i have observed how some people believe you can only be one thing. a photographer. a writer. a painter. as if creativity needs to be boxed into categories, as if our own intuition and vision must choose a single form.

i met myself in the sky ——— my younger self, shyer and quieter, flying solo for the first time. she was sitting by the window, lost in a dream, her hands wrapped around my camera, holding it like a secret she was starting to unfold. the steady rhythm of the plane beneath us was a quiet feeling somewhere between fear and freedom.