A photographer, author, advocate, speaker, and mentor using lived experience and storytelling to help organisations create impactful projects, inform services through real-life reports, and make sure no one is left unseen.
It didn’t start with a business plan, a grant, or a big idea. It started with a sleeping bag, a borrowed coat, and a question I couldn’t shake: Is this it?
From 2011 to 2013, I was homeless in High Wycombe. Not the kind of homelessness that makes headlines — just the quiet, constant kind. Some nights I sofa-surfed. Others I slept rough. Some days I queued at the foodbank. Others I just walked to stay warm. I’d lost everything: my direction, my confidence, my belief that life could be different.
At my lowest, I felt invisible. When you’re homeless, people often look through you, not at you. You become a problem to be managed, not a person to be understood. It chips away at who you are — slowly, but surely.
After a long and difficult recovery, including 18 months in rehab, I got clean. I got housed in 2015. It felt like I was starting from zero, and I had no idea what came next. That’s when something unexpected happened. Someone at my local church gave me a camera. No ceremony. No expectations. Just a kind gesture — a camera someone no longer needed, handed to someone who badly needed purpose.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with it. I took photos of trees, shoes, strangers from a distance. I watched YouTube videos. I made mistakes. A lot of them. But something clicked — literally and emotionally. That camera gave me a reason to get up, go out, and look at the world differently. More than that, it helped me see myself differently too.
I started volunteering to take photos for local events and charities. Then I began talking to people on the margins — people who reminded me of where I’d been. I took portraits, listened to stories, and shared them with permission. The response was powerful. People weren’t just grateful for the photo — they were grateful to be seen. Fully. As a whole person, not a problem to be fixed.
That’s when I realised photography could be more than just pictures. It could be a tool for connection. A way to shift how people think about homelessness, addiction, abuse, dementia — all the issues we tuck away out of discomfort. I didn’t want to just take nice photos. I wanted to help people tell the truth — and be proud of it.
So, I kept going. I built exhibitions. I worked with charities. I asked questions. I listened. And eventually, I started The Narrator’s Lens CIC — to make space for stories that often go untold.
It all began with a moment of kindness and a second-hand camera. That gift turned into a mission. Now, I use my past to build something that helps others be heard — because I know what it’s like not to be.
And I never want anyone else to feel invisible again.
These days, everything I do is about turning lived experience into lasting change — through photography, storytelling, writing, mentoring, and public speaking. At the heart of it all is The Narrator’s Lens CIC, the organisation I founded to give people a platform to share their stories, not as case studies, but as human beings with voices that matter.
Our exhibitions are one of the most visible parts of that work. Since launching, we’ve created over 20 exhibitions in collaboration with more than 40 organisations, reaching over 30,000 visitors. These shows have taken place in all sorts of venues — from high streets and town halls to St Albans Cathedral and ExCeL London. But it’s not about the location — it’s about the people. Every portrait, every quote, every display is co-created with those who’ve lived through the realities we’re talking about: homelessness, addiction, domestic abuse, dementia, social isolation.
The feedback we get isn’t just polite praise — it’s emotional. It’s personal. Families tell us they finally feel seen. Frontline workers tell us it changes the way they do their job. Councils ask for briefings based on the work. Because when stories are told honestly and respectfully, they stick. They spark something. And they stay with people long after they’ve left the building.
That same approach runs through everything else I do. In 2024, I published The Forget-Me-Not Chronicles — a warm, funny, and honest book about dementia that became a bestseller on Amazon. It’s fiction, but it’s real — written with the kind of emotional truth that people immediately recognise. I’ve had messages from carers, professionals, and families saying, “This is us.” That’s what matters. Not just writing a book, but writing something that helps people feel less alone.
I’m now working on several follow-up books — each one rooted in real social issues but told with humanity, humour, and heart. They cover everything from community life and volunteering to addiction and rebuilding. Because stories are how we connect, understand, and remember that behind every label is a person.
