Yield

I am learning softness the way wind teaches it—by touching what I’ve held too tightly.
For years I believed strength lived in walls and firm lines, in the refusal to be moved. But something in me begins to loosen, and I follow that tremor with my camera.

In these blurred gestures, I meet the parts of myself I left behind.
They speak in fragments—movement, fabric, breath—as if reminding me that truth doesn’t need sharp edges to be real. As the figures merge with their surroundings, I feel myself becoming porous again.

A younger version of me appears—not younger in age, but in openness. She doesn’t brace. She lets the moment move through her. And in watching her, I remember: softness isn’t the opposite of strength; it’s strength that allows itself to feel.

As I make this work, my inner walls start to blur. My breath changes.
I realise I’m not losing who I was; I’m remembering who I am beneath all the holding.

These photographs mark that remembering—
the quiet courage of softening,
the self uncovered beneath the armour,
and the moment strength chooses to be gentle.

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