I found the camera before I found myself.

I was born in Pueblo, Colorado, and raised by my grandparents — my mom left when I was a baby, and my dad was mostly gone, lost to addiction. My grandpa worked three jobs and my grandma worked full-time, and we still went without. Some nights the lights didn't come on. I spent a lot of my childhood alone.

I didn't handle it well. By the fourth grade I'd checked out of school and out of myself, and there were years I honestly didn't think I'd make it through. I'm telling you that because it's true — and because I know how many kids are sitting in that same quiet right now.

Then 2020 broke whatever was left. Our house burned down on Christmas Eve. The day after Christmas, my grandpa died — and I never got to say goodbye. For a long time, nothing felt real.

What pulled me back was a camera. Just a phone at first, pointed at the same streets I'd always known — except now they were worth looking at, and somehow so was I. It gave me a reason to pay attention, to leave the house, to keep going. I taught myself everything by chasing light and watching people.

So I made a choice. I finished four years of high school in under one, graduated to a nearly empty room, and left to start over — first Reno, then Denver, where I've been on my own since August 2025. For the first time, being alone feels like peace instead of punishment. This city is mine now.

I make this work because someone has to see the things the rest of us walk past — and because I want to turn it into something that gives back. Prints, sessions, a clothing line, stories from the road, and one day a place for kids who feel the way I felt. If any of that moves you, the best thing you can do is come along: take home a print, book a shoot, follow the journey, or just say hello. I'm only getting started.