I don’t ever take black and white photographs. That is a strange thing to say, because I absolutely love looking at them. I think it is because I associate all of the great photographers and timeless pictures with black and white, and my mind automatically disassociates myself from them. I guess I don’t feel experienced enough to be in that club.

And another thing: it’s freaking hard to do. Using color in a picture is something to hide behind when your composition and subject are a little lacking, but when you shoot black and white you are absolutely vulnerable. It demands a great picture in order to be successful. And for those reasons, and many more I just avoid it all together. Maybe when I grow up and practice more I will venture into it.

But here we are, and I have to give one to you. The gods of 31-day-photography-challenge demand it.

I feel like a hobby in adulthood is getting together with your friends and talking about how strange and damaging your childhood was, and how it left you permanently scarred and then everybody laughs and that’s the game. I always feel like an imposter in that game, because I don’t have much to contribute. I am not saying that to try and brag or anything, it has just happened to me on many occasions. I mean was childhood perfect? Absolutely not. Nothing ever is. But I always had what I needed, and more often than not I even had the things I wanted. I never felt small and silly, even when I was both of those things. My problems were never written off as childish even though in retrospect, my little dramas probably contributed to some good laughs for my parents. I was always encouraged to try new hobbies, even the loud annoying ones. I spent time building fun projects with my dad and cooking with my mom, things which I feel people still positively associate with me.

I think that environment made me not afraid. I am not scared to look silly as an adult, or to say what I really feel. I decided to make a photography blog, even though it is scary. I trust myself in hard situations and in new situations, and I think that is rare. Most importantly, I learned how to be kind from my parents, and after a lot of thought I think that is the greatest gift they have given me. They think it is innate in me, but it is not. I am kind because I saw kindness was possible and it made people feel happy. They think I am good on my own, but I am not. They made me.

I realize this all seems narcissistic, but I promise it is not. I am just grateful.

I decided on this picture of my parents. They have both independently told me they don’t like this picture because they both feel like it is unflattering to them. They nitpick their wrinkles, smiles, hair, you name it. But I love this picture, I think it’s beautiful.