06/01/2026
I used to think freedom was movement.
I built a life on it, photographing geopolitics, war and conflict.
I survived a mortar that killed two of my friends.
I came home, though I kept running.
For years after, I could not remember the fights I started.
The man who covered the world was gone,
and the man who would walk out had not yet arrived.
The week before my daughter was born, for the first time, in decades, I felt what I had been running from.
The work that followed took years, and is not finished.
My daughter is now the age I was the night I knelt by a pond and felt, for the first time, that I was whole.
Her small shoes by the door, her lunches, the schedules, and carpools.
This life asks more of me than any story ever will, because I can’t disappear.
She did not save me, but loving her made it impossible to keep running.
To stand free in the world without story as disguise, without movement as escape, and to let what’s true be true.
At Beckley, I learned that real freedom is the ability to stay, present.