When I first started as a student photographer at East Carolina University, I quickly discovered that I loved working for the newspaper more than the yearbook.

The yearbook was beautiful. It had higher production quality and was designed to become a keepsake people would hold onto for years. But the newspaper had something different. It was alive.

I would walk around campus and see students carrying it, sitting in the student center reading it, or talking about stories they had seen. I wasn’t just taking pictures and turning them in. I could actually see people interacting with the work.

That feeling stayed with me.

As my career progressed, I saw my work published in different places. I enjoyed seeing my photographs in The Commission magazine and seeing stories I covered for the International Mission Board appear in Baptist state papers. While working on my master’s degree, I saw my work in print less often.

Later at Georgia Tech, I again had opportunities to see my work used in recruiting materials and publications such as Research Horizons for the Georgia Tech Research Institute. But even then, it wasn’t like the daily newspaper experience.

As a freelancer, you often see your work even less. Sometimes your images are used in internal communications, annual reports, websites, or marketing materials with a limited audience. I worked for Chick-fil-A, primarily publishing materials internally for operators and support staff. The work mattered, but I rarely saw people engaging with it.

Lately, I have been doing assignments for Appen Media, and it has reminded me of something I had almost forgotten from my first full-time job after college at The Hickory Daily Record.

The reward is not publication itself.

The reward is impact.

One thing I am really enjoying is that before many assignments, I reach out to event planners or people connected to the story. I interview them. I photograph them. Then, after the story is published online, I send them the link.

That simple process has become one of the most rewarding parts of the work.

Last night I covered the Roswell Community Masjid vigil. After the story was published, I sent the link to some of the contacts involved. One response came from Shaheen Bharde of the Masjid:

“Thank you for putting together such a beautiful article. Truly appreciate your words and efforts to humanize our community.”

That comment stopped me.

Not because it complemented my work.

Because it reminded me of what photojournalists are supposed to do.

We aren’t simply documenting events.

We help people see one another.

A photograph can cause someone to pause. A story can help someone understand experiences outside their own. Together, they can create empathy and close gaps between communities that might otherwise remain distant.

The best photojournalism does more than tell people what happened.

It helps them understand why it matters.

As photojournalists, we move quickly. We shoot, edit, write, file the story, and then move to the next assignment. Often, we never hear what happened after that. We don’t know whether people connected with the work or simply scrolled past it.

Then occasionally someone responds.

Someone says they felt seen.

Someone says they felt understood.

Someone says you helped others understand them.

Moments like that remind me that the most rewarding part of photojournalism was never publication itself.

It’s knowing the story made a difference.

Link to story

Roswell show solidarity after San Diego mosque shooting

When I started my professional career as a photojournalist for The Hickory Daily Record in Hickory, North Carolina, in 1984, my job was pretty simple. I took photographs and gave the reporter enough information to write the captions.

Back then, I was trained to think in shots:

• Opener — sets the scene
• Decisive moment — the image that can tell the story by itself
• Details — visual candy and transitions
• Sequences — variety in action
• High overall shot — shows relationships and context
• Closer — wraps up the story visually
• Portraits — introduces characters

That approach worked. In many ways, it still works today.

Forty-two years later, I am doing freelance writing and photojournalism for Appen Media, a North Atlanta community news organization that publishes local newspapers and digital news serving Decatur, Alpharetta, Roswell, Milton, Dunwoody, Forsyth, Sandy Springs, Cumming, and Johns Creek.

The editor only asks for about 10 photos from an event with short captions placed in metadata and in a separate document.

I decided to do something different.

If they asked for 10, I tried to deliver 15. Rather than simply submitting captions, I started writing complete 400-word AP-style stories for every assignment.

The editor replied:

“Woooowww the writing is good. That’s a pleasant surprise (no offense). I don’t usually have a high level of expectation for photogs when it comes to the wordsmithing, but this is great content for a community newspaper.”

I laughed.

Not because of the compliment, but because it made me realize something.

For years, I had focused on covering events.

Now I was focusing on finding stories.

There is a difference.

Recently, I covered Under the Stars — Vibe Fest at Brooke Street Park in Alpharetta. Years ago, I would have shown up with my mental shot list:

Band photos. Crowd photos. Details. Wide shots.

Instead, before arriving, I started asking:

What is the story?

Why should someone who wasn’t here care?

Suddenly, my questions changed.

Instead of asking:

“Who are you?”

I asked:

“Why does this matter?”

“What brought you here?”

“What memory does this music bring back?”

“Why does this event matter to the community?”

Those questions changed the story.

They also changed the photographs I needed.

Now I wasn’t simply hunting for a singer at a microphone.

I was looking for nostalgia.

Connection.

Community.

Emotion.

Because photographs and stories work best when they answer the same question.

Why should anyone care?

Here is the story along with the photo package I submitted.

Tips for photographers who want their photos to tell stronger stories

Start with the story before camera settings
Ask yourself: What is actually happening here?

Find the “why.”
People care less about events and more about meaning.

Create three or four questions before arriving
Good questions lead to better quotes and stronger photos.

Photograph emotion, not activity
The activity shows what happened. Emotion shows why it mattered.

Think beyond captions
A caption answers who, what, where, and when.

A story answers why.

Shoot with the ending in mind
Ask yourself, What image would make someone stop scrolling?

Your camera isn’t just gathering pictures
You’re collecting evidence for the story.

I often draw on communication principles from the Bible, not just because I’m a professional storyteller, but because faith has shaped much of my life.

I grew up in a pastor’s home. I later attended seminary myself, and my wife also attended seminary and now serves as a chaplain. Alongside my work as a photographer, writer, videographer, and communications consultant, I’ve spent decades immersed in faith communities and studying how people communicate truth, purpose, and transformation.

