I didn’t mean to take the saddest photo of my life. But once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.
We were at Saayo beach. Golden hour light washing in low from behind, catching Arlene’s hair like fire. She was sitting on the break wall holding Isobelle, looking out across the sea toward Negros island in the distance.
I was just shooting casually. The kind of photos any father would take — mother and daughter, warm light, gentle ocean. I’d already positioned myself to catch the sidelight. I was dialed in.
Then Sofia appeared, wandering onto the beach looking for shells. She stepped into the frame, lower right. Separated. Below. Her posture was different — grown-up, almost contemplative. I only took one shot. That’s all I needed.
Something hit me immediately. The way she stood apart from her mum and baby sister — there was a quiet sadness to it. She wasn’t really in the scene, she was orbiting it. And that’s what struck me most. For years, Sofia has wanted a closer relationship with her mum — something simple, something warm — and it’s never quite come. Now, with Isobelle here, that hope feels even more distant. Watching Arlene doting on Isobelle while Sofia stands apart… it felt like watching a dream quietly slip away. There’s a sadness in that distance — not just physical, but emotional. As if the light itself had already chosen sides. And knowing what I know — the bond she and I share — I felt something crack.
Looking at the photo now upsets me. Not because it’s technically poor — quite the opposite. It’s almost too good. Too honest. It’s as if everything unspoken in our family dynamic leaked into that one frame. And there it is, frozen. Beautiful and brutal.
It’s a reminder that photography isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it tells you things you’d rather not see.
Why I’ll Never Stop Taking Photos
I carry a camera because it lets me look harder and deeper — into the world, into my family, into myself — in ways I might otherwise avoid. Photography gives me permission to pause and notice. It slows time just enough to capture something before it slips away.
That photo of Sofia still hurts to look at. But I’d take it again. Because that moment was real. And if I hadn’t made that frame, it would already be fading — like so many other moments I’ve let slip by.
I’ve never been the emotional type. I don’t cry easily. But when I look back at old photos — me as a child, Sofia as a toddler — I feel the weight of time rushing forward. I feel grief for the days I can’t get back. And gratitude that at least I have something left from them. Some proof that we were there. That it mattered.
Cameras help me hold onto those pieces of life.
I don’t always want to be making decisions when I shoot. I make enough of those as a father, a partner, a provider. The X100VI gives me freedom from that. One focal length. One frame. Just watch, wait, feel — then click.
Sometimes, I photograph because the light is beautiful. Sometimes, because the scene is perfect. But the ones that stay with me — the ones that affect me — are the ones that say something deeper. Something I didn’t even know I needed to hear.
That’s why I’ll never stop taking photos