Father’s Day is always a difficult one for me. It carries both the ache of loss and the quiet warmth of memory. My dad is no longer here, but he’s present in so many of the things that make up who I am today.
It was from him that I inherited two of my greatest loves: photography and books/ reading.
He was the one who first showed me the joy of seeing the world through a lens, of pausing to notice small details others might overlook. He was also the one who encouraged me to open a book and disappear into stories, learning how words and images could change the way we see the world.
Now, as I spend more and more time behind the camera—photographing community events, connecting with people, and capturing fleeting moments—I feel him there. The year I decided to formally study and then celebrate graduating with my Certificate IV in Photography, a milestone I so wish I could have shared with him, was such a bittersweet time. I've also travelled our country and even overseas for photography which we never got to share.
There’s a pang in knowing I can’t show him my work, tell him the funny stories or hear his voice cheering me on.
But alongside the grief, there is deep gratitude. Gratitude that he planted these seeds in me, that I get to carry them forward, and that every time I pick up my camera or crack open a book, I’m honouring him in my own way.
My work is, in a sense, our shared story continuing.
So on Father's Day I pause, I remember, and I say thank you—to my dad, for giving me so much of who I am.