One of the most powerful communication lessons I’ve learned from Scripture comes from two simple words used repeatedly throughout the Bible:

“So that…”

Throughout Scripture, “so that” is used to explain purpose, intention, and desired outcome.

Jesus taught this way.

Paul wrote this way.

The Gospel writers structured stories this way.

They weren’t just sharing information. They were leading people somewhere.

That matters to photographers, writers, filmmakers, nonprofit communicators, and brand storytellers because too much modern storytelling stops at documentation rather than transformation.

We capture moments.
We collect quotes.
We gather footage.

But if we cannot answer the “so that” question, the story often lacks direction.

Storytelling With Purpose

Look at how Jesus framed teaching in Matthew 5:16:

“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Notice the structure:

• Action
• Purpose
• Intended result

The action was never the endpoint.

The goal was transformation.

That same principle applies to communication work today.

You photograph a volunteer serving meals…

So donors understand the ministry’s impact.

You interview a missionary…

So that churches can emotionally connect with the people being served.

You create a brand video…

So that potential clients trust the organization enough to engage.

You document a nonprofit’s work…

So that the audience moves from awareness to action.

Without the “so that,” storytelling becomes random content creation.

The “So That” Should Shape Story Selection

One of the biggest mistakes communicators make is choosing stories simply because they are emotional, dramatic, or visually interesting.

But great storytellers ask:

• Why does this story matter?
• What should happen after someone experiences it?
• What is the audience supposed to understand, feel, or do?

The biblical writers were remarkably intentional.

John even explains why he selected certain stories about Jesus:

“These are written so that you may believe…” (John 20:31)

John didn’t include everything.

He curated stories with purpose.

That is exactly what editors, filmmakers, photographers, and writers must do today.

Every assignment needs a “so that.”

Every Creative Decision Should Serve the Purpose

The “so that” doesn’t just shape story selection. It shapes execution.

It affects:

• which interviews you conduct,
• what photos you make,
• what B-roll you gather,
• pacing,
• music,
• sequencing,
• captions,
• headlines,
• and even what you leave out.

Strong communicators understand that every creative decision either supports the purpose or distracts from it.

A beautiful drone shot that doesn’t advance the story may impress people, but it may not serve the “so that.”

An emotional quote that creates confusion may weaken the message.

A visually dramatic image that lacks context can actually pull the audience away from the intended outcome.

The Difference Between Content and Communication

There is a difference between producing content and communicating with purpose.

Content says:

“Look what happened.”

Purpose-driven communication says:

“This happened so that…”

The best communicators know where they are leading the audience before they ever press the shutter, hit record, or write the first paragraph.

That doesn’t make storytelling manipulative.

It makes it intentional.

And intentionality is one of the clearest characteristics of both great biblical teaching and great communication.

One of the hardest lessons for organizations to learn is this:

The stories you most want to tell are not always the stories your audience most wants to hear.

That can feel frustrating, especially when you have poured years of work, passion, sacrifice, and resources into something important. But storytelling is not simply about importance. It is about connection.

And connection starts with attention.

If you cannot get people to stop scrolling, pause, lean in, or emotionally engage, then even the most meaningful story may never be heard.

I see this all the time in my wildlife photography hobby.

Over the years, I’ve photographed all kinds of wildlife. Personally, some of my favorite images are not the ones that get the most engagement online. I’ve photographed beautiful shorebirds, songbirds, owls, herons, deer, and countless other animals.

But whenever I post a Bald Eagle photo—especially one catching a fish—the response explodes.

People stop.
People react.
People share.
People comment.

Even a simple Bald Eagle in flight will often outperform technically better photographs of less “charismatic” birds.

Why?

Because the Bald Eagle already carries emotional weight with the audience.

It represents strength, freedom, power, beauty, and patriotism. People instantly connect with it emotionally before they even analyze the photograph itself.

Researchers studying “charismatic species” found that people consistently gravitate toward animals that are visually impressive, emotionally powerful, beautiful, rare, or culturally symbolic. Large predators and iconic wildlife dominate public attention.

In other words, some subjects naturally create stronger audience engagement.

That does not make the other animals less important.

It simply means the Bald Eagle is a better hook.

And hooks matter.

The Bald Eagle Strategy

Here’s the important part:

I can lead with the Bald Eagle and then bring the audience along to see the other wildlife.

Once people stop for the eagle, they’ll often swipe through the gallery and discover the heron, the egret, the kingfisher, or even the Tufted Titmouse.

But if I lead with the Tufted Titmouse?

Most people may never stop long enough to discover the rest.

This is where many organizations struggle.

They say:

“We’ve already talked about that.”
“We want to highlight something new.”
“We’re tired of focusing on the same topic.”

But your audience is not living inside your organization every day.

They do not have the same emotional connection or insider perspective you have.

You may be tired of the Bald Eagle story.

Your audience may be hearing it for the very first time.

The Mistake Many Organizations Make

Organizations often choose stories based on:

• Internal passion
• Senior leadership preferences
• Historical importance
• Amount of effort invested
• What they wish people cared about

But audiences respond based on:

• Emotional connection
• Relatability
• Curiosity
• Visual power
• Human tension
• Inspiration
• Hope
• Surprise
• Identity

Those are very different filters.

That’s why a smaller story with emotional resonance will often outperform a larger story filled with facts and significance.

A story can be critically important internally and still fail publicly because it does not emotionally connect.

That does not mean you abandon important topics.

It means you learn how to enter through the audience’s door instead of demanding they enter through yours.

Start With What Resonates

A conservation organization may want to talk about an obscure but ecologically critical species.

That’s admirable.

But the audience may only stop because they saw the eagle, wolf, whale, tiger, or bear first. Research consistently shows humans are drawn toward “charismatic” wildlife—especially large, visually striking, emotionally symbolic animals.

