Our Stories

Sitting in a coffee shop, my children across from me sipping their drinks, I scan the books, all written in Spanish, scattered around this place. I feel that familiar pull of affection for this country we’ve been fortunate to call home these past few months. I relocated my children and myself to Spain, taking a chance on a new chapter, and somehow, three months have already passed. We are now looking at just under two months left, and the weight of that reality is beginning to settle in more deeply than I anticipated.

Five months. I thought that would be plenty.

I told myself it would be enough to settle in, to do my research, to share new experiences with my children, and to gently return to our life back home with fun stories to tell. But I eventually learned that five months would never be enough, and maybe, really, I knew that somewhere underneath all my planning. Yet, I was too distracted by what I needed to do to accept that. And now, in April, I am sitting with that.

Arches in Mezquita-Catedral in Córdoba, Spain

What I could not have predicted was how much I would change during this time. All that I have discovered about myself here, about what feeds my soul, who I am, and what brings me joy and peace, has reshaped how I see my life and self. I have learned to lean into rest, not as some reward for productivity but as a necessity. I have practiced, in real-time, what I have long said I believed: rest matters more than the endless hustle and grind, and that leisure is not some indulgence to be earned, all things I discuss in my classes and remind my students of but have historically done a terrible job of modeling.

And still, I find myself holding a slight fear about returning to what I have called home for most of my life. I fear how easy it might be to fall back into old habits that never really felt like mine or were misaligned with my life's philosophy to slip into the familiar pull of busyness that leaves so little room for joy or reflection. Even now, that fear lingers at the edges of my thoughts, asking quietly if I will forget this slower, fuller way of being once we are home.

Because for a long time, I lived inside a story that was not fully mine, and something I came to realize finally while here. And yes, I made my choices, and of course, I am not skirting that responsibility, but I think there were certainly some outside influences to various chapters of my life I looked the other way while others crafted their own sentences.

Calles de Málaga

We are told stories from the time we are young, and they shape the way we see ourselves and the lives we build, whether they're stories about ourselves, our families, or even what we should expect in the world. Like many of us, I was told that success looks like constant motion, a never-ending push forward, the rewards and accolades. Work hard. Prove yourself. Keep going. Rest later, maybe, if there is time. I carried that story for years, and even if my philosophies had eventually shifted, I still let it guide my choices, my pace, and my measure of worth.

But being here in Spain has helped me see another story, one that moves at a different rhythm. Life here is not dictated by urgency but by presence. People take their time with one another. Meals stretch into hours not because they have to but because they are worth savoring: the food and tastes, the joy, the connection, the company. Conversations are not rushed. Greetings are not transactional. The pace of life leaves space for noticing, for being part of and with your surroundings rather than racing through them.

It is in this slowness that I have found myself returning to the heart of who I am, or perhaps discovering it.

Streets of Córdoba, "Your landlord lives off your work."

Visual storytelling has always been a part of me, but here, it has become more than a passion. It has become my anchor. Through my lens, I am learning to see differently, to look more closely, to notice the details that tell stories far beyond words. I find myself drawn to small moments, the ones that might have once passed me by or I may have literally passed while driving, and it is in those moments that I feel most connected to my life.

With my camera, I realize that I am capturing more than just images. I capture feelings, fragments of time that tell stories all their own, or the way sunlight filters through a narrow alleyway. I observe and document the quiet of an early morning street before the city fully wakes, the cat who meanders down through the bushes, or the ancient architecture, still carrying water down through the castillo. These are not grand or staged scenes; they are the moments that carry meaning if we allow ourselves to notice and savor them.

And then there are moments like Semana Santa, where presence becomes something collective. Standing in the crowd, watching the pasos pass through the streets on Domingo de Ramos, the scent of incense traveling through the air, reminiscent of my days as an altar server in the Catholic church, the sound of drums echoing through narrow alleyways vibrating through our fingers down to our toes, I felt what it means to witness and to be part of something larger than yourself. It was a sensory experience, highlighting the reality that stories often aren't quite, but sometimes loud and embodied, carried together by hundreds of people moving through the same street at the same time. That day, I was fully present. Not thinking ahead, not calculating anything. Just there, surrounded by community, by history, and by a depth of feeling that filled the space around me.

Trono, Domingo de Ramos, 12 de abril de 2025

When I looked at the pictures I took from that day, I realized that photography helps me resist the pull of rushing. It reminds me to be present, to find beauty in what is simple and real, grand and historical. I am reminded as I wander through the Spanish streets I need to be in the moment, to observe and see, to reflect and just be. It allows me to tell stories of place, of people, of community, and of myself. My camera has become more than a tool; it is a companion on this journey of presence, which I recognize is ironic, seeing as we capture photographs and often use them in the future to reflect on the past. Alas, it has been a significant tool.

Squatters' rights symbol and resist in Málaga

Photography is one of the ways I document, remember, and reflect, but it is also a way I ask questions. It is a way I listen. In my research, visual work holds power. It allows people to share parts of themselves that words alone might not reach, that traditional methodologies may dismiss. It gives shape to emotion, memory, and experience and reveals what often remains hidden, dismissed, or overlooked in more traditional academic spaces. Visual storytelling matters because it invites different kinds of truth. It holds space for what is felt, what is embodied, and what cannot always be explained in neat language. In visual work, presence becomes data, and this is not separate from intellectual work. This is part of how people move through the world and part of how we understand that world together.

My goal in research is not just to merely gain knowledge but to co-create meaning, develop understanding, observe, and share; to be present in the process, not only with those I work alongside but also with the visuals themselves. Visual work invites me to sit with discomfort, tension, the joy and hope, and with layers that might otherwise be flattened by interpretation alone. It is also how I push back against what has been taught to count, against the narrow definitions of rigor that often shape higher education. Through photography and other visual methods, I am able to question those epistemic borders, to ask who decides what knowledge is valid, and to make room for stories that do not need to follow the expected structure in order to be real.

Bubble in Historic City Center

Being here in Málaga has brought that truth into clearer focus just as I adjust my camera lens to document the street art I discover or the whimsy of bubbles in the city center. The culture, the community, and the way people value connection over productivity have shown me that my way of seeing the world, through images and words, is not separate from how I want to live. It is how I want to live.

When I think about returning to a place I considered home for most of my life, I know I will have to cling to this discovery. I know the familiar noise and pressure will try to pull me back into old narratives. But I also know that I have seen another story, possibilities, and I have captured it, frame by frame, moment by moment, story by story.

Of course, these stories stick with me, not just the ones I photograph or write, but the stories that are experienced, lived, ultimately, the ones that are often the most important ones. And these stories, the ones we are told, shape us. But the stories we choose to tell ourselves, the ones we choose to embody, to create, to carry forward, are the ones that allow us to craft our own stories, write our own sentences, and create our own moments documented through our own lenses.

I continue to focus on the intersections of photography, creative writing, and reflection in my work. If you would like to follow along, I would love for you to subscribe (for free) to my blog: Subscribe Now.

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