Photography & Purpose After

There is a strange thing that happens after you survive something catastrophic.

At first, you spend all of your energy trying to get back to who you were before.

Then, eventually, you realize that person may no longer exist.

That realization can either destroy you or rebuild you.

For a long time, photography became one of the only things that still made sense to me.

Not because it fixed anything.

Not because it magically removed depression, fear, anxiety, exhaustion, or uncertainty.

But because photography gave me moments where I felt present again.

When you spend enough time in hospitals, recovery rooms, waiting rooms, and staring at ceilings at 3:00 in the morning wondering what your future looks like, you begin to understand how valuable a quiet sunrise actually is.

You stop rushing through moments.

You stop assuming you'll always get another season.

You stop taking "someday" for granted.

I think that's part of why my photography changed after all of this.

Before, I chased images.

Afterward, I chased experiences.

I still love the technical side of photography. I still love weather, light, compositions, editing, planning, maps, and all the little details that go into making an image work.

But now, the image itself is only part of it.

The process matters more.

The silence matters more.

The drive through the desert matters more.

The cold air before dawn matters more.

The sound of wind moving across canyon walls matters more.

The feeling of simply still being there to witness it matters more.

Photography became less about proving something and more about reconnecting with life.

And honestly, sometimes photography was the only reason I got out of bed.

There were days depression hit hard enough that everything felt heavy. Days where my energy was gone before the morning even started. Days where my future felt uncertain enough that planning ahead seemed pointless.

But sunrise doesn't care how broken you feel.

The mountains don't ask if you're struggling.

The desert doesn't require explanations.

Nature just waits.

And sometimes, that waiting was enough to pull me forward another day.

I think people often assume purpose arrives as some giant lightning bolt moment.

For me, it didn't.

Purpose returned slowly.

Quietly.

One sunrise at a time.

One workshop conversation at a time.

One message from someone saying, "Your story helped me," at a time.

One reminder that maybe surviving something terrible also gives you permission to become someone more honest afterward.

I no longer view photography as just art.

I view it as evidence.

Evidence that beauty still exists during hard seasons.

Evidence that life can still contain meaning after catastrophic change.

Evidence that even after losing something as fundamental as a stomach, a future can still exist.

It may not be the future you planned.

But that does not mean it cannot still become something worthwhile.

In some ways, losing my stomach simplified life in brutal ways.

It forced me to evaluate what actually mattered.

Stress matters.

Time matters.

Energy matters.

People matter.

Meaning matters.

And the older I get, the less interested I am in pretending otherwise.

I do not know exactly what the future looks like from here.

There are still medical hurdles ahead.

There are still difficult days.

There are still moments where depression, uncertainty, or exhaustion show up uninvited.

But there are also sunrises waiting in places I have never seen.

There are still roads left to drive.

Still photographs left to create.

Still people left to teach.

Still stories left to tell.

And honestly, maybe that is enough.

Maybe purpose is not something you permanently find.

Maybe purpose is something you continue choosing despite what happened to you.

If you are reading this while navigating your own version of loss, illness, depression, or rebuilding, I want you to understand something:

Your life may look different now.

But different does not automatically mean over.

Sometimes the hardest seasons reshape us into people who finally understand what truly matters.

Not stronger.

Not fearless.

Just more aware of how valuable life actually is.

And sometimes, that awareness changes everything.