reconnecting with photography.
To date, I’ve taken nearly 30,000 photos. They live across different parts of my life — scattered on old hard drives, tucked away on cloud storage, and stored in the dusty memory banks of laptops I no longer use. Most I remember taking, each with a story or a moment attached. But every now and then, I stumble across one that stops me in my tracks, making me think, “Wow, I took that.” Those moments remind me why I ever picked up a camera in the first place.
But somewhere along the way, things changed. Photography stopped being the outlet it once was. What had been a source of peace and purpose turned into something I avoided. The act of taking a photo began to feel forced, almost like a chore, rather than the natural extension of myself it used to be. And in losing that connection, I lost a part of the healing that photography had given me.
My journey with PTSD has been long and complicated. Healing is not linear — it’s messy, filled with starts and stops, breakthroughs and setbacks. Facing trauma is like moving through a storm that refuses to clear. Some days the fog lifts and I can see clearly, and other days the weight of it all hangs over me, clouding my thoughts and emotions.
In the middle of that struggle, I’ve often returned to my photos. I’ve built small collections, hidden in folders across drives, that carry an emotional weight. They’re not organized for display — they’re just moments that mean something to me. Sometimes I’ll open one of those folders and scroll for a few seconds before closing it again, almost as if I’m not ready to fully confront what those images represent. Days, months, even years can pass before I return to them. They wait quietly for me until I’m ready.
For years, I’ve dreamed of seeing my work on display — a gallery filled with large, framed prints where I could stand surrounded by the very moments that once spoke to me. That dream has never been about recognition or ego. Instead, it’s about building a personal haven — a space where I can reconnect with the things that brought me joy and reminded me that the world still holds beauty. But reality has always had its say. Costs, logistics, and self-doubt turn the dream into something that feels just out of reach.
That’s where this website comes in. This is my fourth attempt at creating an online gallery, and each previous attempt has fallen short. I either lost momentum, grew frustrated, or couldn’t push through my own barriers. But this time feels different. Talon & Terrain isn’t about chasing perfection or building a business empire. It’s about building an outlet — a living space for creativity, reflection, and expression. Whether ten people see it or no one ever does, this website is a place where I can gather the pieces of myself I’ve left scattered and bring them into focus again.
Recently, I spent a week with close friends who reminded me of the kind of energy I’d been missing. They are unapologetically themselves — creative, expressive, and passionate about life and art. Watching the way they love each other and embrace their own creativity struck a chord with me. Their presence gave me a sense of peace and perhaps unlocked something inside that had been locked away for too long. Maybe that’s why I felt the pull to write this story and start sharing my photography again.
I know how easy it is to let PTSD and trauma strip away the things we love. It convinces you that the things that once brought you joy no longer matter. It pushes you to hide behind control, to fixate on what feels safe instead of what feels meaningful. For me, that meant pulling away from photography and suppressing my creative side. I’ve realized that I wasn’t just afraid of creating — I was afraid of sharing. Vulnerability is terrifying. Art is personal, and putting it into the world feels like opening yourself up to judgment.
But here I am, writing this story. Sharing it is my way of reclaiming something I’ve lost. This website is not just about photographs — it’s about reconnection. Reconnection with nature, with beauty, with myself.
This may be the fourth attempt, but I hope it’s the start of something lasting. My goal isn’t to be perfect or polished — it’s simply to be present. To pick up the camera again, to find moments that make me say, “Wow, I took that,” and to share them. This story is the first step, and I hope it will be followed by many more.
-SH
