I used to finish races like that so sweaty and happy and exhilarated that I didn’t need any rum to feel like the queen of the world.
Something like the Holga makes it impossible to forget that photos are made of light-affected chemicals on a roll of paper.
Here, lightly edited, are a year of the mundane and serious and baffling things I felt the need to save.
Everyone who gets on is headed their own way—school, work, church, shopping, home—but for a brief moment, the barreling bus brings us all together.
There are several “worst parts” about driving across the country.
I got to sleep eventually.
As evening settles in, the flickering light of the fire illuminates the faces of family and friends gathered around, eager to hear another story from the family elders.
Then, at some point in our spin last night, we caught our collective breath.
The scene, at first, is more akin to Jaws than Blue Planet—a silent silhouette from out of the hazy depths.
The very hard thing I am learning right now—about race, and about myself—is that the rules I have been living by are not very good ones.