My photographic practice emerges from a childhood game called "getting lost." Before GPS made wandering impossible, a friend and I would drive rural Missouri roads with only two rules: maintain at least half a tank of gas and turn wherever intuition led us. Bonus points if we discovered a creek.

Years later, I've returned to this practice—now with a camera and a deeper understanding of what I'm seeking. These long, unplanned drives through backroads create a state of complete presence. I feel the warmth of my seat, see winding roads unfold ahead, hear my carefully chosen music, taste coffee I've brought along, and smell the air freshener swaying from my rearview mirror. In these moments, I exist fully in the now—without the weight of past regrets or future anxieties.

The doors I photograph mark this intersection of choice and chance. Each represents a decision made in the present moment: to turn left instead of right, to stop instead of continuing, to notice instead of passing by. Doors are thresholds between the known and unknown, boundaries we choose to approach or ignore. They embody the butterfly effect of our smallest decisions—the accumulated turns that lead us to exactly where we stand.

This work is not about the destinations behind these doors, but about honoring the wandering itself. It's about trusting intuition over planning, embracing impermanence, and recognizing that presence—not perfection—is the point. Just drive. Just capture the photo. Just be here, now.