Taking Off the Armor
There is a part of us we learn to protect. A part we cover, quiet, or harden because the world asks us to be something we are not. For me, that armor stayed on for a long time.
Long before I ever wore a uniform, I was a sensitive kid. I cried during movies like E.T. and The Black Stallion. I felt the world deeply - animals, nature, music, moments of connection. Even though my grandfather taught me to hunt, fish, and trap, I always carried a quiet compassion for the animals themselves. I didn’t have the language for it then, but looking back, I understand now that my heart was tuned to the world in a very particular way.
When I joined the military, that sensitivity had no place to go. I put on a persona - strength, composure, toughness. It was necessary in that environment, and I wore it well. For years, that armor helped me get through things most people will thankfully never have to see. It shielded me when I needed shielding. It let me show up for others when moments were dark and unforgiving.
But as effective as armor is in war, it can be heavy everywhere else.
After leaving that chapter of my life behind, something unexpected began to happen. The sensitivity I had buried so deeply started to surface again. I’d feel my throat tighten when I saw an injured animal on the side of the road. I’d hear Taps or the National Anthem and have to steady myself. I’d talk about something beautiful - the glow of first light on the water, the sound of piano chords outside an airy wine bar - and find emotions rising that I could no longer suppress.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with that. After years of tightening, bracing, and holding, softness felt unfamiliar. But with time, I’ve come to see it differently. Sensitivity isn’t weakness. It’s awareness. It’s connection. It’s presence.
There’s a passage in Steven Pressfield’s Turning Pro that has stayed with me - a trainer describing a horse as a “naked nervous system.” Sensitive, intuitive, easily overwhelmed, but capable of extraordinary things when treated with gentleness. That description has always resonated with me. Not because I see myself as fragile, but because I recognize the value in feeling the world honestly.
Photography has helped me take off the armor.
It has given me a way to channel that sensitivity into something meaningful. To stand quietly in nature, breathing with the light. To appreciate the innocence of animals, the shape of the tide, the thin blue moment before sunrise when the world is both awake and asleep. To feel deeply again without needing to hide it.
Art requires a different kind of strength - the strength to feel, to notice, to let beauty move you. The strength to be honest about who you are once the armor is no longer needed.
I don’t miss who I had to be. I am grateful for who I’m becoming.
Taking off the armor has allowed me to return to the truest version of myself - the one who sees the world with both discipline and compassion, steadiness and softness, preparation and presence. The one who still feels a swell in his chest when the light shifts or a bird calls from across the marsh. The one who is finally learning that sensitivity can be a form of strength.
That is who stands behind the camera now.