The Space Between

There’s a place I keep finding myself lately — not quite where I was, not yet where I’m going. A space between.

That space has been on my mind a lot these days. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s that quiet stirring that comes when life starts shifting under the surface. You go through the motions for years, building a life, a family, a career, and one day you look up and realize something’s calling you back. Or maybe forward. Or both.

For me, that call has always been photography.

It all started with a little Kodak Ektralite 400 I found in my grandparents’ catch-all drawer. I was just a kid, but something about that camera fascinated me. I eventually got my own as a birthday gift, and from those first blurry shots looking up the dog’s nose, I was hooked. Nothing spectacular came out of it, but something had been sparked. A quiet fire which still burns.

Over the years, life took the lead. University, work, marriage, parenthood. My camera was always somewhere nearby, sometimes gathering dust, other times clutched tightly on trips, walks, moments I didn’t want to forget. Always chasing meaning.

Lately, that chase feels different.

Not long ago, I was sorting through old photos when one stopped me cold. It was taken on a sun-soaked afternoon at my grandparents’ cottage. The kind of slow, golden day that only exists in memory. There I was, around twelve, barefoot and beaming, standing on the edge of so many yet-to-be-written adventures. I stared at that photo for a long time.

What struck me wasn’t just the nostalgia, but the quiet realization that my own son is now at that very same point in his life. That same age. But unlike me, his childhood has been captured from every angle. Memories to last a lifetime for both of us.

And still, there’s a bittersweetness to it all. As much as I’ve tried to freeze time with my camera, I can feel him beginning to step out into his own story. One I won’t always have a front-row seat to. That photo of myself suddenly felt like a mirror, and a reminder: these moments are fleeting, even when you do everything you can to hold onto them.

These feelings stirred something deeper: Why am I not doing this more? Not just snapping photos, but really committing. Making photography not just a passion, but a bigger part of my life. Maybe even my next chapter.

It’s scary to admit that out loud. There’s vulnerability in acknowledging you want something different, something more. Especially when you’re no longer in your twenties, when responsibilities have settled in, and reinvention feels risky.

But here, in the space between, I’m beginning to see that maybe this is exactly the time to listen. Maybe these in-between moments — between careers, between identities, between old comfort and new purpose, are the most fertile ground of all.

So I’ve been leaning in. Picking up my camera with more intention. Revisiting old photos not just to reminisce, but to learn. Shooting more. Writing more. Dreaming, a little cautiously, about what a future in photography might look like, and what I could offer through it.

I don’t know exactly where this leads. But I do know how it feels. It feels like coming home. Like remembering who I’ve always been, even when I wasn’t paying attention.

And maybe that’s the gift of photography: it gives you a way to hold still long enough to see yourself clearly.

So here I am. Between then and now, between what was and what’s next. Camera in hand. Heart open. Listening and exploring the possibilities…