The first time I asked for a camera, I was a little nervous.
“Mom,” I said, “I want to buy a camera… but it’s kind of expensive. Around $2,500.”

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t ask if I was sure. She just smiled and said, “Okay.”
That’s always been her way, quiet, trusting, and no pressure. And maybe that’s why I’ve always felt free to try things, even when I had no idea what I was doing.

At the time, I was just a college student. I didn’t know anything about apertures or ISO or lens distortion. I just liked the idea of capturing things:
- The way light hit a street sign
- The way fog rolled off a lake
- The way a friend laughed when they thought no one was looking

That first camera, shiny and digital, way too expensive for my experience level, was just the beginning. Since then, I’ve gone through long lenses, wide angles, film cameras, vintage models, lightweight travel gear, even a manual Rolleiflex I bought during finals week just to feel something.

Photography became my excuse to go everywhere:
- Up hills
- Across bridges
- Through quiet neighborhoods and loud festivals

I’d wake up at 5 a.m. just to catch a sunrise I might mess up anyway. I’ve photographed strangers across the world, and forgotten to take pictures at my own birthday. I’ve taken blurry masterpieces by accident and deleted perfect shots because they didn’t feel right.

Compared to most of my friends, especially fellow ABCs juggling med school or tech internships, I’ve probably traveled more than anyone. Or at least… more restlessly. I always said it was about the photos. But sometimes, I think I was just chasing air. The truth is:
- The busier I got…
- The heavier school felt…
- The more I reached for the camera.

During med school, when everything felt too fast, too clinical, and too much, I’d scroll through old photos just to remember who I was before I became someone in scrubs. Most of those photos weren’t technically amazing. Some were crooked. Some were overexposed. Some were just… weird. But they were mine. They were proof I’d seen things. That I’d been places. That I’d felt something.

Sometimes, when I miss home, I dig through those folders, pick three or four random shots, and text them to my mom. No explanation. Just images:
- A lake
- A staircase
- A bowl of noodles

Her replies are always simple: “Beautiful.” Or sometimes just, “I miss you too.”

Right now, a few of those photos are sitting beside me - the ones from the day I got my white coat at Harvard Med. I remember the program director gave a short speech: “Each day, do your work. Be kind. And find a hobby.”

I smiled. That last one, at least, I had covered.