Andy McCree Hern took my mother’s Benfield Family photo around 1980.
Growing up as the son of a pastor and a mother who supported his work, I was surrounded by people who genuinely cared about others. My parents weren’t just interested in names or titles—they were interested in gifts, talents, and the unique ways people could serve God. They asked questions, noticed details, and encouraged those around them to step into their calling. From a young age, I saw the power of paying attention to people beyond the surface.
At the same time, my experience as someone with autism shaped how I interacted with the world. I identify strongly with the Asperger’s description—often more comfortable observing than immediately joining in, drawn to patterns, and deeply focused on understanding details that others might overlook. While this could make social interactions challenging, it also gave me a unique lens through which to see people.
That lens became even more refined through my work as a photojournalist. My job was to capture a person’s story through images—to see the life behind the face. This required more than technical skill; it required listening, paying attention, and asking questions in ways that allowed someone to open up. Over time, I learned that when people feel truly heard, when their story is sought and valued, something remarkable happens—they feel seen.
Today, I notice that even in small conversations, I carry this same curiosity. I want to know people’s stories, not just their jobs, hometowns, or favorite sports teams. I’ve noticed that few people seem genuinely interested in these deeper layers, but when I take the time to ask and listen, the conversation transforms. People respond differently—they open up, relax, and share parts of themselves that rarely come out in casual chatter.
This approach doesn’t just apply to photography or formal interviews. It’s how I try to live my life: with curiosity, patience, and a genuine interest in others. I’ve found that this practice, shaped by my upbringing, my autism, and my photojournalism work, creates connection in a way that surface-level conversation rarely can. It’s not about extracting information; it’s about honoring the person in front of me and the story they carry.
In a world that often rushes through interactions, I’ve learned the value of slowing down, listening, and letting people be seen. And the more I do this, the more I realize that connection—the kind that leaves a mark—comes not from talking, but from listening.