Smart communicators understand this.

They use the flagship story to create momentum.

Then they educate deeper.

The Bald Eagle becomes the doorway into the broader ecosystem.

This Applies to Every Organization

Nonprofits, ministries, schools, healthcare systems, businesses, and churches all face this challenge.

The goal is not simply to communicate information.

The goal is to earn attention long enough to create transformation.

Here are some examples:

Nonprofit Example

Mediocre Story:
“Our organization distributed 14,000 hygiene kits across three regions.”

Stronger Story:
“A 9-year-old girl finally returned to school after receiving basic hygiene supplies that restored her confidence.”

One is statistics.
One is human.

The statistics matter more organizationally.
The human story matters more emotionally.

Church or Ministry Example

Mediocre Story:
“We launched three new discipleship initiatives this year.”

Stronger Story:
“After years of addiction and isolation, Michael found community and purpose through a small group.”

Programs matter.
Transformation connects.

Healthcare Example

Mediocre Story:
“We expanded pediatric surgical capacity by 18%.”

Stronger Story:
“A child heard her mother’s voice clearly for the first time after surgery.”

The second story helps people feel the impact of the first.

Education Example

Mediocre Story:
“Our STEM enrollment increased significantly.”

Stronger Story:
“A first-generation student built a robot that solved a problem on his family’s farm.”

One informs.
One inspires.

Businesses Make This Mistake Too

Businesses often want to talk about:

• Features
• Processes
• Certifications
• Technical superiority
• Company history

Customers usually care more about:

• Outcomes
• Transformation
• Relief
• Simplicity
• Confidence
• Identity

People rarely buy the drill.

They buy the hole-in-the-wall.

And even deeper than that, they buy the feeling that comes from solving the problem.

Why Outside Perspective Matters

One reason organizations struggle to find their strongest stories is that they are too close to their own work.

Inside the organization, everything feels important.

That makes prioritization difficult.

An outside storyteller, communicator, consultant, or photographer often sees something leadership misses because they are looking through the audience’s eyes rather than through organizational familiarity.

Sometimes the most powerful story is so common internally that the organization overlooks it entirely.

Meanwhile, the audience sees it as remarkable.

That outside perspective helps answer critical questions:

• What would make someone stop scrolling?
• What creates an immediate emotional connection?
• What story creates curiosity?
• What makes this relatable to someone outside the organization?
• What earns attention quickly enough to lead people deeper?

Because the greatest story in the world is ineffective if nobody engages long enough to hear it.

Hook First. Teach Second.

This does not mean manipulating audiences.

It means respecting how humans naturally engage.

Jesus often taught this way through parables.

Great journalists do this through compelling leads.

Filmmakers do this through opening scenes.

Photographers do this through the strongest image.

Marketers do this through headlines.

You start with what captures attention.

Then you guide people toward deeper understanding.

The Bald Eagle is not the entire story.

It is the invitation into the story.

And the organizations that understand this are the ones that consistently connect with audiences in meaningful ways.

Mark Romzick, president of the Upper Chattahoochee Chapter of Trout Unlimited, carries his coat back to the car as the day warms up. Romzick said, “I love fly fishing, and this is a way to preserve streams for future generations.”

When I pulled into Chattahoochee Pointe Park to cover a tree-planting event along the river, I already knew something most people don’t think about when shooting outdoors:

I was going to need flash.

That might sound counterintuitive. It was daytime. Plenty of light. A beautiful setting under a canopy of trees. But experience has taught me that available light and usable storytelling light are not always the same thing.

The Assignment

The story itself was strong—volunteers planting native trees to protect the Chattahoochee watershed. Families, conservationists, and community leaders all working together. It had heart, purpose, and visual potential.

But visually, it also had a challenge:

• People bending over, digging holes
• Faces angled downward
• Tree cover creating uneven light
• Hats casting deep shadows across eyes

If I relied only on available light, I’d come back with technically acceptable images—but not images that truly connect.

And for me, that’s the difference.

Flash Isn’t About “Fixing”—It’s About Revealing

Most people think flash is something you use when there isn’t enough light.

I use it when the light isn’t telling the story well.

Here’s what the on-camera flash helped me do in this situation:

1. Open Up Faces in Harsh Shade

Under tree cover, light becomes patchy. Add a baseball cap, and suddenly the most important part of the photo—the eyes—disappear.

A subtle touch of fill flash brings those faces back:

• Eyes become visible
• Expressions come alive
• Viewers can connect emotionally

Without that, you’re just documenting activity. With it, you’re telling a story about people.

2. Control Contrast in High Dynamic Range Scenes

Outdoor scenes—especially in woods—often have extreme contrast:

• Bright highlights filtering through leaves
• Deep shadows underneath

Cameras struggle with this more than our eyes do.

Fill flash helps compress that range:

• Lifts shadows without blowing highlights
• Keeps detail in both bright and dark areas
• Produces a more natural, readable image

This is especially important for newspapers, where images are often reproduced smaller and need clarity at a glance.

3. Improve Color Accuracy

One of the biggest hidden problems in wooded environments is color cast.

All that green? It reflects back onto skin tones.

Without flash:

• Skin can look greenish or muddy
• Colors lose their vibrancy

With flash:

• You introduce a neutral light source (around daylight balance)
• Skin tones look natural again
• Colors pop in a way that feels true to the moment

4. Add Subtle Separation and Depth

Flash—used well—doesn’t look like flash.

It creates just enough separation between subject and background to:

• Give dimension
• Prevent subjects from blending into busy environments
• Guide the viewer’s eye

This is especially helpful in environmental storytelling, where the background matters—but the subject still needs to lead.

