I've picked up my camera again — this time, for me

I started taking intentionally crooked pictures of the sunset when I was 14. I took pictures of my Converse high-tops, and pictures of vegetation in my suburban yard. I took pictures of my sister, my dog, my CD collection. I took pictures of everything.

I upgraded to my first DSLR in high school. The Internet was my teacher and I learned about lenses and external flashes. I joined photography club where I learned about aperture, shutter speed, and ISO. Camera math and science were the only types of math and science I enjoyed. I dabbled into image manipulation and learned to create weird art from pictures I had taken. 

Paris, France. Spring 2011.

The first time I was shamed for taking a photo was on the school Europe trip. I had fallen behind our group in Paris as I was focused on getting a crisp shot of the detail of a historic apartment block. One of our chaperones turned around and yelled at me. I missed many shots on that trip as I was always hurried along at the back of the group.

I started to take my passion public. I set up a Facebook page offering my services to anyone who would want them. I did graduation, engagement, and family shoots. I was a second shooter at two weddings. This is when photography stopped being fun.

Venice Beach, California (taken with a disposable camera). Summer 2011. 

I found myself competing with strangers, as well as my friends who had also taken an interest in looking at the world through a viewfinder. They, too, began offering their talents and got more gigs than I did. With practice they became better than me, and I found my favourite hobby had become a chore that also made me feel like I wasn't good enough to do what I loved. 

In university, I joined another photography club. We got together and learned from each other's work, went on mini field trips, and built friendships. We learned how to process film in the school's darkroom. Taking pictures was fun again. 

Rushing River, Ontario (35mm film). Summer 2014.

As time went on and homework piled up, I stopped going to photo club. I put down my camera and it collected dust until I needed it for a trip, or until I reluctantly agreed to take a friend's portraits. 

MGMT at the Burton Cummings Theatre (35mm film). 2013. 

That's how photography has been for the last two years for me. I've hated it. I hate competing. I hate the pressure of producing perfect pictures for pay. I hate that the talented artists around me are likely judging my work. 

After a healthy break, I picked my up my camera again this week. I carried it around with me for a day, and took pictures of my surroundings and loved ones. I preserved candid memories with smiles that you'll never see in a posed shoot. I found beauty in a cat chewing on a shoe. I realized I could still find joy in turning some dials and pressing a button to freeze a moment and write it to a memory card. And that joy is why my camera will be my friend again. 

My future niece and sister-in-law. June 2015. 

I know it will be a slow transition, but I hope my camera will be by my side more often. I hope I'll remember to sling it over my shoulder before I walk out the door. I hope I don't get bogged down in the technicalities of the shots, but rather the moments I'm trying to hold on to. And I hope to never take a photo on someone else's terms ever again. 

My fiancé and I. June 2015.

The best day of your life

I  ran into a colleague I don't see often at Thom Bargen last week. The last time I saw him was at the staff Christmas party.

I asked him how we was doing. His reply?

"Today is the best day of my life."

I asked him why. He said, "because I said so."

Everyday he wakes up and tells himself it will be the best day of his life. 

This concept is so foreign to me. I wake up, think about all the things I have to do and the things I'd rather be doing instead. I think about the events or people I'll encounter that will drain me. I think about the stress.

What I don't think about is how I'll deal with all the things the world decides to throw at me. 

My friend has it right. No matter what happens, he plans on making the best of the situation. 

Everyday is a new best day. 

While I won't get it right immediately, I hope to teach myself to make sure the days ahead until my death bed are the best and better than best days of my life. 

Please don't make me attempt another speech

As I tweeted earlier today, I'm glad I was judged on my writing ability, and not my impromptu speech skills. Today I was surprised with the honour of winning an Eric and Jack Wells Foundation award for journalism excellence.

Upon accepting the award, I gave a shaky and unanticipated speech as I choked down tears of excitement and nervousness.

