I thought I was failing—But I was just starting my real life.

If you grew up in an immigrant household, you probably know the pressure of defining success by traditional standards: graduate with top grades, land a job in healthcare, and secure a “stable” future. For me, raised in a Filipino-Indian household, that expectation was deeply ingrained. My worth was often measured by how productive I was, how well I performed in school, and how ambitious I appeared in the eyes of my parents. Having a social life? That wasn’t exactly encouraged.

And for a long time, I followed that path. I graduated from a health sciences program, attempted to get into nursing, and eventually pursued dental assisting. I didn’t hate it—health sciences genuinely intrigued me—but something always felt out of place. In every class from childhood to college, I’d find myself doodling in the margins, sketching anything to help me focus. A part of me always needed that artistic outlet.

Art was my secret language. I’ve been drawing for hours on end ever since I can remember. It’s always been something I was truly passionate about. I took visual arts all four years of high school and loved painting. Creating something from scratch and pouring my ideas onto paper or canvas made me feel most like myself.

Creativity was embedded in me from the start. My mom enrolled me in piano lessons at a young age, and I went on to perform in competitions, often coming home with first or second place. Whether it was music or art, I was constantly pulled toward self-expression, even when the world around me expected a more “realistic” route.

But growing up meant making adult choices. In our culture, creative fields weren’t seen as reliable or respectable. Success meant practicality.

When a series of college strikes left me unable to concentrate or properly prepare for exams, I reached a breaking point. Around that same time, I had to take a break from school for surgery related to some health issues. Everything felt like it was falling apart. I eventually made the decision to walk away from school. I cried. I felt like I failed myself, and I was terrified of what my parents would think. Their response surprised me—they said not to worry, and suggested I apply to a private college instead.

But my heart was already leaning in a new direction.

I decided to give photography a real chance.

It all began in 2013, walking around downtown Toronto with a friend, camera in hand, capturing street scenes and moments that spoke to me. That turned into portraits with friends, then club events. Eventually, someone told me I should start charging. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The idea of earning money from something I loved felt unnatural. I was still wired to believe work had to look a certain way—structured, scheduled, and separate from joy.

Eight years later, I’m proud to say that photography is not just something I do for love. It’s a career I’ve built through passion, resilience, and the incredible support of the people who believed in me. I’ve worked with so many beautiful souls and been trusted to capture their most important moments.

I often think about the little girl sketching in class, painting late into the night, and playing piano on stage. She didn’t know it then, but all of it mattered. It was shaping the life I live now.

I may not have followed the path my parents envisioned, but I’ve built something meaningful. A life where art has purpose. A business that fuels my soul. A future that feels honest. And I know my inner child is so, so proud.