5. Freeze Motion Cleanly

Even in daylight, motion can be an issue:

• Shovels moving
• Dirt flying
• Hands in action

Flash adds a crispness to those moments by freezing motion more effectively than ambient light alone.

That means sharper storytelling frames—especially when people are working.

Why This Matters in Today’s Newsrooms

Here’s something I’ve noticed working with newspapers today:

Many staff writers are shooting with phones first—and maybe a camera second.

And almost no one is using flash outdoors.

There’s an assumption:

“If there’s light, you don’t need flash.”

But what I’m seeing—and what my editor is responding to—is that using flash thoughtfully elevates the work.

It’s not about making something look artificial.
It’s about making the story clearer.

• Faces are readable
• Moments feel more immediate
• Images reproduce better in print and online

In a world flooded with images, that difference stands out.

My Approach

I’m not blasting flash on everything.

Before I even step out of the car, I’m asking:

• Will flash improve the story?
• Will it help the viewer connect?

If the answer is yes, I use it.

If not, I leave it off.

That’s the key—intentionality.

The Bigger Picture

For me, this goes back to something I teach all the time:

Great storytelling isn’t about using the latest gear.
It’s about using the right tools on purpose.

On-camera flash outdoors is one of those tools that’s often overlooked—but when used well, it can quietly transform an image from “recording a moment” to “communicating a story.”

And in the end, that’s the job.

Why This Matters Even More for Print

Most people today are judging photos on a backlit screen—a phone, tablet, or computer.

That changes everything.

When you’re looking at an image on a screen:

• Light is coming through the image
• Shadows still have detail because they’re illuminated
• Colors feel more vibrant, and contrast feels stronger

But a newspaper is completely different.

It’s reflected light, not transmitted light.

There’s no backlight behind the image—just ink sitting on paper.

The Reality of Dynamic Range in Print

Dynamic range is the difference between the darkest and brightest parts of an image.

On a modern screen, that range is huge:

• Deep blacks
• Bright highlights
• Lots of detail in between

On newsprint, that range shrinks dramatically.

Here’s what happens when your image goes to print:

• Shadows block up faster (you lose detail in dark areas)
• Highlights flatten out (less separation in bright areas)
• Overall contrast gets compressed
• Colors become more muted due to ink absorption into paper

And newspapers take it a step further:

• The paper is more porous
• Ink spreads slightly (dot gain)
• Fine detail and contrast are reduced even more

So that beautifully subtle shadow detail you saw on your camera or laptop?

It may completely disappear in print.

Why Fill Flash Makes a Bigger Difference Than You Think

This is where using flash outdoors becomes even more important.

By lifting the shadows in-camera, I’m doing something critical:

• Preserving detail before the image ever gets to print
• Keeping faces readable even after contrast is reduced
• Giving the file enough separation to survive the printing process

If I rely only on available light in a shaded scene:

• Faces start out dark
• Print makes them darker
• And suddenly the subject gets lost

But with a touch of fill flash:

• The exposure is more balanced
• The subject holds up in print
• The story remains clear

Shooting for the Final Medium

This is something I think many photographers overlook today.

We’re often shooting for how images look on our screens—not where they’ll actually end up.

For me, I’m always asking:

Where will this photo live?

If it’s going to a newspaper:

• I need stronger midtones
• Cleaner separation
• More intentional light on faces

Because print is far less forgiving than a screen.

The Bottom Line

Using flash outdoors isn’t just about solving a lighting problem in the moment.

It’s about making sure the story survives all the way to the final page.

What looks “good enough” on a phone can fall apart in print.

But when you shape the light intentionally—right there in the field—you give your images the best chance to communicate, whether they’re viewed on a screen or held in someone’s hands over morning coffee.

Friends dressed in Derby attire attend the fourth annual Down & Derby fundraiser benefiting Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta at Crabapple Market Green on Saturday, May 2, 2026, in Alpharetta, Ga. From left are Daniel and Luz Cardamone, Lindsey Liranzo, Laura Hinchee, Mike Liranzo, and Dan Hinchee.

Covering the Down & Derby event was one of those assignments that reminded me why I approach photography the way I do—not just as a photographer, but as a storyteller.

On the surface, it was a lively community event filled with energy, costumes, laughter, and competition. Like many events of this size, there were multiple photographers on site. Two of them were hired specifically to document the day, and they did excellent work. If I had been the client hiring them purely for event coverage, I would have been pleased with the images they delivered. Their job was to capture beautiful moments for the guests, the sponsors, and the immediate needs of the event.

My role, however, was different.

I wasn’t there simply to collect visually pleasing moments. I was there to communicate the story of the event to people who weren’t there—and to do that in a way that answers the five W’s: who, what, when, where, and why. That changes everything about how I work.

I was also responsible for writing a 400-word AP-style story, gathering accurate names, and collecting quotes that would help bring the experience to life for readers. That means I’m not just looking for “a great shot.” I’m looking for the moment that carries meaning, context, and voice. I’m listening while I’m photographing. I’m observing relationships, reactions, and the small details that help someone outside the room feel like they were inside it.

And because of that, I often don’t get the same photos as someone who is only photographing moments.

They can stay fully in the visual flow—anticipating peak action, clean compositions, and expressive faces. I’m still doing that, but I’m also thinking: What does this moment mean? Who is speaking? What will someone who wasn’t here need to understand this?

That dual responsibility shifts what I notice.

After I delivered the story, I received a note from the media contact for the event, who was also one of the organizers. She wrote:

“Can you hear that? The clapping and cheering? That’s me inside my house reading your article. It’s brilliant. Thank you! 😊”

That kind of response is exactly why I approach my work this way. The goal isn’t just to show what happened. It’s to help someone feel what happened, even when they weren’t present.

