Beneath the Branches, I Remembered
When I first picked up a camera, it was spring—and I had just received devastating news. My dream of playing soccer at the collegiate level, and one day for the U.S. Women’s Team, had been crushed by a knee injury. I was facing six months on crutches and what felt like a lifetime of questions. I was angry, defeated, and deeply lost.
My whole identity had been wrapped in writing music, poetry, and playing the sport I loved. But without soccer, I didn’t recognize myself. My lyrics became dark and heavy—if I could write at all.
Then one day, I noticed a camera just sitting on the table. We hadn’t really used it in ages. At one point, scrapbooking was a thing, but that had faded too. Still, something pulled me to pick it up.
I decided to visit the botanical gardens—my adoptive grandma always called it her personal prayer garden. If she found solace there, maybe I could too.
I started capturing flowers swaying gently in the breeze, bugs crawling along petals, the light dancing off buildings and old stone paths. The way the wind whispered through the trees reminded me of the way I used to dance across the soccer field—free, untamed, full of purpose.
With every click, I felt a little more alive. A little more like me. I remembered why I loved poetry—the rhythm, the movement, the emotion. And in a strange way, the wind helped me grieve what I lost and embrace something new.
When I felt confident in my nature photos, I began to explore photographing people. And over time, here I am—writing, creating, fully present in the beauty and mess of life, challenged and accepted as a creative being.
It’s spring again. Today, I went on a walk to reset, to reconnect. To remember why I fell in love with what I see behind the lens—and the words that rise up in me when I slow down and truly see.
The road curves quiet, kissed by spring,
Beneath a canopy just starting to sing.
Branches stretch in dappled light,
Budding with hope, shaking off night.
A breeze stirs the ivy wrapped tight on the beam,
Soft as a hush in the middle of a dream.
Dogwood petals dance like forgotten prayers,
Each bloom a balm for old despairs.
The lake wears sunlight like a silken thread,
A mirror for the thoughts long unsaid.
Trees lean in—some still bare, some full—
A portrait of becoming, raw and beautiful.
This is where I came when silence roared,
When I traded cleats for chords and chords.
The lens, a friend I never knew I’d need,
Framing grief, framing growth, planting seed.
And oh, the wind—it sways, it sighs,
Like the rhythm once found in cleated strides.
It moves the green, it stirs the soul,
It tells me, gently, I’m still whole.
So I walk again where Grandma prayed,
Among shadows, light, and leaves that stayed.
Camera in hand, heart open wide—
I find the story I once tried to hide.