The Stories I Didn’t Take Pictures Of
The Limits of a Camera in a Big, Beautiful World
Not all stories are meant to be captured. Some are meant to be felt and carried only in memory. I’ve traveled enough to know this: the photos I treasure most aren’t always the ones I’ve taken. They’re the ones I couldn’t.
Marked by the World
Thanks, Uncle Sam—for visa-free access to 183 countries.
My passport is nearly full—stamps pressed into every corner, smudged from years of travel and time. I might run out of space before it expires. It’s not something I say to brag. But there’s just something sacred about meeting the world on its terms. I travel because I love people and cultures. Every place teaches me something new—like reading a book, but in 3D. You land, and everything is unfamiliar, vibrant, alive. You learn by absorbing.
Naturally, the camera comes along too. Especially when I travel alone. It’s my companion. My witness. Even though I’ve stopped posting on Instagram, I still take photos of places I’ve been, artworks I’ve stared at, skies that made me stop. Like anyone, I frame the shot. I think about the lighting. The angle. The mood. Looking back, I don’t really know why I had to smile in front of that crowded tulip market in Amsterdam. But in that moment, it felt important. Proper. Profound, even.
But most of what shaped me never made it into a photo.
Uncaptured Stories
Ah Zong Mian Xian: Smells like a dare, tastes like a dream.
There were the long blocks of people waiting with me in Taipei, craving a bowl of braised pork intestine noodle soup—each of us bored and restless, watching the others, sharing glances but not words. No one smiled for a camera. No one had to.
Lisbon’s sweetest secret, born from nuns, yolks, and centuries-old cravings.
There was that moment in Lisbon, hunting for the original pastéis de nata at the old monastery bakery. I couldn’t get a photo of the scent—caramelized custard and flaky crust curling into the cold air like a hymn.
There was a night in England when I got so lost that I gave up, bought a bottle of cheap wine, and sat alone in a hotel room at 1 AM, trying to get drunk just to feel something. That one never got photographed either.
These stories don’t live in my camera roll. But they live in me.
When Photos Aren’t Enough
The fluffiest friend and I searched for warmth in Reykjavík’s hush of snow.
Now, as I go through old photos—pictures of birds, buildings, streets—I realize how many of them could’ve been taken by anyone. You can Google almost everything now. Does it matter that these images came from my lens? Maybe not.
And yet, we still take them. Because life is beautiful. And fleeting. And we want to hold on. When the days get gray or lonely, we scroll through color, as if it might bring something back. Or remind us what we’re still living for.
The Next Flight
I’m still planning my next flight. Passport ready. Camera in hand. But maybe—just maybe—I’ll leave it behind one day. Just to see what I carry home without it.