me go.

From those first fumbling attempts in high school to the years that followed, photography was always there — sometimes in the background, sometimes at the center of my life — but always present. It became the lens through which I saw the world. I would walk to class with my camera hanging from my neck, looking at light and shadow in a way that felt different from how other people saw them. While my friends would rush from one thing to the next, I’d linger to catch the way sunlight filtered through autumn leaves, or the way a rain puddle perfectly reflected the world above it. Even then, I think I knew: photography wasn’t just a hobby for me. It was a calling.

But life has a way of weaving in other threads. After high school, reality stepped in with its steady voice and practical advice. I pursued a career in IT healthcare — a field I was proud to be part of, but one that came with long hours, heavy responsibilities, and the kind of mental and emotional demands that don’t always leave much room for art. I built a career, raised a family, and kept up with the many moving parts of a busy life. Photography? That was the thing I squeezed in whenever I could — like water slipping into the cracks between stones.

For decades, I became a master of stealing time for my camera. Family vacations? Yes, I was there with the kids, making memories — but also getting up before dawn to catch the sunrise before anyone else had even rolled out of bed. Business trips? Sure, I went for the meetings, but I’d scout the city in the early morning hours or wander with my camera after the last agenda item was checked off. Even on the most hectic days, I’d find myself looking at the light on my way to the parking lot after work, wishing I had just fifteen more minutes to capture it.

It wasn’t easy. My life was filled to the brim with commitments — work deadlines, school events, sports practices, family dinners. But photography became my quiet rebellion against the grind. It was the way I carved out space for myself. Sometimes that meant taking the long way home just to pass a certain hill at golden hour. Sometimes it meant pulling over on the side of the road to photograph a fog-covered barn while my coffee went cold in the cup holder. Other times, it was simply sitting at my desk in the middle of a long, dull meeting, my mind wandering off to dream about my next adventure — a sunrise over the coast, a desert night under a million stars, or a mountain lake hidden far from the crowds.

Photography gave me something to look forward to. It was more than a creative outlet — it was my escape hatch. My mind would drift from spreadsheets and strategy sessions to thoughts of composition and shutter speed. The rhythm of the workday was often broken by flashes of imagined landscapes. I’d think about how the light might hit the peaks of the Rockies in late afternoon or how the colors of a Maine harbor would shift as the tide came in. These daydreams didn’t just get me through the monotony — they kept a small ember of joy glowing in the background of my life.

Of course, those years weren’t wasted time. They gave me stability, the means to travel now and then, and, most importantly, a family I love more than anything. But deep down, I always knew I was keeping photography in a smaller space than it wanted to live in. My cameras sat on the shelf between trips, waiting patiently. I would look at them and feel a tug — not of guilt exactly, but of longing.

As the years went on, I became more deliberate about my stolen moments. I learned to travel light, to pack my gear so I could be ready for a shot at a moment’s notice. I became efficient — scouting locations on Google Earth, researching the best times of year for certain landscapes, planning around weather patterns. If I only had an hour in a new place, I wanted to make it count. My photography style evolved, not just technically but emotionally. I began to focus more on the mood of a place — the feeling of standing on a windswept cliff or in a quiet grove of trees — and less on simply documenting what was in front of me.

And then, finally, life shifted. My kids grew up, started their own journeys, and didn’t need me in quite the same way. After a long and rewarding career in healthcare, I stepped into retirement. The days that were once crammed with schedules and obligations began to open up. Suddenly, I had something I hadn’t had in decades: time.

It’s funny how, when you’ve been chasing something for years, finally catching it doesn’t feel like a sudden leap — it feels like a deep exhale. I didn’t wake up one morning and say, I’m a full-time photographer now., well maybe I did on August 30, 2024 (not to be too precise) Instead, I simply started living the life I’d been daydreaming about for so long. I bought a small camper and began planning longer trips, letting the seasons and the light dictate where I’d go next. I wandered coastlines, deserts, forests, and mountains, often with no agenda other than to see what beauty I could find.

That’s when my Etsy shop was born. I realized that my photographs had been living in my personal collection for years, shared here and there with family and friends, but never really given the chance to reach a wider audience. Etsy became my way of putting my work into the world — not just as images, but as pieces of the journey I’ve been on for decades. Each print I list has its own story, a moment that I either fought hard to capture in a stolen hour or found freely in my new, unhurried life.

Opening the shop felt like the natural next step. I wasn’t just selling photographs — I was sharing the culmination of a lifelong pursuit. I wanted people to hang these images in their homes and feel something when they looked at them. Maybe they’d be reminded of a place they’d been, or inspired to see somewhere new, or simply find a bit of calm in the middle of their own busy lives.

Now, my days look very different than they did even a few years ago. Mornings often start with the soft light of dawn spilling over a mountain range or across a quiet bay. I spend my time wandering through national parks, small towns, and hidden corners of the country, always with my camera in hand. Sometimes I still “steal” time for a shot — old habits die hard — but more often now, time offers itself to me freely.

I’ve learned that the best photographs aren’t just about skill or timing. They’re about presence. When I stand on a ridge watching the sun melt into the horizon, I’m not thinking about work emails or to-do lists anymore. I’m simply there — the same way I was as a teenager, looking through my first camera and feeling like I’d stumbled onto something sacred.

And in many ways, I suppose I’m still that teenager, chasing light, framing moments, and getting lost in the viewfinder. The only difference is that now, I don’t have to squeeze those moments into the edges of my life. They are my life.

My Etsy shop and other outlets, are more than just a collection of prints. It’s the story of decades of longing, persistence, and joy. It’s proof that you can carry a dream quietly for years and still watch it bloom. Every order I send out is a reminder that this journey — from high school darkrooms to long healthcare meetings to wide-open retirement roads — was worth every step. There are countless photographers more talented than I, able to hike into and up better perspectives than I, but I can guarantee no photographer has ever wanted this life more than I have

I often think about the people who will hang my work in their homes. Maybe they’re travelers at heart, maybe they’re dreamers, maybe they’re simply people who love beauty. I hope that when they look at one of my prints, they feel some of the same spark I felt when I first saw the scene through my lens. I hope they know that this isn’t just a picture — it’s a moment I’ve carried in my mind for years, waiting for the chance to share it.

And so, here I am. Retired from healthcare. Kids grown and thriving. No more long commutes or meetings where I drift off into a daydream. Instead, I’m living the daydream. I spend my days wandering the country, chasing light, and capturing the best landscapes I can find. Sometimes I still pinch myself, just to make sure it’s real.

But then I lift my camera, frame the shot, and hear that familiar click of the shutter — and I know it is.