An Unexpected Side Effect: How Photography Reconnected Me With Nature
Growing up in the 90s and early 2000s in rural northwest Pennsylvania, my brothers and I spent a lot of time outdoors, mainly because we didn’t have a choice. When your neighbors are farmers and you’re surrounded by cornfields and woods, and you don’t have much money for things, there really isn't much else to do. We may have been financially poor, but we were rich with experiences and imagination. The only way to stave off the crippling boredom was to work with what you did have; nature. Building forts in the woods, creating bike trails, playing Army, catching things on fire (please don’t tell my mom), damming the creek to make a swimming hole (please don’t tell the feds), flipping creek rocks for salamanders, fishing local lakes and ponds, camping countless summers away under muggy star-filled skies, and keeping jars of fireflies next to your head as you fell asleep in your tent. It was simply a universal experience of the times where I grew up.
(From left to right: Me behind our “basically adopted brother” , my mom, and my three brothers biking with the local camping crew)
You couldn’t avoid spending time in nature because you lived in it, and it quickly became an integral part of your life. But at that time, capturing those experiences wasn’t even a thought in my mind, or even really an option. While my mother did occasionally shoot on a 35mm camera, it’s not the ideal toy for a child. Not to mention digital cameras were either junk, or decent and too expensive. The only time I remember a camera coming out was at birthdays or down at deer camp when someone pulled a nice buck from out of the woods. And even then I didn’t feel drawn to grab the family Olympus 2MP point-and-shoot and capture the nature I was spending so much time in. Only keeping a few fond images tucked away in the dusty corners of my mind.
(My brothers, cousin and I waiting for some deer down at camp. I’m the giant pumpkin on the left…)
As the years passed and I grew older, I found myself spending time outdoors less and less. Priorities began to change, the pressures of high school began to grow, we moved to a new home in semi-suburbia, I got my first job at 15, and when I wasn’t at school or work, I was wasting hours away on Halo, Call of Duty, Fallout, and The Elder Scrolls (if you know you know), and an inner darkness began to grow within my adolescence. With every passing year, I saw fewer starry nights, told fewer stories around campfires, caught fewer sunfish, and watched fewer sunsets sink silently below the horizon. Every time I looked out of the window, nature began to look less and less special. Ever so slowly, a part of me began to fade away
During this time in high school I took Photo 1. I figured it would be an easy A, but much to my surprise, it was not. Even though by this time DSLRs were becoming more and more affordable, our teacher made us learn the fundamentals of photography on film. Armed with a 35mm, I began to fumble my way through the exposure triangle, focal lengths, aperture, and composition. With every photo I developed in the darkroom, a small fire within me began to grow. The next year, I took Photo 2. Same classroom, same teacher, except this year we used Canon Rebels and developed photos in the digital darkroom of Photoshop. With the convenience of digital, I began to shoot more and more outside of class. Occasionally signing out a classroom camera and messing around with it at home, taking photos of the family cats and experimenting with long exposures. As we progressed, my teacher, Mrs. Daley, would come up behind me in class and see what images I was working on. Towards the end of the class, she would start to make more comments like “Nice work,” “I really like that composition,” and “You have an eye for this.” With every photo my passion and confidence grew; maybe I did have a knack for photography after all?
(After my highschool graduation circa 2009)
Eventually, the class, and my time at Fairview High, came to an end, and I was abruptly ripped from the naivety of my teens and thrust into the unforgiving world of a young adult. As part of a family with less than ideal means, it was up to me to create my own financial security and my own success. Work quickly consumed my time, my life, my being. Out of fear of remaining in financial insecurity, I worked myself into the ground, and eventually into isolation. All I did was work, come home and play video games until the early hours of the morning, sleep and do it all again the next day. Things got worse when my parent’s tumultuous relationship finally came to an end in a messy divorce. I slipped even deeper into depression, rarely leaving my room let alone my house. At this time, YouTube had grown substantially since its conception in 2005 and had some really solid content creators and channels. One of which was Film Riot, a short film and equipment-focused how-to channel run by the Connolly brothers. If I wasn’t playing video games I was watching series and films. On their channel, they would periodically have short film competitions where they would give the audience a prompt, set a deadline, and viewers could send their short films in and potentially be showcased on the channel and win a prize. I eventually got the motivation to try one, but I needed to buy a camera first. So I did just that.
The Canon EOS Rebel T3i was the first camera I purchased. New at the time, it boasted some decent entry-level specs with an 18mp APS-C sensor, with the ability to film in full 1080p hd. For about $100 extra, I sprung for the body that came with the 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 kit lens. Up to this point, it was the most advanced camera I had ever used. After familiarizing myself with the interface, I quickly began recording short videos. Although I did not fully understand frame rates, shutter angles, and camera movements, I took every opportunity I could to create videos. I taught myself the fundamentals of After Effects (which may or may not have been bootlegged…), and made a couple short films with my brothers that we eventually entered into those Film Riot competitions. Although we didn’t win anything, the feeling of producing something I was proud of with that camera grabbed a hold of me. Like a tick that buried itself into the back of my head where I couldn’t quite see it, but could feel it. It was a feeling that I was not familiar with at the time: pride. But unfortunately, that was all about to change.
