Through the Lens That Started It All

Some objects stay with us longer than we expect — not because they’re the best or the newest, but because they hold pieces of who we were before we understood how quickly life could move. For me, that object is a small Olympus point-and-shoot camera. It’s scratched, slow to wake up, and definitely outdated, but it’s the camera that taught me how to see.

I got it when I was in fifth grade, long before I ever thought photography would become part of my identity. Back then, I just loved moments that felt still. And one afternoon, I took a photo of Gunny — our family horse, the gentle listener whose presence settled a room without trying. That picture wasn’t technical or perfect, but it held something real. Something honest. It was the first time I felt the power of capturing a moment that meant something.

From that day on, the Olympus went everywhere with me. I used it without knowing anything about photography. I didn’t know settings or composition; I just knew that taking a picture felt like grounding myself. Like slowing down. Like paying attention. As the years passed, my equipment upgraded, my understanding grew, and photography became more than a hobby. But I never got rid of that Olympus. It stayed with me the way beginnings do — quietly, without asking for attention.

Then came college. And Spearfish.

I’m heading into my final semester now — not quite at the end, but close enough to feel the shift in the air. And when I think about the person I’ve become here, it’s impossible to separate that from the place and the people who shaped me.

Spearfish has a way of softening you in some places and strengthening you in others. I didn’t expect that when I moved here. I didn’t know the mountains and the canyon would become places I drove to when I needed clarity. I didn’t know Main Street would become a timeline of who I’ve been over these years — each building, each stoplight, each coffee shop holding memories like snapshots: the late-night drives, the laughter in parked cars, the friends who turned into family, the quiet moments when life felt larger than my age. And the people I’ve met here… That’s what changed me the most. I’ve met people who brought out versions of me I didn’t know existed — people who were steady, people who were unexpected, people who made ordinary days feel like days I’ll remember forever. Some were exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. Some were exactly what I needed at the wrong time — or maybe just the time that made their impact even stronger. And a few became those rare, once-in-a-lifetime connections you never fully forget, even if your paths don’t stay lined up perfectly.

They’ve challenged me. Grounded me. Held space for me. Shaped me.

Spearfish didn’t give me one big moment that changed everything — it gave me a hundred small ones that built me slowly. This place has taught me presence. It has taught me patience. It has taught me that the people who enter your life, even briefly, can shift you in ways that echo long after.

A few weeks ago, I drove through Spearfish Canyon — a place that has carried me through every season of these last years. I had the Olympus in my bag, almost forgotten. When I pulled it out, it felt exactly the same as it did when I was eleven. The same weight. The same pause before the shutter. The same quiet feeling of capturing something true. I took a photo there, surrounded by the canyon walls and the familiar calm that space always gives me. And later, driving back down Main Street — past the places that hold pieces of my nineteen-year-old self, my twenty-year-old self, all the selves in between — it hit me how deeply this town has woven itself into who I am.

I’m not done here. I still have a semester and maybe more left. More memories to make. More people to meet. More versions of myself to grow into. Standing between where I started and where I’m headed, holding the camera that began it all, I felt something settle — not a conclusion, but a realization.

This little Olympus isn’t just a relic from fifth grade. It’s a reminder that the truest parts of us stay. They travel with us. They evolve. They wait quietly for us to come back to them — especially when everything around us begins to shift.

And it makes me wonder: As life keeps changing, what pieces of ourselves are we meant to return to… and which ones are we finally ready to grow from?