I never planned to be a photographer. In fact, for two years I didn’t even have a front door. I slept on pavements, in shelters, and once in a public toilet because it was the only place I could lock the door and feel safe.
That period of my life was messy, cold, and often humiliating. But it was also where the seeds of my future work were planted. Because when you’ve been ignored, dismissed, or moved on enough times, you start to understand just how powerful being seen really is. And that’s what photography eventually gave me — the chance not only to see, but to be seen.
Life Before the Camera
When you’re homeless, people rarely see you. They see a situation: a problem to be solved, or more often, a nuisance to be moved along. Eye contact is avoided. Conversations are short. You become part of the street furniture, except the furniture probably gets more care.
I drifted through those years with a kind of numbness. Days blurred. Nights dragged. I learned which doorways were safest, which shopkeepers would let me hang around without calling security, which corners stayed dry if the rain came at the wrong angle.
It’s strange to admit now, but the toilet I slept in once was a relief. Four walls, a door, and a lock gave me something I hadn’t had in years — control. I could close out the world, even for a few hours. That memory stays with me. Not because it was glamorous (it really wasn’t), but because it showed me how little you need to feel human again: safety, dignity, and a door that shuts.
The Turning Point: A Workshop Invitation
My first step out of that cycle wasn’t planned. It came when I was invited to take part in a photography workshop run by a local charity project.
At the time, I didn’t know what I was doing. The camera felt heavy and complicated. The buttons looked like they’d been designed for someone with a degree in rocket science. But once I lifted it to my eye, something clicked that had nothing to do with settings.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t just being looked at. I was doing the looking. I wasn’t the subject of pity or judgment. I was the storyteller.
That workshop turned into something bigger than I ever expected. My images — raw, imperfect, but mine — were chosen to be displayed in the local museum, the library, and even in John Lewis. To go from being invisible on the streets to seeing my work on a gallery wall was surreal. People walked past my photographs, paused, and considered the world through my lens. For once, I wasn’t being ignored. I was being listened to.
A Camera, A Flat, and A Future
Two years later, just after I moved into a flat of my own, someone handed me a gift that changed everything: my first camera.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine. I still remember holding it like it was a lifeline. After years of instability, I suddenly had a set of keys in one pocket and a camera in the other. A home and a tool to build a new future.
That combination gave me more than shelter. It gave me purpose. The flat was proof that I could survive. The camera was proof that I could create.
From Pavements to Prints
Fast forward to today, and life looks very different. I now call myself a photographer, author, and founder of a social impact organisation. My work has been exhibited in cathedrals, galleries, and community spaces. Thousands of people have walked past my images, paused, and seen the lives of others through a lens I once thought I’d never hold.
But here’s the truth: the real win isn’t the walls my work has hung on. It’s the people I’ve stood beside.
- Survivors of domestic abuse, brave enough to step in front of the camera and reclaim their image.
- People living with dementia, who remind us that identity doesn’t disappear with memory.
- Volunteers giving time they don’t always have, quietly shaping communities without seeking recognition.
Through each project, I’ve learned that photography is more than a picture. It’s proof. Proof that someone exists, has value, and deserves to be seen.
Photography as Proof
When I show an image of a woman who has fled abuse, I’m not trying to shock. I’m showing dignity. When I capture a volunteer in hi-vis laughing in the rain, I’m not aiming for glamour. I’m showing humanity.
Photography, at its best, tells the truth people often overlook. It slows us down. It forces us to look longer, think deeper, and recognise the person behind the label.
That’s why my exhibitions don’t stop at art. They feed into reports, conversations with councils, and campaigns for change. A portrait can be both art and evidence. A story can be both emotional and practical. Together, they nudge people to act.
The Gallery Walls
Standing in a cathedral watching strangers stop at one of my portraits is surreal. I still remember nights where the only audience I had was a cracked ceiling or a passing fox.
Now I see people tilt their heads, lean closer, or wipe away a tear in front of a print. In those moments, the gallery becomes more than a space. It becomes a bridge between lives that would never normally meet.
For me, that’s the real power of gallery walls. They’re not there to make me look accomplished. They’re there to make someone else feel understood.
The Shelter of a Lens
I still laugh when I think of that toilet. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was shelter. And in a way, it symbolises the journey I’ve been on. Back then, my safe space was four grimy walls and a lock. Today, my safe space is a lens and a story.
That camera — once unfamiliar, now an extension of my hand — has become the door I can finally close behind me. It’s given me a sense of belonging, purpose, and yes, a home.
Why Stories Like This Matter
I share this not to pat myself on the back, but because it proves something important: people are more than the worst chapter of their life.
Homelessness, addiction, trauma — these don’t erase humanity. They make it harder to see sometimes, but it’s always there. Photography has taught me that everyone carries a story worth telling. And that story can change how others see them, and even how they see themselves.
So when I talk about moving from sleeping rough to gallery walls, I’m not really talking about me. I’m talking about what happens when someone gets the chance to be seen — truly seen — for the first time.
Final Thoughts
From pavements to prints, from shelters to cathedrals, the journey has been unlikely and often absurd. But it’s also proof that visibility matters.
If you’re reading this and feeling invisible in your own life, I’d say this: find a way to tell your story. It doesn’t have to be through photography. It could be writing, painting, volunteering, or simply speaking up. Stories have power. They remind us we’re human.
For me, it all started with a workshop invitation, a few photographs pinned on community walls, and later, a gifted camera. That small sequence of events turned into exhibitions, books, and projects reaching thousands. But more than that, it turned into a reminder: we all deserve to be seen.