Over the years, I’ve noticed something interesting. Ever since I started consistently combining strong writing with still images—or video that includes interviews—the quality of both has gone up. Not because I’m working harder in one area, but because I’m thinking more holistically.

When you’re responsible for telling the story through multiple senses, you begin to ask better questions. You listen differently. You anticipate differently. And you see differently.

The images improve because I’m not just chasing visuals—I’m chasing meaning. The writing improves because I’ve actually been present in the event’s emotional and visual rhythm. And the storytelling becomes stronger because everything is working together instead of existing in separate lanes.

Down & Derby was another reminder that storytelling is never just about capturing what happened. It’s about translating experience—so someone who wasn’t there can still understand, connect, and respond.

And when that happens, well, the story doesn’t just inform.

It resonates.

Derby Glamour Meets giving spirit at Alpharetta fundraiser for Children’s Healthcare

KSU Tellers Spring Performance

There’s a moment most of us miss entirely.

The first time we’re given a seat at the adult table.

At first, you mostly listen. You laugh when others laugh. You absorb the rhythm of conversation — the timing of a punchline, the pause that makes a story land. You’re surrounded by people who seem to hold attention effortlessly: the natural storytellers in your family, your circle, your life.

Then one day, you try telling your own story.

It’s a little rough. You leave things out. People ask questions. They help you fill in the gaps. And slowly, over time, you begin to understand something: storytelling isn’t just talking. It’s crafting. It’s shaping an experience so others can step inside it with you.

That’s exactly what I witnessed at the KSU Tellers Spring Performance.

A class about becoming a storyteller

The KSU Tellers is more than a performance group — it’s a process.

Under the direction of Charles Parrott, students gather every Friday morning from 9 a.m. to noon. But this isn’t a lecture. It’s a workshop in becoming vulnerable, observant, and intentional with your voice.

The journey, from what I saw, begins with learning to open up — and that’s no small thing. Most people don’t walk into a room ready to share something real. But through Parrott’s approach, something shifts. Students start to recognize a truth they hadn’t quite believed before:

People want to hear their stories.

Once that realization takes hold, everything changes. The class becomes a collaborative table — each student helping the others discover, shape, and refine the story they’ll eventually bring to the stage.

The performance: early craft, real growth

The spring showcase is where those stories meet an audience.

What stood out wasn’t perfection. It was progress.

These are storytellers still early in their journey, and you could see it in the details — in the pacing, the pauses, the moments where a face said everything the words hadn’t quite caught up to yet. Each student brought something different to the stage: their own rhythm, their own perspective, their own way of holding the room.

That’s the beauty of storytelling. There’s no single right way. There’s only an honest one. And every one of them found theirs.

The Quiet Masterclass Happening in Plain Sight

While the students took turns sharing their monologues, they sat together in a row facing the audience. And seated right there with them was their professor.

This is where something subtle—but powerful—was happening.

Parrott wasn’t just watching.

He was feeling every moment.

You could see it in his reactions—the slight shifts in expression, the timing of a smile, the way he leaned into certain moments. He wasn’t performing, but he was modeling what it means to truly engage with a story.

In many ways, he became the emotional meter of the room.

Where others reacted occasionally, he responded continuously—supporting each storyteller without ever taking the spotlight away.

It was a masterclass, not from the stage, but from the chair.

Back to the table

After the performance, the night wasn’t over.

Students, alumni, and friends gathered at Miller’s Ale House near campus. And that’s when it all came full circle — because that gathering, right there, is the culmination of the class.

People sitting around a table, sharing stories. Laughing. Reflecting. Connecting.

Looking around the room, you could see it on their faces: these students aren’t just better performers. They’re better communicators. Better listeners. Better at finding their way into a conversation and making it mean something.

Why this matters

The KSU Tellers is officially a storytelling troupe within KSU’s Department of Theatre & Performance Studies — focused on personal narrative, solo performance, and devised theatre. They perform at festivals, do community outreach, and grow as artists.

But what I witnessed goes deeper than a program description.

This is about learning to take your own life — your moments, your struggles, your humor — and shape it into something that resonates with another person. It’s about learning when to speak, and how to make it matter when you do.

It’s about earning your place at the adult table.

And maybe more importantly, helping someone else feel like they belong there too.

Two cowgirls who have dismounted from their horses are attempting to flip the steer to complete the sequence. In team roping, a header ropes the steer’s head while a heeler targets the hind legs, working in coordination from horseback. They are competing in the Panaʻewa Stampede Rodeo in Hilo, Hawaii

We’re entering an era where artificial intelligence can generate images that are technically flawless.

Perfect exposure.
Perfect composition.
Perfect color.
No distractions.

And that’s exactly the point.

Real storytelling photography was never about perfection.

A photojournalist doesn’t walk into a scene and start cleaning it up. If there’s a motorcycle in the living room, it stays. If there are liquor bottles in the background, they stay. If the light is harsh or uneven, you work with it—not against it.

Because that’s the truth of the moment.

AI, on the other hand, is always moving toward idealization. It removes friction. It smooths out reality. It creates what should be, not what is.

And that difference matters more than ever.

The One Thing AI Will Never Experience

I was reminded of something important listening to Sean Tucker recently.

AI doesn’t feel anything.

It doesn’t feel the wind hitting your face.
It doesn’t smell the air.
It doesn’t hear the subtle shifts in tone that tell you something just changed.
It doesn’t taste the dust, the salt, or the smoke in the air.

And most importantly, it isn’t emotionally moved.

I watched storm chasers yesterday as they documented a violent tornado tearing through a home. You could hear it in their voices—they weren’t just recording footage. They were feeling the weight of what was happening.

They were hoping no one was inside.
They were reacting to the destruction in real time.

That emotion changes how you see.
And how you see changes what you capture.

