From Camera to Clarity: A Journey of Letting Go

Probably, the moment when I fell in love with Greece. Kalogria

For half of my life, my photo camera was my companion in productivity.

It was how I saw the world — and how I earned a living.

But I never truly asked myself: What does photography mean to me?

Is it an escape from reality?

A way to stay connected to my life no matter how many years pass?

A gift I offer to the world?

Or simply a tool for being productive?

In my twenties, influenced by entrepreneurial mindsets from outside Romania, I came to believe that my camera had to financially sustain me.

And for two decades, it did — first through microstock libraries, then full-time portrait work, especially in newborn and family photography.

But recently, something has shifted.

Letting go of my professional gear revealed how deeply I was tied to the pressure of constantly delivering.

And now that the camera is no longer an extension of my work…

I find myself asking something far deeper:

Who am I now?

Am I still a photographer, if I no longer take bookings?

Am I still an artist, if I create only for myself?

Do I need to be identified through my career status?

Do I need a job title?

What defines me?

These questions don’t have easy answers. But here is what I do know:

I am someone in transformation.

I am the observer behind the lens — even without a camera in hand.

I am a storyteller, even when the stories are never published.

I am the mother pausing at sunrise.

The woman letting the light fall on her face without feeling the need to capture it.

I am someone who built a name and a business — and now dares to live without being limited by them.

Do I need to be identified by my career status?

No. But I’ve been conditioned to.

Most of us have.

Career status gives society a label.

It creates clarity. It feels safe.

But it can also become a trap — especially when the label no longer matches the soul.

Do I need a job title?

Only if it empowers me — not if it reduces me.

Not if it becomes a costume I feel forced to wear just to be taken seriously.

Some people call themselves founders, artists, guides, storytellers, seekers.

Others let go of titles altogether and let their presence speak.

What I need is not a label — but a compass.

And how beautifully ironic that I tattooed a compass on myself in 2023, long before I consciously knew how much I would need it.

So what defines me now?

My vision.

My values.

The way I see.

The way I live.

I am in a rare, sacred space — the liminal space.

Between who I was and who I am becoming.

And in this space, the most honest thing I can say is:

I don’t have a title right now.

But I’m paying close attention.

I’m creating with intention.

I’m building something rooted in love.

And I am learning to believe that is more than enough.

This is the beginning of my journey with Orama Oikos.

Not just a project. Not just a place.

But a way of being — slower, truer, more whole.