I have a habit of looking down. Not in a metaphorical way, but literally—at my own feet, at the ground beneath me, at the space I occupy in a given moment. “From where I stand” started as a simple photography prompt in college, a way to capture the passing of time through the smallest, most mundane details. The shoes I wore, the floors I walked on, the places that felt like mine for a season.
It became more than just a creative exercise. It was a way to mark time, to recognize the routines and moments that seemed permanent until, one day, they weren’t. The things I did every day—walking a certain path, eating lunch at the same table, unlocking the same door—eventually slipped away, replaced by something new.
In college, “from where I stand” was often a sidewalk cutting across campus, a library floor worn smooth by late-night studying, the entrance to my first real job where I felt equal parts eager and unqualified. My world was small but full of possibility, shaped by new friendships, the weight of books in my bag, and the feeling that everything was just beginning.
Then came the days of being newly married, of standing in new places and doing everything together, just because we could. The world opened up in a different way—road trips, a tiny apartment, the quiet joy of figuring out how to share a life. I took photos of our front porch, of the trails we explored with our new pup, of the kitchen where we played house before we really knew what that meant.
As I stepped into leadership at work, I found myself in meetings, in offices where decisions had consequences, in the spaces where people looked to me for guidance. It was a different kind of adventure, one that required more confidence than I sometimes had. But I captured it anyway—the conference room tables, the leaves on the ground on my way into a meeting, the moments in between where I caught my breath and reminded myself that I could do this.
And now, motherhood. The ground beneath me is softer—nursery rugs, playground mulch, the carpet where I sit cross-legged with a toddler on my lap. My world became both smaller and infinite, measured in first steps, bedtime stories, and the quiet hush of a sleeping house. I take fewer of these photos now, but when I do, they mean more. These are the days I know I’ll look back on and wonder how they slipped away so fast.
From where I stand, life keeps changing. The routines that feel permanent will fade, replaced by new ones I haven’t even imagined yet. But for now, I capture what I can, hold onto the moments, and keep my feet firmly planted in the present.