Despite my newfound enthusiasm, my endeavor into making videos was short-lived. Snuffed out by life like a candle in the dark attic of my mind. Career changes, trying to navigate romantic relationships, chronic depression, anxiety, and other external forces gradually took priority again and robbed my creativity of the little passion and energy that I had to spare. And so, I packed my camera back into its box and stowed it away in the corner of my closet, and ultimately into the back of my mind. Where it sat forgotten. Gathering dust with all my long-lost hopes and aspirations.
About five years later, I met the girl that would eventually become my wife. For the first time in a long time, she made me want again. She made me want to better myself, to better my situation, to create a future that I would be excited about. But without any real marketable skills, I saw the proverbial ceiling coming fast. I quit my dead-end job, and at the age of 27, I enrolled in college.
(Right before I started my college career at Penn State. Boy I had no idea what was coming lol)
Starting out with the “safe route” I chose to pursue a degree in plastics engineering. I had always worked with my hands, been pretty mechanically inclined, and had a deep interest in science and tech. But ultimately, I chose it because it was the “safe route”. It was a very reputable major with pretty much guaranteed job placement and great starting pay. This soon became an issue as although I was passing my courses, I was struggling to do so, and honestly never really passionate about the work I was doing. To ease this pressure, I took some “easy” gen eds to boost my GPA and try to relieve some of my crippling anxiety. One of which was Photo 101; déjà vu. Like a beacon in the storm, I knew it would be at least some respite from the constant stress that I had found myself trapped in.
Although it had been about seven years at this point, to my surprise I had remembered all of the photography and camera fundamentals I had taught myself what felt like a lifetime ago. Since this was a photo course, and not video, I was forced to narrow my focus into the craft of photography. The professor encouraged us to find and use an “actual camera”, but since this was about 2019, smartphones were advanced enough that she reluctantly allowed the class to use them throughout the course as well. I for one refused and chose to dig out my ol' trusty Canon from storage. Even after all those years, it still felt familiar in my hands. A feeling of guilt came across me. I realized that I had turned my back on my creativity. That I had abandoned my dreams like an unwanted dog on the side of a dirt road.
As the photo course progressed, I found myself quickly falling back into the swing of it. It came back to me so naturally and just felt “right”. Assignment after assignment my professor would email me more and more commendations on my work to the point where she pulled me aside one day and asked, “Have you been doing photography long?” to which I responded something along the lines of “No actually, but I am familiar with the process.” “Well, have you considered pursuing it seriously? Because I think you should consider it.” This took me off guard, but was also a welcomed surprise. Even though I was neck-deep in engineering studies, I took every free moment I could spare to get outside and photograph.
(Some of my early work. A lot of it is pretty cringey looking back now, but honestly the technique and compositions are pretty solid)
I began to chase the light, in any form. I started waking up for sunrise, not just early for the sake of it, but to literally witness the sunrise and capture it with my camera. I started staying out late practicing and fine-tuning long exposures (as it seems every new photographer does). When you’re standing in a field on a Saturday night at 11:30 pm and you see the universe above you pop up on the back of an LCD screen, it changes something within you. When you watch the sun’s golden rays pierce the dark and swirling storm clouds, you start to appreciate the “bad weather” a lot more than a bluebird sky sunny day. I was constantly monitoring the weather hoping for the best conditions to get out and photograph in. I was finding excuses to miss class, to skip out on plans, anything I could do to spend just a few more minutes a day outside. I found myself appreciating the nature around me again, but with a whole new view. It had been so long that I was intentionally spending time outside that it was as if I were just discovering it all again for the first time. I must admit, I was actually pretty ashamed and embarrassed when I realized truly how long it had been. That fire that had since died years ago was now a glowing ember, slowly growing hotter and brighter the more I photographed. But this was all still overshadowed by reality, which was, of course, my engineering studies.
(After constant repetition, I quickly began to see the quality of my work improve.)
After months of anxious drives to and from school, and after developing pretty regular anxiety attacks, I soon reached an internal crossroads. Like many other students, I was forced to choose between the “safe route” and continue to pursue a degree in plastics engineering, or to switch to something more creative and flush my future down the shitter. After all, I grew up in a blue-collar family, in a blue-collar town where you “can’t make a living takin’ pretty pictures.” Art was always meant to be a hobby, not a career. At least this was the mindset of the family and town I grew up in. Everyone had trade jobs or mechanical skills. Erie was always a manufacturing city. You were either a tool and die technician, worked in plastics, in medical manufacturing, or at the local and economically significant General Electric locomotive plant. You just didn’t know any full-time artists. I admit looking back now that this mindset was foolish because especially in these modern times, there are plenty of artists and photographers making a great living. But at this time in my life, I still had my doubts.
