Learning to See
My life has been shaped by the moments when I chose to step beyond what felt expected, comfortable, or predictable.
That pattern started to show itself when my life with a camera began around age 12. I got my first camera and started a channel with my brother where we made videos of our fishing adventures on Lake Michigan and nearby lakes and rivers. For a while, that was enough. But when I was 18, I got into an old van with a couple of friends, packed some upgraded camera gear, and went looking for real adventure and a new way of seeing life.
Looking back, it is clear that I wanted to go further, see more, and become more.
That drive eventually led me to the coast to film surfers for the first time, and everything shifted. The ocean felt endless. I framed a few surfers through my lens, and the sound of the waves took over. In that moment, I did not just want to capture the scene. I wanted to be in it.
So I went, wetsuit on, board in hand, straight into the unknown.
That step was the beginning of something bigger. It was the start of a new way of living, one where boundaries were not limits but places to grow beyond. Most of the boundaries I had believed in were not as fixed as they seemed. A lot of them lived in my mind, in my expectations, and in the stories I had been told about who I was supposed to be.
What Travel Taught Me
Since then, travel has become one of my best teachers. It has a way of reminding me how vast and varied the world really is. It opens my eyes to landscapes, people, and ways of life, but more importantly, it opens my heart to the moments that often go unnoticed. Through my lens, I try to capture not just images, but the feeling of being there and being fully in the moment.
Patagonia was one of those places. Our group of photographers and artists stood surrounded by huge mountains and untouched land where wild horses ran freely across the landscape. We all reached for our cameras, but none of us could really capture what we were seeing and feeling, the steady sound and rhythm of hooves echoing through the open land.
Eventually, we lowered our cameras and just watched as the horses disappeared into the horizon. There was something powerful about witnessing that kind of freedom without trying to capture it.
A very different moment stayed with me, too. At a school in sub-Saharan Africa, I found myself surrounded by children who were curious about everything, especially me. They reached for my dreads, fascinated by something so ordinary to me and so unfamiliar to them. They laughed at the exaggerated faces I made, and before long, I was pulled into a game of tag, running across the dusty schoolyard with laughing kids in every direction.
That experience changed me in a quieter way, but left an equally lasting impression. Each child wanted something simple: to be seen, to be acknowledged, to matter. I realized my presence, camera in hand, meant more than I understood. In that moment, I was not just a visitor passing through. The lens of my camera helped me see more clearly, not just what was in front of me, but what connection can mean.
Moving Forward
Those moments shape how I travel now. Whether I am loading up my car with camera gear, a surfboard, a couple of Yerba Madres, and the essentials before heading toward the horizon, or packing a backpack for my next flight, I am not interested in simply following a path—I want to make my own.
That is how I live now: chasing moments, finding stillness in motion, watching the sun rise with intention, and the day ends with reflection. Moving forward, pushing further, and still making time to notice what is right in front of me.
For me, that is what it means to push boundaries. It is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it is as simple as stepping into the unknown, staying open, and choosing to live fully even when it feels uncomfortable. That is why Yerba Madre fits naturally into my life. It is there for the early starts, the long drives, and the moments that ask me to stay curious and keep moving forward with intention.