There’s a photo I took recently on a family outing to the beach. My eldest daughter, Sofia, is framed in soft afternoon sidelight — exploring, a little apart from my wife and younger daughter, Isobelle. Her face still holds traces of childhood, but her posture really struck me. It upset me. There was something in the way she stood — a quiet sadness, a kind of loneliness — that mirrored things I’ve seen in her before. I didn’t stage it. It’s just the way it was. But in that moment, camera in hand, I saw something I couldn’t quite articulate — and captured it. That’s the kind of moment I live for now. It’s the reason I wrote this article.
Grief, Time, and the Quiet Realisation of Middle Age
Two years ago, I lost my father. And with him went a kind of invisible scaffolding I hadn’t realised was holding me up. His death brought a sudden and brutal awareness: life is fragile. Time is fast. And I’m not young anymore — not really. I still feel thirty, maybe, but my body, my daughter’s age, and the mirror remind me otherwise.
I later tried to make sense of that loss by documenting many of the places that shaped his life — and mine — in this short video.
I’m middle-aged. My little girl is almost nine. She’s growing fast, and it terrifies me how quickly these years are slipping through my fingers. My marriage hasn’t been easy. I’m still here, still standing — but not always with clarity about why.
The Success That Didn’t Save Me
I sold a successful business not because it was failing, but because I was. On the surface, I had what many people want: income, stability, respect. But inside, I was drifting. Providing for others had become my entire identity. I couldn’t answer the question: “Who am I when I’m not needed?”
I chased meaning in other places. I leaned into motorbikes — something that fits naturally with life here in the Philippines. For a while, it felt like freedom. The wind, the road, the sense of motion. But eventually I realised I was just circling. Riding with no destination. It wasn’t purpose. It was noise.
The Return I Tried to Resist
I kept coming back to photography.
Not for social media. Not for likes or gear or even legacy. I came back to it because it’s the only thing that’s ever felt like home. I used to earn a meagre but deeply satisfying living from photography. I left it behind for years, working in a related business — close enough to feel connected, but never close enough to feel fulfilled. I told myself it wasn’t possible. That the time had passed. That family and finances required something else.
But that longing didn’t go away.
Even when I had stopped shooting for months, maybe years, I’d still find myself imagining images. Compositions would form in my head. Light would catch my eye and I’d instinctively reach for a camera that wasn’t there. It was a quiet ache — a reminder of something unfinished. Something essential.
Finding Focus in the Frame
Now, finally, I’ve given myself permission to return to it. I’m building a life — carefully, deliberately — where photography is no longer an occasional hobby or nostalgic regret, but a daily act of meaning.
I carry a camera again, nearly every day. Sometimes the X100VI — compact and effortless. Other times the XT5 or even the GFX100S when I want depth and weight, physically and emotionally. The camera doesn’t just record what I see — it shapes how I see. It slows me down. It keeps me present. It’s a choice that reminds me why a phone will never be enough.
It also keeps me from drifting.
Purpose, Not Perfection
When I photograph, I’m not thinking about what I haven’t achieved, or who I’ve failed, or how many years I’ve wasted.
I’m focused. I’m composing. I’m in it. Photography doesn’t cure depression — but it keeps me from slipping into that grey fog where everything feels heavy and pointless. I explored that emotional pull — and how the act of image-making grounds me — in this piece about the X-T5. It gives me structure. It gives me intention. A reason to leave the house. A reason to see.
It helps me feel useful again.
Because that’s what I’ve been chasing — not just beauty or creativity or income. I’ve been chasing purpose. Photography gives me that. Not because the world needs my images, but because I do. They are how I speak when I have no words. They are how I connect to my daughter, to strangers, to the strange wonder of simply being alive.
More Than Memories
I used to think of a camera as a tool for saving memories. And it is. But now I understand: it also saves me.
Not every day. Not every frame. But enough. Enough to keep going. Enough to stay present. Enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, this path I’m on still leads somewhere worthwhile.