I remember clearly walking like a zombie to my car after yet another challenging and soulless engineering math course. As I sat in silence in the parking lot, I remember suddenly becoming overcome with overwhelming emotion. I broke down and began to sob almost hysterically. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I could no longer keep on the path I was going down. My heart was broken, and the worst part was that I had been the one who broke it. I called my girlfriend (my now wife) and just broke down. In a rant of cathartic release, I told her I’m done. I told her that I need to change majors or just quit altogether. This wasn’t sustainable, and I had to make a change. I also told her how sorry I was for letting her down, for letting us down. I just wanted to be strong and create a successful future for us both, but I had failed. I told her how disappointed I was in myself, but to my surprise, she did not agree. She knew how much I had been struggling. She could tell how much this had been slowly killing me inside. It broke my heart again when she told me that she wasn’t disappointed in me, but that she was so proud. She was proud of how hard I had tried, and she was glad to hear that I wanted to make a change. This unwavering support was exactly the push I needed to make that change. And so I consulted the school’s career counseling services and began the process of exploring other options.
After a few brainstorming sessions, and a Myers-Briggs assessment, the counselor suggested the DIGIT program; the Digital Media, Arts, and Technology program. The perfect blend of art, technology, and science. The next semester I officially changed majors, and with a renewed feeling of enthusiasm, I poured everything I had into my schoolwork and craft. It was the best decision I had made since deciding to date my now wife.
(By about 2020/2021, my photography was profoundly improving. Composition was becoming second nature and making compelling images came more naturally)
With each semester and each year my skills began to grow. With a degree focused on multimedia production and design, my photography improved exponentially, and my confidence soon followed. I began taking more time outdoors, making photos and videos, reinforcing the skills I had been learning in college. I always had my camera on me. Over time as my skills progressed, I began to reach the limitations of my current entry-level gear, and saved as much as I could to keep upgrading it. Between making photos, schoolwork, my day job, and just general life, those few years became a complete blur. And before I knew it, I had graduated college. Not only had I graduated college on the Dean’s list, but I had also managed to create a full-time position for myself at the plastics facility where I had originally been working. A position that centered around multimedia production for the marketing team. And I was lucky to be creating work I was proud of while actually using the skills I was passionate about, all while being pretty fairly compensated. To my utter shock, everything was falling into place.
(Me, graduation night with my wife… I couldn’t have done it without her.)
About two years have passed since then to now as I type this story. And as I write this, I almost can’t believe that I am. I still have a hard time believing that the universe gave me exactly what I asked for. Exactly what I worked for. I feel lucky to now be happily married to my best friend, and that I can make a living using the skills I am passionate about. I am happy that I have been reconnected with the outdoors again. Every time I watch the sunrise break over the horizon, or watch the snow fall and cover the world around me in a soft white blanket, or as I get lost gazing into the stars on a warm summer night, I can feel myself heal; I begin to feel a piece of my soul return. I am glad that I not only went to college, but I am also glad that I failed. Because if I hadn’t, who knows if I ever would have picked up that dusty camera again. I am proud of the work I have put in to get where I am now, not only in my career and my art, but also within myself. Through photography and therapy, I have begun working through the darkness that has found its way into my life over the years. I have learned that there’s more to me than my failures. That my art isn’t just “pretty pictures”, but that it is the parts of me that I get to share with the world. I’ve learned that I’m allowed to say “thank you” when people tell me that my art is good, and that I don’t have to deflect and make light of my progress. I’ve learned that I do have worth, and that my accomplishments are important. That I have a voice worth hearing. I have learned that I have stories that are worth telling; and that I have finally found the confidence to do so.
Through the art of photography, I have been reconnected with nature, and in turn, reconnected with myself. I think that’s why this craft is so important to me now. I feel that over the years I abandoned who I really was in order to fit in socially, in order to take the “safe route”. I abandoned that innocent and sensitive boy who was creative and brave. That boy, so full of wonder and awe who created without fear of judgment. I see now that I left him there in the woods, so long ago, in order to protect him. To protect him from reality, from pain, from growing up. Before the world could tell him what he can and can’t do. Before he would have to make compromise after compromise until he could no longer recognize himself. Before the world could break his heart.
(Back when I spent almost every free moment outdoors. When I didn’t have a care in the world…)
Photography has become the conduit that allows me to reach that part of me so far gone. With every glowing sunrise, with every sweaty hike, at every epic overlook, with every photograph made, I feel a bit closer to that piece of me that I lost so long ago. I can reach out and lay my hand on his shoulder, and let him know that it will be ok some day. That I got lost for a while, but that I am doing my best to fix that. That although I may have some rough days, that I’m happy now. That at 32, I am finally following my heart and pursuing what I love. That I married our best friend and that she supports me endlessly. I can let him know that nature has once again become an integral part of our life. That I remember the smell of the woods in the fall. That I missed the mournful calls of the loons at the lake as the evening sky burns in deep reds. That I still catch fireflies and gently hold them as I watch them glow. Through photography, I can tell him that I am making beautiful things again. I can let him know that I am making him proud.
(An imagined image of how it feels to reconnect with my younger self)
