Picking Up the Camera Again
For a long time, my camera lived on a shelf like some forgotten relic. Back when I was in the Air Force, I tried to cross-train as a photographer. It felt like fate...I had the passion, the portfolio, the drive. The people reviewing my work even told me it was great. But then came the kicker: my vision.
Keratoconus. A degenerative eye disease that basically warps your corneas into funhouse mirrors. It was a hard stop. 100% Total disqualifier. The door slammed shut, and eventually, it shoved me right out of the military altogether with a medical retirement. That rejection wasn’t just a “no.” It was a slug to the chest, the kind that leaves you gasping. I put my camera down after that, and for years it collected dust, mocking me from across the room.
And then my son hit his senior year of high school. He asked me to take his photos. That simple request cracked something open. The first time I picked up the camera again, it was like remembering how to breathe. Heavy in my hands, sure, but also grounding, like coming home to a part of myself I thought was lost.
That session with him relit the fire. I remembered why I loved this. Photography wasn’t just a career path I’d been denied, it was mine all along. Nobody could take it away, not the Air Force, not a diagnosis, not even my own self-doubt.
Now every shot, whether it’s fog choking out the forest, waterfalls raging like they’ve got a grudge, or my dog dragging me uphill like I owe her rent...carries that promise I made: never put the camera down again. My eyes may be a little busted, but my vision? That’s sharper than ever.
