An Unintentional Diary



Growing up, I was never much of a diary keeper. I never liked my handwriting, and I always got tired of writing after a few pages. I guess that in extraordinary moments, though, the need to process what you're living becomes stronger than your preferred way of doing things. I ended up keeping one anyway. I just didn't know it at the time.

When I think about those years now, everything feels intertwined: motherhood, the pandemic, immigration, art, my neighborhood, and photography. I can't separate one from the other. These photos, and this text, are my attempt to slowly untangle that memory and that time, and maybe even wrap them up.

These images were taken while I was living in a neighborhood in Vancouver, Canada, as an immigrant during two of the most defining moments of my life. One was global: the pandemic. The other was deeply personal: becoming a mother. Both changed me completely. It wasn't supposed to be that way. Suddenly, my apartment became full of life while the outside world fell quiet.

When thirty-minute walks were finally allowed, they quickly became part of my daily routine. Those daily walks became an escape from the intensity of new motherhood and the isolation of lockdown. They gave me room to breathe, both literally and emotionally. Without realizing it, they also gave me room to create and became the beginning of my journey as a photographer.

At some point, I started bringing my camera with me, or sometimes just my phone. Those walks eventually led me to sign up for my first photography class, start an Instagram account, and even write about some of the things I was trying to understand.

Looking back, I can see what I was searching for. Even in the middle of the pandemic, my neighborhood was full of quiet reminders that people were still there, that life was still happening even if I couldn't see it in real time: abandoned masks, signs explaining COVID rules, open gates, nature slowly taking over forgotten spaces, and messages of encouragement left for strangers. The seasons changed. The sun kept setting. The snow melted. Leaves fell. My son grew. And every now and then, my own reflection appeared in the frame, quietly documenting a woman who was evolving too.

These images also reflect my early steps as a photographer. They change in color, editing, and technique because I was changing too. I wasn't looking for consistency. I was learning to see.

For a long time, I thought this work was simply about my neighborhood during the pandemic. Now I see it differently. It became an unintentional visual diary of my own life at the time: a time when I became a mother, lived in a foreign country, tried to find my place in a world that suddenly felt unfamiliar, and unknowingly became a photographer.