Anthony Carbajal

10/25/2026

10/09/2026

♥️😻💚

10/06/2026

The tracks overlap, disappear beneath one another, then emerge again—never moving in a perfectly straight line, but always moving.

That feels like ALS to me.

A life rewritten by obstacles, losses, and constant adaptation. Some days leave deep marks; others barely leave a trace. But beneath all the chaos is evidence of perseverance: I was here. I kept moving. I made another mark.

ALS has taken away many ways I once moved through this world. So now I make art with the movement I still have. My wheelchair doesn’t simply carry me—it leaves behind proof that even when the path changes, I can keep creating one.

Perseverance isn’t always moving forward in a straight line. Sometimes it’s making circles, getting stuck, changing direction—and refusing to stop.

And maybe that’s why these paintings feel so intimate to me. Every tire mark holds a little piece of the life I’m still fighting to live. My body may be losing its ability to move, but something inside me is still reaching, still searching, still creating.

I don’t know where all these tracks will lead.

I just know I’m still here.

And while I’m here,
I want to leave something beautiful behind.

09/29/2026

Painting with the help of the talented Mathew Curran

09/23/2026

Missing curb cut-outs is dangerous

09/13/2026

I took this photograph years ago, but it feels different to me now.

Two arrows. Two directions. No instructions.

ALS has forced me down roads I never would have chosen. I’ve lost my movement, my voice, and so much of the independence I once knew. There were countless moments when I wondered which direction my life was supposed to go—or whether there was a road forward at all.

But somehow, I kept going.

And maybe that’s what this photograph means to me now: you don’t always get to choose the road, but you can still choose what you make of the journey.

I’m still here. Still creating. Still finding my way. ❤️

09/13/2026

running water catches the dying light,
while headlights stream into the night—
two rivers passing like best friends side by siďe

09/12/2026

A little life update. ❤️

It’s strange to say this after living with ALS for more than a decade, but in many ways, I’m doing better than I was a few years ago.

I’m completely dependent on a ventilator now. I can’t speak, eat normally, walk, or use my hands. Most of my life happens from bed, and I communicate by typing with my feet. ALS keeps taking pieces of me—but somehow, I keep finding new pieces too.

Getting my tracheostomy and feeding tube changed my life. I’m healthier, I’ve gained weight, and I’ve learned how much the little routines matter.

I’ve also been creating again.

I’m re-editing nearly 70,000 photographs from my years as a wheelchair street photographer. I’ve also started painting abstract art using my wheelchair tires—rolling through paint and across canvas, turning the machine that carries my body into my paintbrush. Every tire mark is proof that even a body that can barely move can still create.

I’m advocating for animals, dreaming of building a sanctuary, and somehow, AI has even given me my actual voice back.

I still struggle with anxiety and depression. I still have hard days. But I’m still curious. Still creating. Still laughing. Still loving. Still finding reasons to stick around.

For a disease that has spent years teaching me how to lose things, life keeps surprising me with things I can still find.

I’m still here. ❤️

09/11/2026

in my art studio today with the incredible Mathew Curran painting the largest painting I’ve ever done. It was a good day.

09/05/2026

I’m going through years of photographs again.

Thousands of small moments I thought were worth stopping for.

The strange thing about revisiting old work is that the photographs haven’t changed, but I have. I notice different things now. Frames I once passed over suddenly feel important. Others don’t speak to me the way they used to.

Maybe that’s part of making art. You never really finish seeing.

I’m not trying to reinvent the photographs. I’m just meeting them again, with different eyes.

And taking my time.