As with all stories, it is best to start at the beginning. In my case, that means a boarding school in New Norcia, back in the early 1980s.

For the first time, I was away from home, living in close proximity to a mix of people I’d never met. It wasn’t a “boys’ own world” fantasy. We did the domestic work inside and outside of the dorms. It was just life. And in that life, there was time for pursuits.

One of them was photography. The photography teacher, who was also a dorm master and maths teacher, had a genuine passion for it and wanted to share it. I think the school was trying to keep us busy—preventing us from becoming “delinquents,” as they saw it. But for me, it was more than that.

I took to it immediately. It reminded me of my father and his good friend, John. They shared a passion for photography, and John, who would later become my uncle when he married Aunty Angie, was a constant presence in our family life.

(John is the one in the green shirt in the photo I have of them, sitting together in the yard.)

I loved the way photography made me see the world. Imagining how a small detail could be elevated by the way light played across its surface, and having the skills to make it happen, was pure fun.

Crucially, our pictures were never judged. They were analyzed, yes, but not judged. We had engaged in the process and created something, and that was valued. An important life lesson.

But I did judge. I dreamt of a time when I could easily remove light poles, where cropping and dodging and burning—subtle or wholesale—could get me closer to the image in my mind.

Time passes.

It’s now 2026.

All that I dreamt of is possible and more. We are surrounded by images. I have digital cameras and gear that is amazing. But something was missing.

It wasn’t a lack of time or opportunity. It was the creative passion, the pursuit, the process and purpose that I once knew. That spark had been diluted, diminished, like a signal losing strength. Through my career as a people systems, data warehouse, and integration specialist, I came to recognise that Purpose, Mastery, and Autonomy are the powerful motivators that drive us. And somewhere along the way, I had lost the balance.

Then I had a casual conversation with my mother. She mentioned that my nephew's partner had a Box Brownie camera that might need a home.

So, I called Nathan. I dropped by on my way home, and it joined my collection of interesting objects. But this one was different. It was known to people. Jeanie, Nathan’s partner, said that one day she’d like to have had her photo taken with that camera.

While I was speaking with Nathan, I said, “I’m sure we can still get film for it.” And so it began.

I held that old camera, a relic from a simpler time, and suddenly, the memory of the darkroom at New Norcia came rushing back. I remembered my preference back then: while others used stiff cards or hard-edged tools to dodge and burn, I always used my hand. I liked the gentle curve of my fingers; it made the transition softer, more organic.

And I remembered what I knew then, and delighted in it: when I use my hand, I am now part of the image.

That physical connection, the warmth and the presence of my own body in the chemical bath, was the magic. It was an intimate conversation between me, the light, and the paper.

Now, in 2026, surrounded by digital sliders and AI tools that can do anything in a split second, I feel the absence of that connection. I can move a light pole with a click, but my hand isn't there. I can burn a shadow with a slider, but my skin isn't touching the paper. The image is perfect, technically, but it lacks that human signature. That physical "I was here."

People often assume I’ll be “bored” now that I’m stepping away from paid work. But for me, it’s just a phase change. Not a retirement from life, but a shift in focus. I am not leaving the pursuit of Mastery; I am simply changing the tools. I will be pursuing the mastery of both old and new, in the pursuit of excellence and engagement.

And part of that engagement will be to provide Agency to others. Just as the school gave me a space to create without judgment, I hope to offer that same space to others. To show that there is another way.

So, with a Box Brownie in my hand and a new phase of life ahead, I’m ready to start again. Not to master the new tools, but to remember the old ones. To slow down, put my hand to the work, and remember that the best part of the image isn’t what’s captured on the sensor or the paper—it’s the part of me that was there to make it.

Just like I knew back then, and delighted in it.