How Do You Find Your Light Again?

No really. I’m asking.

This isn’t a brag—though it might sound like one at first. I’m sharing this so you understand where I’m coming from.

I’ve often been described as a “light.” The person who brings energy into the room. The one who dances when no one else is on the dance floor. The one who talks to everyone. Human connection—real, authentic connection—has always been my thing. Since I was a little girl.

It’s what made me a photographer who could make people feel safe, comfortable, seen. It’s my god-given talent in this world, and I’ve always been deeply grateful for it.

And I promise—this isn’t about bragging.

It’s actually a call for help.

Since the massive transitions of the last year—ending my career as I knew it, moving across the globe, leaving my community and family, and becoming a mother—I’ve lost my light.

All the ways I once defined myself have quietly disappeared, and I’m left with an identity crisis I never saw coming. For years, I was the person with dinner plans three to five nights a week. Weekend brunches. The “sought-after photographer.” Now my days are filled with quiet moments with the three of us, running errands, and napping whenever I can.

Life looks nothing like it did a year ago.

The shift felt like an earthquake—sudden and destabilizing—even though, technically, all of this was planned. And I want to be clear: I am enjoying this chapter. It’s healing. Slower. Restorative.

But it’s also layered with fear. Isolation. Self-doubt. Confusion.

Who am I if I’m not the person who fills rooms with joy?

Who am I if I’m not the photographer who makes people forget they hate being photographed?

Who am I if I’m not the connector—the bridge for people who struggle socially?

Who am I now?

That’s where I’m sitting. In the tension between deep love and excitement for motherhood, and the weight of challenges I didn’t anticipate.

I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to “snap out of it.” I do know that I’m trying. I’m rebuilding routines. Focusing on my health. Moving my body. Picking up my camera again—not for clients, but for myself.

Things feel a little lighter.

And still, a huge piece of me feels missing.

For years, I worked relentlessly to become a grounded, confident, self-assured woman. When I finally looked in the mirror and saw her, I thought I had arrived. I brought all of that wisdom with me into this new season—and yet here I am, struggling with an identity shift larger than any before it.

I’m not looking for pity. I’m not even looking for answers.

I’m using my writing as a vessel—to name what I’m experiencing, to make space for it, and maybe, slowly, to find my way back to myself.

I’m relearning how to make friends. I’m being humbled daily by the reminder that here, my previous career status means nothing. No one cares about my awards or publications. I’m starting from scratch.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe my light didn’t disappear.

Maybe it just stopped performing.

For so long, my light was loud. Attention-grabbing. At times, even performative. It filled rooms. It showed up as charisma, productivity, connection on demand. It lived in being needed, being seen, being the one who made things feel easier for everyone else.

This season doesn’t ask that of me.

Right now, my light is quieter. It looks like presence instead of performance—less, but more meaningful. Like listening instead of leading. Like staying when there’s nothing to offer but myself. It’s showing up in ways that don’t earn applause or validation, and that’s been uncomfortable to sit with.

I’m still learning to trust that this version of light counts. That it’s not dimmer—just different.

Slower. Softer. More internal than external.

I don’t know what it will look like when it fully returns. Maybe it won’t look like what it used to at all. But I’m starting to believe that finding my light again isn’t about chasing who I was—it’s about learning how to let myself be who I am now.

And for the moment, I’m practicing staying here long enough to see what that becomes.

*The featured image is from years ago, I indeed did not chop off all my hair. Not at that phase of identity crisis currently.