This month marks five years since I first walked into the small newsroom on Earl L. Core Road. I was still a college student then, carrying a kind of urgency that only comes when you’re trying to turn a long-held ambition into something real in a world just beginning to reopen.
Before any of that, though, there was a moment I still return to.
I remember taking an iPad outside behind my high school, to a worn baseball field that most people passed without a second thought. I started photographing whatever I could find—the rough texture of rocks gathered in the dirt, raindrops slipping off a leaf, the slow shift of seasons as summer gave way to fall. I rushed back inside to load the images onto a computer, and something changed in that moment. Not in a dramatic way, but in a permanent one. I began to see differently.
I have albinism, and I grew up legally blind. For much of my childhood, the world felt distant — present, but not fully accessible. I didn’t know what my future would look like or how I would reach the level of expectation I set for myself. I wanted to be successful, but I also wanted to feel like I belonged in that success. To be seen as normal and exceptional at the same time — a contradiction I’ve spent years trying to understand.
Over time, I stopped focusing on how I was seen and started focusing on how I see others.
My visual impairment has always been part of my story, but it is not the limitation I once feared it would be. If anything, it shaped how I move through the world. It pushed me toward photography and storytelling long before I had the language for either. The camera became more than a tool. It became a way of understanding life on my own terms. At 16, I bought my first camera with money I saved bagging groceries at a local market. I didn’t know it then, but I was building something that would carry me forward through every stage that followed.
That camera became my way forward. In many ways, it also became my anchor.
My path eventually led me across West Virginia and into Morgantown, where I worked in multiple roles while finishing college and building experience in media and storytelling. The Dominion Post became the place where everything I had been learning finally met opportunity.
What began as part-time photojournalism — covering a few days a week in the evenings — grew into something far more meaningful. I took on social media, helped rebuild digital presence, expanded into video and multimedia storytelling, and even learned to write in a more deliberate journalistic voice along the way. I wouldn’t place myself alongside the writers who shaped this profession, but I learned from them, worked beside them, and tried to contribute in my own way to the stories that matter in this region.
This newsroom became the place where I grew up professionally.
Over five years, I’ve carried cameras through Friday night high school football under stadium lights and through storms that never seemed to pass quickly enough. I’ve stood on sidelines soaked through at WVU games, walked snow-covered lots during long winter nights at the Coliseum, and driven across the state to document moments that deserved to be remembered. I’ve had conversations with people who trusted me with pieces of their lives, often without realizing how much those moments would stay with me.
Those are the parts I will miss most.
But this is also a moment of transition, not an ending. I will be stepping away from The Dominion Post after five years to begin a new role at Pierpont Community and Technical College. My last day is Friday. It is a new chapter, but not a departure from the place I call home. I am still here. Morgantown is still home. West Virginia is still home. I’m not going anywhere. While this chapter comes to a close, my work in Appalachia is far from over. I’m grateful to continue contributing to The Dominion Post as a freelance photographer and writer, and I look forward to remaining on the sidelines of high school and WVU games, documenting the moments that bring our communities together and telling meaningful stories through my lens.
That connection doesn’t change.
I want to thank my family and friends for the steady support that carried me through every stage of this journey. My colleagues — past and present — who made this newsroom a place of collaboration, learning, and trust. The mentors who shaped how I think about storytelling and responsibility. And the community, for always being willing to talk, to share, and to allow a camera to enter moments that mattered.
To my fiancée, Alexis — who has waited through late nights, long shifts, and unpredictable schedules, and who was there on my first day and remains here as I step into what comes next — thank you. You have been my constant through every version of this journey.
I don’t want to overstate anything or pretend this is the end of something larger than it is. It’s simply a transition. But it is one I take with deep gratitude.
Thank you to this community for continuing to value local journalism, and for allowing me to be part of telling its story. The newsroom remains in capable hands, and the work will continue with the same commitment it always has carried.
Until the next story. See you soon.
A Collection of Stories Told Through My Lens Over the Past Five Years
In no particular order, here are 100 of my favorite photographs captured over the past five years.
