Some days I feel like I’m just winging it through this photography journey. Like a bird with no nest, no flock, no sky that truly welcomes it.
They told me passion was enough. That if I loved it hard enough, if I chased the light and framed the moments, people would come. They’d see the magic, and they’d stay.
But I’ve posted, shared, edited, rebranded, repeated. I’ve let my art leaked like a venomous snake into empty space, and the empty space leaked nothing back.
Community? I don’t have, My comment sections echo more than they respond. My inbox is a museum of sent proposals and ghosted dreams. I look at others building empires out of pixels and poses, while I’m still trying to find a tribe that sees what I see.
Maybe I wasn’t supposed to plan so hard. Maybe I was meant to wing it, to fall forward into something real. Maybe communities aren’t always found—they’re built. One person at a time. One shoot at a time. One post where someone finally says, “Wow, I see you.”
I’m tired. But I’m still holding the camera. Still winging it, hoping one day, flight will turn into something that feels like home.