Outside of exhibitions and writing, I also work closely with organisations. Not to deliver services — but to help them design and deliver their own work more effectively. I mentor charities, CICs, and local authorities on how to make their projects more inclusive, meaningful, and impactful. That includes helping them build campaigns and creative projects that centre lived experience from day one — not as decoration, but as direction.
As part of that, I also create written reports based on the stories gathered through our work. These reports don’t just sit on a shelf — they’re used by councils and funders to shape services, improve support, and influence policy. They include photography, first-person stories, and practical insights — a combination that turns personal experience into useful evidence.
And then there’s the public speaking. I speak at events, conferences, training days, and away days. I talk about homelessness, addiction, recovery, storytelling, ethics, and how to genuinely involve people with lived experience in decision-making. I don’t use slides full of stats — I use real stories, humour, and honesty to start conversations that people usually avoid. My aim isn’t to inspire people into silence — it’s to get them thinking, asking questions, and doing better.
Everything I’m doing now comes back to one thing: visibility. Making sure people are seen, heard, and respected — whether in a photo, a book, a project, or a policy discussion. Because I know what it’s like to feel invisible. And now, I use every tool I’ve got — a camera, a pen, a mic, a lived-in voice — to make sure others don’t.
This work doesn’t have a neat job title. It’s part artist, part advocate, part guide, part challenger. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
It began in 2015, after I came out of rehab. Someone at my local church gave me a second-hand camera — no big gesture, just a quiet act of kindness. That gift gave me purpose at a time I was still trying to rebuild my life. I started by photographing everyday things and quickly realised that photography was more than just images — it was a way to process, to connect, and eventually, to help others tell their own stories too.
I wanted to create something that centred lived experience rather than just collecting stories for funding bids. I’d seen how people are often spoken about, not with. The Narrator’s Lens is about changing that — working with individuals and organisations to tell stories that are honest, respectful, and rooted in trust. It’s photography with purpose, not just pictures on a wall.
It’s the foundation of everything I do. When you’ve been overlooked and written off, you see things differently. You learn to spot when people are being boxed in or dismissed. I use that experience now to challenge how organisations involve people, and to create work that reflects the full story — not just the struggle, but the strength too.
There are many, but one that stands out is seeing someone I photographed — a woman in recovery — bring her children to see her portrait in a public exhibition. She stood tall. Her kids were proud. She said, “This is the first time I’ve felt like my story was mine to tell.” Moments like that are why I keep doing this.
Writing is an extension of the same mission: telling real stories in a way that’s accessible, emotional, and honest. My first book on dementia, The Forget-Me-Not Chronicles, became a bestseller because it wasn’t clinical or cold — it was human. I write like I photograph — with warmth, humour, and a respect for complexity.
I work with councils, charities, CICs, schools, funders — basically anyone serious about involving lived experience in their work. Sometimes I lead the project, sometimes I mentor teams on how to get more from theirs. The goal is always the same: to make sure the people closest to the problem are also part of the solution.
I help organisations think differently — about their approach, their language, their storytelling, and how they include people in decision-making. It’s not about adding lived experience to a marketing plan — it’s about embedding it from the start. I challenge gently, ask honest questions, and help turn ideas into meaningful, long-term work.
They’re not passive. They don’t just ask people to look — they invite people to listen, reflect, and sometimes even act. Each exhibition is co-created with the people it’s about, which means the result feels raw, respectful, and real. Visitors often say they come out thinking differently — and that’s the aim.
Because stories shouldn’t just stay on the walls. The insight we gather from each project can help shape services, inform funding, and improve how people are supported. The reports turn personal experience into something practical — something that can actually help people tomorrow, not just raise awareness today.
More books, more exhibitions, and deeper partnerships with organisations that want to do things differently. I’m also building a mentoring programme for teams wanting to centre lived experience in everything they do — not just in theory, but in practice. And hopefully more space for tea, reflection, and reminding people that no one is ever just their worst day.
James