Behind the lens: The Camera I Almost Never Picked Up

When people ask how I got into photography, they usually expect me to tell them about a camera or a photograph that changed everything.

The truth is, it started during one of the hardest seasons of my life.

As my mom's cancer progressed, we knew there weren't many good days left.

She didn't ask to visit a specific place. She wasn't chasing one last vacation or checking something off a bucket list.

What she wanted was simple.

She wanted to be surrounded by nature.

Trees.

Fresh air.

The sound of water.

A place where she could simply exist in peace.

After searching, we found exactly what she was looking for at Ponderay Shores Resort on the shores of Lake Pend Oreille. We rented both the upper and lower floors so family could come and go, stay with her, spend time talking, laughing, sharing meals, and simply being together.

Looking back, I realize we weren't planning a vacation.

We were creating memories.

The medications made her tired, and she slept through much of our stay. But when she was awake, every conversation, every smile, every moment together became something we would carry with us forever.

My brother brought his music equipment and played on the back patio overlooking the lake while family gathered around. Some people talked. Others simply sat quietly, enjoying the sound of the water and the breeze through the trees.

There was something peaceful about those few days.

Almost as if nature itself understood why we were there.

I had a Nikon D3200 with me.

Without thinking much about it, I started taking pictures.

The sunsets over the lake.

The towering trees.

My family laughing together.

My mom smiling.

Little moments that seemed ordinary at the time.

I didn't realize I was preserving memories that would soon become priceless.

Looking back now, I also wonder if that week marked the beginning of something my mom had unknowingly passed on to me.

She was an artist.

Growing up, I watched her paint, creating beautiful pieces that filled our home. Art wasn't just something she did. It was part of who she was. I also remember an older Nikon film camera she owned when I was younger. Creativity always seemed to follow her.

Years later, during one of the hardest weeks of my life, I found myself looking through a viewfinder.

I don't know if she ever imagined photography would become part of my life.

But I like to think a small piece of her artistic spirit found its way into mine.

When we returned home, life changed.

Every day became about caring for my mom.

As her body grew weaker, I spent every moment I could with her until the day she passed away.

I thought grief would begin after she was gone.

Instead...

Life handed me responsibility.

There were attorneys to speak with.

Probate to navigate.

Mortgage companies.

Home equity agreements.

Insurance paperwork.

Legal documents.

Phone calls.

Meetings.

Deadlines.

The home my mom had built became part of a legal process that seemed impossible to escape.

Instead of sitting quietly with my memories, I found myself learning how probate worked, working with lenders, trying to protect our family's future, and making difficult decisions that no son ever imagines having to make while grieving.

Some days it felt like I wasn't allowed to mourn.

There was simply too much that had to be done.

Every document I signed reminded me why I was signing it.

Every phone call reminded me she was gone.

The weight of losing her was heavy enough.

The legal battles that followed only made it harder.

Through all of it, the camera stayed on the shelf.

I couldn't bring myself to touch it.

Every time I looked at it, I thought about Ponderay Shores.

The lake.

The trees.

The sunsets.

The last photographs I had taken of my mom.

Months passed.

Life continued moving, even though it often felt like mine had stopped.

It wasn't until late November that I finally picked the camera up again.

Not because I felt ready.

Because I needed a reason to leave the house.

At first, I wandered without much purpose.

I'd wake before sunrise and drive to a park.

I'd photograph birds I couldn't name.

The way the morning light filtered through the trees.

Reflections on the water.

Anything that made me stop and look.

Then something unexpected happened.

Photography made sense.

Learning aperture.

Shutter speed.

ISO.

Composition.

Focal lengths.

Different lenses.

Every lesson built naturally on the last. Every mistake became another opportunity to improve. When photographers offered constructive criticism, I welcomed it because every piece of advice helped me grow.

For the first time in a very long time...

I wasn't simply trying to survive each day.

I was excited to learn again.

I was excited to wake up before sunrise.

I was excited to chase the next photograph.

Looking back now, I realize photography never healed my grief.

Grief doesn't disappear.

You simply learn how to carry it.

Photography became the place where I carried mine.

The camera that captured some of the last memories with my mom became the same camera that slowly taught me how to live again.

It taught me patience.

It taught me perspective.

It taught me to slow down.

It reminded me that beauty still exists, even after life has shown you unimaginable loss.

Today, AP Focus Photography exists because of that journey.

Not because I dreamed of becoming a photographer.

Because one day I needed a reason to keep looking for beauty when all I could see was heartbreak.

Every sunrise reminds me that darkness never lasts forever.

Every family portrait reminds me how precious ordinary moments truly are.

Every wildlife photograph reminds me that the most incredible things in life often belong to those willing to wait.

Every click of the shutter reminds me to be present.

And every time I press that shutter button...

A part of me is back at Ponderay Shores.

Standing beneath the trees.

Watching the sun disappear behind Lake Pend Oreille.

Holding a camera without realizing I was capturing the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

There is one more person who deserves credit for where this journey led.

My life partner, Kayla, believed in me long before I believed in myself.

When I struggled to see a future, she quietly reminded me there was still one worth chasing.

She encouraged me to keep shooting.

Celebrated every small victory.

Listened when I doubted myself.

Supported me when photography was little more than an idea.

When I questioned whether I was good enough, she reminded me to keep going.

Without her love, encouragement, patience, and unwavering belief in me, AP Focus Photography would not be what it is today.

That's a story all its own.

One I'll tell another day.

Kayla, I love you.

If someone ever asks how AP Focus Photography became what it is today, the answer isn't just me.

It's us.

Thank you for believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself.

Thank you for reminding me that even after the darkest seasons, there is still beauty worth chasing.

Because if this journey has taught me anything...

It's that sometimes the photographs we treasure most aren't the ones we planned to take.

They're the ones that quietly become the bridge between who we were... and who we're still becoming.