There’s something almost embarrassing about going to Bali to find yourself. I know.
A few months ago I left my career — the one that made sense on paper, the one I’d spent years building — to do this instead. Photography, full time, for real. What I hadn’t expected was how much grief would follow a decision I’d chosen freely. The first days here I was still carrying it: the weight of an identity I’d voluntarily set down and wasn’t sure yet how to stop reaching for.
Bali gave me distance, and distance gave me honesty. Two weeks to sit with the discomfort of starting over — what it actually costs, what it genuinely asks of you — and somewhere in that, a quiet settling. Not resolution exactly. More like permission. To trust what I know, to stop hedging, to be so committed to this path that failure becomes an option I simply don’t leave room for.
I shot on the Hasselblad when over there- it felt healing. Mostly Portra