This spring's Eric and Jack Wells Foundation award winners;
Scott Billeck, myself, Ashley Field, and Eva Wasney (photo
courtesy of James Turner)

The gist of it is I shocked myself. I've never been fully confident in my writing. I started working as a reporter and built up some self-esteem to make up for the lack of confidence in myself. But then, I started the Creative Communications program at Red River College.

I thought I had a leg-up on my classmates with my previous work experience. But shortly after I got my first mark back on a journalism assignment (which was a lot lower than I had hoped for), I was back at square one. My overconfidence was shadowed by a newly rediscovered doubt in myself.

My instructors kicked my butt, and still do. They challenge me to work harder, dig deeper, and be more creative. They constantly thump me over the head with The Canadian Press Stylebook and grammar books. They have no problem putting me in my place when I am in my sass mode. I love them, and I'm so grateful for all they've taught me and all they will teach me in the future.

I was genuinely surprised when my journalism instructor James Turner announced to the hall that the judges had selected me as a winner of the award. My fellow classmates are also incredibly talented and deserving of it. They are beautiful people and amazing writers and I hope they know it.

I am just so grateful, honoured and humbled.

The following is my entry for the award.

Accepting that I've failed myself

In high school, I was obese. Not just overweight, but obese.

Growing up, I was never good at sports. I tried out for teams in junior high but never had the skills to compete with the future all-stars around me. I grew to hate sports, gym class, and anything related to physical activity. All because I wasn't good enough.

This kick-started my couch potato life. I became a homebody. If I did go anywhere, I begged my parents for a ride so I could avoid the embarrassment of walking, biking, or rollerblading. I thought even trying or making an effort made me look stupid. Food became my best friend, my main comfort in sadness and stress.

These trends snowballed and for the next five years I lived an unhealthy sedentary life.

I became fat.

Gym class was unbelievably difficult, I no longer found joy in nature walks, and I hated going outside. I disliked vegetables unless they were layered in butter or cheese; chicken fingers, fries, pizza, and burgers were part of my daily intake; and soda ensured there was no room for water in my life.

In my first-year of university I didn't have to worry about the "freshman 15" since there was no possible way I could balloon any bigger. That being said, I had no idea how much I weighed.

That December, I had a doctor's appointment for the first time in years. The first thing I had to do was step on the scale. I saw the reading. The nurse sat me down in an empty office where I waited for 20 minutes. All I could see as I closed my eyes was that number. I had weighed in at 250 pounds.

I was in shock. I never thought I would be that out of control. In that moment, I decided to change my life.

I immediately began eating healthy (lean meats, veggies, fruit, the "good" grains, etc.) and began going to the gym and attending Zumba classes. By that next year I had lost 75 pounds.

Before and after losing the weight
(December 2010, and December 2012)

I was happy. I was healthy. I was proud of myself.

I kept the weight off for about a year, but three break-ups over the next two would send me into a downward spiral and back on the path of seeking emotional stability through food.

I tried getting back on track many times, but It was useless. The damage was done. The damage is done.

Even now, I'm happy in my personal life but the stress of school and work is the wall that I keep bouncing off of and back into a lifestyle that has made me hate who I am.

I've gained a large chunk of the weight back that I had lost. I can't fit into my favourite jeans anymore, I cry when I look down at my deformed figure, and my prominent collarbone is slowly disappearing under a layer of fat I've injected myself with. I hate seeing pictures or videos of myself, I'm constantly wishing I looked like the other beautiful women around me, and I hide inside baggy sweaters and t-shirts because I'm ashamed.

I'm ashamed that I've failed myself. Embarrassed, even. My self-loathing has reached a new peak.

But for now, all I can do is try. Try being better, try liking myself, and try being proud of myself. I need to be honest and vulnerable with myself and the ones I love. This is my public confession that I want to be healthier, and that I want to love myself again. This is me surrendering to my friends and peers, and begging them to hold me accountable. At this point, I don't know what that looks like but I hope to find out soon.