People tell me I’ve got one of those smiles you can’t fake. Truth is, I’ve had plenty of reasons not to smile, but I’ve learned that life feels lighter if I do it anyway.
You stop me in the street, and I think you’re going to ask for directions. Instead, you tell me about your project — photographing people who’ve been homeless, but also people who haven’t, just to see if anyone can tell the difference. I’ve never thought about it like that before. How, in a picture, we all just become faces. Lines, eyes, expressions. Stories hidden unless someone asks. I say yes straight away.
I’m not homeless. But I’ve been close — closer than I’d like to admit. After my divorce, money is tight. My son is small, my job is shaky, and the rent keeps climbing. There are nights I sit at the kitchen table doing sums, wondering what I can sell next to make it work. I have friends, though. People who step in before the floor gives way completely. Not everyone has that.
That’s part of why I say yes to your photo. Because it’s not just luck that keeps me off the street — it’s people. A neighbour who brings over a bag of shopping without asking. A mate who slips me some cash and says “pay me back whenever.” My sister, who makes up the sofa bed when she can see I’m not coping. I never forget those kindnesses.
Looking at me, you might see the crow’s feet and think they’re from laughter. You’re right, but they’re also from squinting through tears and blinking them away before my boy can see. That’s the thing — you never really know, do you? Not from a face alone.
So, yes. I’m a smiler. But that doesn’t mean my life is all sunshine. It just means I choose to keep smiling anyway. And maybe that’s what you catch in your picture — not just me, but the bits I’ve survived.
