I exist at the intersection of science and soul — a doctor by training, a photographer by calling. By day, I tend to the human body, tracing its fragile lines with precision and care. But beyond the clinic walls, I step into a different dimension — one where light bends, shadows speak, and time pauses just long enough to tell a story. Photography, for me, is not just a visual medium; it’s a way of seeing beneath the surface. While medicine anchors me in the tangible — heartbeats, symptoms, the logic of healing — photography invites me into the intangible: emotion, memory, the quiet poetry of ordinary things. Each frame is a question, a whisper, a mystery waiting to unfold. In my work, I gravitate toward moments that feel like dreams — liminal spaces, fleeting gestures, faces half in light. I often photograph as if I’m remembering something I haven’t lived yet. The camera becomes both scalpel and mirror, slicing through reality to reveal something softer, stranger, more human. This dual life — doctor and photographer — feeds itself. One teaches me to notice pain, the other, beauty. Both teach me to pay attention. And in that attention, I find connection — to others, to art, and perhaps, to a deeper version of myself.