The Photograph Impacts the Photographer First

The most powerful images you’ve ever seen had an impact long before they reached you.

They impacted the photographer first.

Before the shutter clicks, something happens internally. There’s a reaction. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it hits hard—grief, joy, tension, relief.

As photographers grow in skill, they get better at translating that internal experience into a visual one.

That’s the craft.

It’s not just knowing your camera. It’s knowing how to respond to what you’re feeling in a way that shapes your choices:

• Where you stand
• What you include or exclude
• When you press the shutter
• How you use light, depth, and layers

The exposure triangle isn’t just technical—it’s expressive. It’s part of how you communicate what you felt in that moment.

Why Imperfection Is Often the Point

AI will always trend toward “better” in a technical sense.

But storytelling photography often depends on what others might call flaws.

Clutter in the background can add context.
Awkward elements can reveal truth.
Uncontrolled light can heighten emotion.

When you remove those things, you don’t just clean up the image—you risk stripping away the story.

That’s why photojournalists leave things in.

Because reality is messy.
And stories live in that mess.

When Words Still Matter

Images are powerful, especially when words fall short.

But words still matter.

Context matters.

Even Ansel Adams, known for his breathtaking landscapes, didn’t leave viewers guessing. He told you where the photograph was made. He grounded the image in a real place.

His work helped inspire the protection of places like Yosemite National Park, contributing to the broader conservation movement tied to organizations like the Sierra Club.

The image drew you in.
The context helped you understand why it mattered.

That combination is still essential today.

What You Should Be Pursuing Instead of Perfection

If AI is chasing perfection, then you don’t need to compete on those terms.

You’re chasing something else entirely.

You’re pursuing awareness.

You’re using all your senses to experience what’s in front of you:

• What does it feel like to be here?
• What’s happening beneath the surface?
• What might someone miss if they weren’t paying attention?

Then you make intentional choices:

You pick your lens.
You dial in your settings.
You decide what stays in the frame and what doesn’t.
You build layers that guide the viewer through the story.

Not to make it perfect.

But to make it honest.

The Human Touch Still Wins

At the end of the day, the difference isn’t just in the image.

It’s in the experience behind the image.

AI can generate something visually stunning.

But it doesn’t carry the weight of a moment lived.

It doesn’t hold the tension of uncertainty.
It doesn’t reflect compassion, fear, joy, or empathy.

That’s what you bring.

And when you do it well, you’re not just showing people what something looked like.

You’re giving them a way to feel what it was like to be there.

That’s the part no algorithm can replicate.

And it’s why your work still matters more than ever.

Chief Pabel Troche couldn’t help but laugh in this moment during the Roswell Citizens’ Fire Academy. He had just asked Michael Dal Cerro a simple but loaded question: “If you were in a fire, who in this class would you trust most to come rescue you?” Michael paused, smiled, and said, “Well… I guess I should say my wife, Marineli DiCristina, first.” That got the room laughing. But then he followed it up with something that mattered—he said it would be her, because she would follow protocol. That’s when the humor met the truth.

Scroll through social media, and you’ll see it everywhere.

Beautiful photos.
Powerful moments.
Incredible light.

And then… nothing.

No context. No names. No story. Just an image posted, maybe with an emoji or a vague caption.

As photographers, we’ve all heard the phrase:
A picture is worth a thousand words.

I believe that’s true.

But here’s the problem—
If you don’t guide the viewer, they may walk away with the wrong thousand words.

Without a caption, this is simply a pretty bird on a branch.
With it, you begin to see more:
Not just color, but purpose. Not just a moment, but behavior. Not just a bird, but a story unfolding in front of you.
This is why captions matter.
They slow the viewer down just enough to turn a glance into understanding—and sometimes, appreciation.

The Missing Piece

Whether you’re a professional photographer or just someone who loves sharing moments from your life, the image alone is only part of the story.

You were there.

You know what was happening.
You know why you pressed the shutter.
You know what makes that moment meaningful.

But your audience?
They don’t.

Without context, your viewer is left to guess:

• Who is this person?
• Why does this moment matter?
• What am I supposed to feel?

And when people have to guess, they often move on.

You Don’t Have to Be a Writer

A lot of photographers resist this idea because they think, “I’m not a writer.”

That’s okay.

You don’t need to write a paragraph. You don’t need to be poetic. You just need to be clear.

Think of it this way—you’re not writing to impress people.
You’re writing to complete the story your photo started.

Three Simple Things to Add

If you want your photos to connect more deeply, start with this:

1. Who is in the photo?
Give people a name. A relationship. A role.
This instantly makes the image more personal.

2. Why did you take it?
What caught your attention? What made this moment worth capturing?

3. Why does it matter?
This is the piece most people skip.
Why should someone else care about this moment?

It can be simple. It just needs to be real.

The Difference It Makes

When you add even one or two sentences, something shifts.

Your photo stops being just something to look at…
and becomes something to connect with.

For professionals, this is even more critical. Your clients aren’t just hiring you for images—they’re trusting you to help communicate meaning.

But even if you’re just sharing photos with friends and family, the same principle applies.

You’re not just posting pictures.

You’re preserving stories.

Finish What You Started

Every time you press the shutter, you’re beginning a story.

Don’t leave it unfinished.

Give your audience just enough words to see what you saw, feel what you felt, and understand why that moment mattered.

Because the goal isn’t just to show people something beautiful.

It’s to help them understand why it matters.

[NIKON Z 9, NIKKOR Z 100-400mm f/4.5-5.6 VR S Z TC-1.4x, Mode = Manual, ISO 4500, 1/2500, ƒ/8, (35mm = 560)]

The first time I photographed a Bald Eagle fishing, it happened in the first 20 minutes.

Perfect light. Perfect timing. Perfect moment.

