Do you even skate?

I’m met with various reactions to this discovery: laughs, looks of incredulity, exclamations of “That’s awesome!” and—rarely—mocking, anger, and/or disappointment.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to learn, or that I haven’t told myself I’m going to. What has always stopped me is a deep-rooted self-consciousness pertaining to anything athletic and, ultimately, the always-surprising, unwaveringly swift passage of time (I can’t believe it’s been six years).

I understand the allure of skateboarding all too well. I was nineteen when I first encountered it. At that point, the only question I had asked of my life was, “What next?” Around skateboarders it was simply, “What now?” Right now—the only moment that matters.

It’s a beautiful ideology, and one with which I have since grappled. It’s much easier to say you’re living in the present than to confront actually doing so. Photography is, after all, all about the moment. At a time in my life when I was feeling dejected and directionless (as many nineteen-year-olds do), photographing skaters brought back my passion for the art of pictures. It emboldened me.

There are days I’m disenchanted with skateboarding. As someone who still has a knack for planning, it can be painful to feel left behind. There are days I wish my friends made more time for me—but I can never hold anger towards someone for doing what they love, and I will never regret the time I’ve spent in the adopted culture that has so fully embraced me.

Skateboarding has allowed me experiences of which I never would have dreamed, and the opportunity to meet individuals I’m grateful to have in my life. It has afforded me friends in any city, instilled confidence in my ability to approach strangers, pushed me towards not letting myself be the reason I don’t pursue a photo project, and left me with too many marvelous memories to recount in this small space.

And I don’t even skate.