A camera with no film: I stayed to bear witness but now I ask whether anyone is still looking

For the first time in years, I’ve found myself absent from Milwaukee. Not just from public events that were newsworthy, but from the rhythm and relentless schedule that once defined my work as a photojournalist.

For years, I showed up at everything. Ribbon cuttings. Vigils. Press conferences by politicians. Cultural celebrations held at every community center in town. If something was happening in Milwaukee, chances were I was there with my camera, documenting it with a trove of images.

And if I wasn’t there, I was somewhere else in the world doing that same thing — telling stories that connected our city to something larger. For a while, it was easy to explain my absence because of the COVID pandemic and its aftermath. I was also traveling on Milwaukee-related assignments. Ukraine. Türkiye. Korea.

But since the November election, I’ve been here in Milwaukee. And I still haven’t been showing up.

When people ask how I’m doing, I give them the polite version. Something about being mindful of my health, or finding a better work-life balance. Both of which are absolutely true.

But that’s not the whole story. The truth is harder to say out loud: I’m tired. Not just tired in the way anyone is after a long day. Tired in the way that settles in your bones. Tired in the way that doesn’t recover with rest.

I spent the early months of the 2020 pandemic outside when most people were isolated inside. While others sheltered at home, I was documenting the surreal silence of Milwaukee streets, the exhausted nurses, the masked and remote funeral services, the shifting sense of fear, and the political backlash from those who put their selfish comfort above the lives of everyone else.

When George Floyd was murdered, I covered the Black Lives Matter protests for months. I wasn’t just photographing signs or crowds. I was bearing witness to grief, anger, and exhaustion that felt like it belonged to all of us. I stood close to people in pain because I believed the work mattered. And to take those intimate photos, I needed to be immersed in that world.

That style is ingrained in who I am. But lately, the cost feels harder to carry as I consider what I am sacrificing.

Over the past few years, especially leading up to and after the 2024 election, something shifted. For a long time, I told myself that journalism could help make the world better.

It was a belief, lived over years, that if we reported clearly and compassionately on injustice, it might move the needle, even a little. That if we told stories rooted in human dignity, people would see each other more clearly. To make the world a better place was a long game, so we were in it for the long haul.

But when the dust settled after election day in November, I saw the results. And I felt something I hadn’t expected: betrayal.

The outcome of the election was not an accident. It was what Americans purposefully chose. And many of the very communities I had worked to uplift — through years of documentary projects, photo essays, and coverage of both joy and struggle — had chosen, in large numbers, to back policies by an autocratic leader who directly threatened their own futures.

I want to be careful in how I say this, because I don’t blame people for wanting safety, or jobs, or stability. But it’s hard to reconcile spending years covering deportations, housing displacement, and hate crimes, only to see voters turn toward platforms that accelerate those harms.

Even after that disappointment, “Milwaukee Independent” did not stop. Instead, we expanded with things like publishing in Spanish to better serve Milwaukee’s Hispanic community. We continued our reporting on the jail-to-deportation pipeline in Wisconsin, even as ICE raids became more aggressive.

But internally, I felt less tethered. I was still doing the work, but it no longer felt like it mattered in any way. My job is not to be thanked or to expect any gratitude. But it became harder to shake the feeling that I was documenting the collapse of a country and society that didn’t want to be saved.

Photojournalism, at its best, is about presence. It is about standing close enough to see clearly, but far enough to hold perspective. Lately, that balance has been impossible. So many local events no longer feel like visual stories. They’re checklists. They require not just documentation but polished copy, as if I need to justify why I showed up at all. The ritual of coverage used to ground me. Now it sometimes just reminds me what’s missing.

Faith has always helped me process the weight of this work. But even there, the strain has followed. I have struggled to sit in the pews and hear messages of love while knowing how many of those same voices outside church walls condone cruelty and cheer for more. They consider the empathy, that is core to who I am as a person, to be a sin.

The disconnect between scripture and politics isn’t abstract. It’s something I feel in my heart when I walk into a sanctuary where I used to find solace and recharge my spirit. And so, I go less if at all. I have missed my church community, but I can’t pretend the world outside hasn’t entered the building.

This is not a story about quitting. It’s not a farewell or a final post. I’m still writing. Still taking photos. Still trying. But I no longer believe in showing up to everything out of personal obligation. I believe in showing up where the story demands it, and when I can give it the attention it deserves. I’m not chasing calendar invites. I’m chasing meaning.

Part of my exhaustion comes from what I can’t photograph — the slow, invisible unraveling of systems. I want to cover how Milwaukee County is trying to set up housing solutions, how officials are fighting to preserve dignity with shrinking resources. But the federal agencies they depend on are being pulled apart, gutted in silence. Homelessness is being criminalized again. The Department of Education, the very structure that allows upward mobility, faces existential threats, while parents argue about library books and dress policy.

I have always believed that local journalism matters most. That it is the heartbeat of democracy. But it is getting harder to tell those stories the way they deserve to be told. My team is stretched thin. Resources are scarce. The stories are heavy, and the attention span of the public is short.

The visual moments that used to define a photo essay — the expressions, the lighting, the movement — aren’t always there. And if they are, they don’t guarantee engagement anymore. Everyone is scrolling, filtering their feeds, moving on to the next viral stunt.

I think a lot about what it means to document pain in a way that is humane and ethical. I have always been cautious about turning someone’s suffering into a spectacle. I have tried to photograph with consent, with clarity, and with care to capture their shared humanity.

But after so many years, I wonder if I am just contributing to apathy. I cannot pretend that, as a person of faith, as a community, as a nation, we are not all in a prolonged spiritual emergency. Some days, the only photo I wish I could take is of the absence itself — the empty chair where someone used to sit, the face that no longer turns toward the light.

As I get older, I also do not physically bounce back the way I used to. My joints ache. My energy wanes. I have earned dozens of awards, but awards do not slow the impact of time. They do not protect your knees, or remove the stress from your lower back.

I chose this life. I would choose it again. I do not regret my sacrifices. I just wish they did not feel so solitary sometimes. Journalism is not a profession that lends itself to a balanced life. I have let go of relationships. I have missed holidays. I have made peace with solitude, because I believed the mission was worth it. I still do.

But the cost has been personal. And there are days when I wonder what it was all for, especially when the loudest voices are the ones denying what is plainly in front of them.

Some of my peers have found new ways to express themselves. Podcasts. Longform essays. Video explainers. I respect that. But I still trust a still image. I still believe in a single frame that says what a thousand words cannot.

I just need to believe that someone’s still looking. That the work reaches someone. That it interrupts the scroll long enough to make a person feel something.

I have not stopped my work because I am bitter. I have not withdrawn because I am defeated. If anything, I am probably making more effort to unapologetically present my middle finger in defiance of the cruelty I witness daily. I am just trying to heal without disappearing. To report without erasing myself. To stay faithful in a time when faith feels like friction.

So, where have I been? Well, I did not quit. I have been doing the work that still matters. I just do not show up as much, but I do when it counts, not just when it is expected.

I still care. I still see. But I do not owe anyone a performance. The pictures, and the work, will speak for themselves. They always have.

This is not closure. It is not a retreat. It is just the truth. I’m still here. Still working. Still holding my ground. And still doing the work.