And if I’m honest, that moment spoiled me.

Because ever since then, I’ve gone back to the same lake in Mountain Park over and over again… chasing that same kind of image. And what I’ve mostly found instead is an eagle perched high in a tree—60 feet up—doing what eagles seem to do best.

Nothing.

Or at least, what looks like nothing.

It will sit there for hours. Watching. Waiting. Conserving energy. And then, without warning, it’s gone—off the lake and out of sight before you can even react.

That’s when it started to hit me:

The eagle isn’t in a hurry.

It doesn’t chase every opportunity.
It doesn’t waste energy.
And it certainly doesn’t perform on demand.

Matthew 6:25-27 ²⁵ “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? ²⁶ Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? ²⁷ Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?

The Photographer’s Reality

If you want that dramatic shot of an eagle in flight, talons extended toward the water, you need more than just luck.

You need:

• The right gear—something that can track focus on a fast-moving subject
• The right settings—already dialed in before anything happens
• The right light—because light is everything
• And most of all… the right level of attention

Because when the moment comes, it’s already happening.

At this particular spot, the best light is early morning. The sun comes from behind my right shoulder as I face the lake, giving the scene shape, detail, and life.

In the afternoon? It’s backlit. The subject turns into a silhouette.

On cloudy days? The light goes flat. No dimension. No drama.

Same location. Same subject. Completely different results.

The Lesson Most People Miss

Here’s what I’ve come to realize:

The eagle isn’t struggling to survive.

It’s operating with intention.

It waits for the right moment—when the odds are in its favor—and then it acts decisively.

That’s not laziness.

That’s efficiency.

What This Means for Business

A lot of people approach their work like photographers chasing an eagle—running from one opportunity to the next, hoping something works.

But the better approach?

Think like the eagle.

Here are a few takeaways I’ve been reminded of:

1. Not Every Opportunity Is Worth Chasing

Just because something moves doesn’t mean you should react. The best results often come from restraint.

2. Preparation Happens Before the Moment

Your camera settings should already be dialed in. In business, that means your messaging, skills, and systems need to be ready before the opportunity arises.

3. Light Matters More Than You Think

In photography, bad light ruins good subjects. In business, poor timing or the wrong context can do the same thing.

4. Patience Is a Strategy, Not a Weakness

Going back day after day isn’t failure—it’s part of the process. The shot you want might take time.

5. You Can’t Rush What Isn’t Ready

Wildlife photography can’t be staged. And neither can meaningful results in business. Some outcomes require time, space, and the right conditions.

Why This Matters for Clients

This is also why you don’t see many clients commissioning wildlife photography.

Because the honest answer to “How long will it take?” is:

“I don’t know—but I know what it will require.”

And most people aren’t comfortable with that level of uncertainty.

They want predictable. Repeatable. Controllable.

But the most powerful images—and the most meaningful stories—don’t always work that way.

The Bigger Picture

Every time I go out hoping to photograph the eagle, I come back with something else—herons, cardinals, cormorants… moments I wouldn’t have seen if I stayed home.

And maybe that’s part of the lesson too.

You go after one thing.

But if you’re paying attention, you come back with something even more valuable.

There are moments in life that seem small on the outside but create a cascade of thoughts on the inside. A camera strap coming undone is one of those moments for me.

My Nikon Z 100–400 lens is now off for repair after my camera dropped. On the surface, it’s a gear issue. But internally, it became something else entirely for a moment: a familiar wave of anxiety.

Not because it’s just equipment—but because my mind immediately starts asking questions: What does this mean? How much will it cost? How long will I be without it? How will this affect my work?

And I’ve learned this isn’t new for me.

Where Anxiety Shows Up in Life

Looking back, I can trace this response back to childhood.

I fell down the steps. I fell out of a tree. I even remember standing on a towel in the bathroom when my sister pulled it out from under me to grab something—sending me straight down. Many of those moments ended in emergency rooms, stitches, and a very early introduction to pain and surprise.

Later in life, it showed up differently—but with the same emotional pattern.

A toothache that turned into a root canal didn’t start with just physical discomfort. It started with the conversation. Hearing what “might be needed” sent me into tears—not because of the procedure itself, but because of the anticipation and uncertainty.

That pattern has repeated in different forms over the years. Different situations, same internal reaction.

The Brain Behind Anxiety

Anxiety isn’t just emotional—it’s neurological. Several parts of the brain work together in those moments:

• The amygdala acts like a smoke alarm, constantly scanning for danger and sounding the alert.
• The prefrontal cortex tries to reason through the situation and calm things down.
• The hippocampus pulls in past experiences, sometimes reinforcing fear based on memory.
• The hypothalamus activates the body’s stress response—heart rate, tension, adrenaline.
• The brainstem helps regulate alertness, keeping the body in a heightened state.

In simple terms, one part of the brain says, “This might be trouble,” another tries to think it through, and the body responds before everything is fully processed.

That’s why anxiety feels so immediate. It’s not imagined—it’s physiological.

The Stages I Notice in Myself

Over time, I’ve started recognizing a pattern in how anxiety moves through me:

1. Trigger – Something unexpected happens (like my camera dropping).
2. Interpretation – My mind immediately asks, “What does this mean?”
3. Escalation – The worst-case scenarios begin to surface.
4. Physical response – Tension, racing thoughts, emotional overwhelm.
5. Processing – I begin shifting toward what can actually be done.
6. Action – Repairs, decisions, next steps.

What has changed over the years is not that anxiety disappears—but that I move through it faster than I used to.

What I’ve Learned Helps

One of the most interesting discoveries for me has been how rest affects my mind. During a past sinus lift procedure for a dental implant, I noticed something simple but profound: being put to sleep removed the mental loop entirely. My mind wasn’t fighting the situation—it was paused.

