When I first picked up a camera, I thought I was learning photography.

I wasn’t. I was learning curiosity.

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Back then I was fascinated by the machinery of it all. Cameras, lenses, film, developers, enlargers—everything seemed magical. I wanted to understand how light could be persuaded to leave its mark on a piece of film and somehow preserve a moment that would otherwise disappear forever.

Like most beginners, I assumed there would come a day when I’d finally understand photography.

A day when I’d know enough.

A day when the questions would stop. It never happened. I’m grateful that it didn’t.

Because photography has turned out to be far more generous than I ever imagined.

Every camera has taught me something.

Every lens has shown me the world a little differently.

Every person I’ve photographed has quietly reminded me that there is always another story waiting to be told if I’m prepared to slow down and listen.

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When I was younger, I imagined photography would become easier with experience.

In some ways it has. The technical decisions come more naturally.

The cameras have become familiar companions.

I trust my instincts more than I once did.

But the mystery has never gone away. If anything, it’s grown.

The more photographs I make, the more I realise how much I still haven’t seen.

That’s one of the great gifts of photography.

It never allows complacency.

Every morning the light is different.

Every face carries a different story.

Every walk offers the possibility of seeing something I’ve somehow overlooked for years.

After all this time, that’s still enough to make me pick up a camera and head out the door.

Looking back, I realise I never really became the photographer I imagined when I was younger.

I became someone far more fortunate.

Someone who never stopped being fascinated by the world.

And I can’t think of a better way to spend a lifetime than that.