It made me realize how much anxiety is a mental activity without resolution.

Sleep, rest, and even stepping away physically from a problem often gives the brain a reset it can’t create while actively spinning.

The other lesson is less comforting but more practical: sometimes the solution simply costs something—time, money, or inconvenience. And at some point, you have to accept it and move forward.

That acceptance is often where relief begins.

Anxiety Doesn’t Disappear—But It Changes

Here’s what I’ve come to accept: anxiety will show up again. Not because something is wrong with me, but because it’s part of how the brain responds to uncertainty and perceived loss or disruption.

I can’t eliminate it completely.

But what does change is this:

• I recognize it sooner.
• I don’t assume it is the truth of the situation.
• I know I will move through it.
• I know action reduces its power.

A Visual Way to Think About It

If I were to illustrate this, I’d draw a simple diagram of the brain with highlighted regions:

• The amygdala flashing like an alarm light
• The prefrontal cortex is trying to steady things like a control room
• Arrows moving between memory, emotion, and physical response

And next to it, I’d show something very ordinary: a camera on the ground after a strap failure.

Because that’s really the point. It doesn’t take a life-threatening event to trigger anxiety. It can be something as simple as a broken gear—especially when that gear is tied to your work, identity, and responsibility.

Final Thought

Life keeps happening. Gear breaks. Plans shift. Bodies get procedures. Bills come. Unexpected moments show up.

Anxiety is part of that experience—not the exception to it.

But what I continue to learn is this: while I may not stop the initial reaction, I do keep discovering that I will get through it. Every time.

And that changes everything.

Philippians 4:6-7 (New International Version) 6 “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. 7 And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Key Themes

• Addressing Anxiety: The passage begins with a command not to be anxious, regardless of the situation.
• The Power of Prayer: It provides a specific method for handling worry: combining prayer (general devotion), petition (specific requests), and thanksgiving.
• Transcendent Peace: The promise is not necessarily a change in circumstances, but a supernatural peace from God that “transcends all understanding”—meaning it doesn’t always make sense given the situation.
• Protection: This peace acts as a “guard” for both the heart (emotions) and the mind (thoughts).

I’ve long believed that photojournalists don’t just take pictures—they train themselves to see. And in doing so, they uncover something most people overlook: your gut reacts long before your brain has time to explain why.

That reaction? It’s not random. It’s built on what you see and hear—far more than the words someone chooses.

1. We Look for Moments That Speak Without Words

At the heart of great storytelling is the moment.

Not just any moment—but the one that communicates emotion, tension, or truth in a way words often can’t. A glance. A gesture. The way someone holds their hands when they’re unsure.

As Henri Cartier-Bresson famously said,

“Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst.”

What he was getting at wasn’t discouragement—it was training your eye to recognize the moment when everything aligns.

And when it does, it hits people in the gut.

2. Composition Shapes How You Feel About What You See

Once you find the moment, composition determines how that moment lands.

Leading lines, framing, layering—these aren’t just artistic tricks. They guide the viewer’s eye and, more importantly, their emotional response.

Dorothea Lange, whose work during the Great Depression shaped public opinion, once said:

“The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.”

Her images didn’t just document hardship—they helped a nation feel it.

3. Exposure Creates Mood

Light is emotion.

Bright, airy images can feel hopeful. Deep shadows can create tension or mystery. Exposure isn’t just technical—it’s psychological.

This is why two photographers can stand in the same place and tell completely different stories.

4. Positioning Changes Everything

Where you stand determines what the audience experiences.

Background, light, layers—these aren’t accidents. They’re choices.

Over time, you begin to anticipate how these elements come together. You start seeing not just what is, but what could be if you take two steps to the left or wait ten more seconds.

That’s where experience shows up.

5. Sound Adds a New Layer of Truth

When you move into video or multimedia storytelling, you add something even more powerful: the human voice.

And it’s not just the words.

Tone. Cadence. Pauses.

As Maya Angelou put it:

“People will forget what you said… but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

That feeling often comes from how something is said—not just what is said.

The Power—and the Responsibility

At its best, photojournalism moves people toward action. It shapes how societies think, feel, and respond.

History is full of moments where images changed the course of public opinion—from war photography to civil rights coverage.

But that power comes with a warning.

Not Everything That Moves You Is True

We’re wired to respond emotionally to what we see and hear. And that makes us vulnerable.

Actors are trained to create believable emotions. That’s why we cry in movies. That’s why we feel connected to fictional characters.

There’s nothing wrong with that—it’s storytelling.

But outside of the theater, that same emotional pull can be used to mislead.

There are also individuals who intentionally manipulate emotion for personal gain—people who understand how to trigger trust, urgency, or empathy without grounding it in truth.

And now, we’ve added a new layer.

AI Has Changed the Game

With the rise of artificial intelligence, images, audio, and video can be created or altered in ways that are increasingly difficult to detect.

What looks real may not be.
What sounds authentic may be generated.

Your gut will still react—but now it can be triggered by something that never actually happened.

So What Do We Do?

If your gut is powerful—and it is—you don’t ignore it.

You train it.

Photojournalists don’t just learn how to create powerful images. They learn how to evaluate what they’re seeing.

And that’s the takeaway for all of us:

• Slow down before reacting
• Ask where the image or story came from
• Look for context, not just impact
• Verify through credible sources
• Pay attention to what might be outside the frame

Because the same tools that can move us toward truth can also pull us toward deception.

Final Thought

Your gut reaction is one of the most powerful tools you have.

But it works best when it’s paired with discernment.

The goal isn’t to become cynical—it’s to become aware.

To see not just what’s in front of you…
But to understand why it affects you the way it does.

That’s what great photojournalists learn over a lifetime.

And it’s something we can all start practicing today.