It’s been a while since I paused to reflect on my climbing journey. As I sit down now, memories flood in—years on the road, countless routes, and the evolving meaning of it all. I’ve spent most of the last 18 months on the move, which probably explains why I haven’t taken much time to look back. But when I do, I’m hit with just how much climbing has shaped everything—sometimes without me realizing it.

I became a "professional rock climber” over a decade ago, and since then, climbing has shaped so much of how I move through life—where I go, how I spend my time, and how I interpret the world around me. Over time, climbing and storytelling became intertwined. What started as a way to document the process turned into a second passion: photography and filmmaking. Capturing the soul of climbing—its struggle, its solitude, its fleeting moments—became as meaningful as the climbing itself.

I’ve never quite figured out how to give both climbing and storytelling the space they deserve.

In 2024, for the first time in my career, I put photography first. I focused on other climbers’ stories, spent more time behind the camera than on the wall, and poured my energy into creative projects I’m deeply proud of. But somewhere in that shift, a quiet emptiness crept in—like I was telling stories I hadn’t lived in a while. I missed the feeling of climbing and the clarity it brings. Climbing has always been more than a profession—it’s how I reset. It gives me space to think and be in the moment.

So I planned a trip to Catalunya. Not for a film. Not to shoot someone else. Just to climb.

I still brought my camera, of course—I’ll probably always see the world through that lens, especially with climbing. But this trip was different. I gave myself space to try hard, to project, and to fall into the rhythm of the place—and the people around it. I remembered why I started climbing in the first place—and how deeply it’s rooted in who I am.

There wasn’t some big breakthrough moment in Spain—no hardest send or perfect photo that wrapped it all up. But that wasn’t really the point. What I got instead were slow mornings, walks to the crag, wrecked skin, good people, and tired evenings. The kind of days that quietly blur together. No pressure to perform. No story to chase. Just being there. And maybe that’s exactly what I needed.

I projected lines that pushed me, physically and mentally. Some I sent, some I didn’t. But I cared again—not about the outcome, but about being present in the effort. The process felt raw and real again. The camera was there too, but in the background this time—more of a companion than a purpose.

What surprised me most was how my perspective behind the lens started to shift again. Being immersed in climbing reminded me what it feels like, not just what it looks like. That nuance is easy to lose when you’re always documenting someone else’s story. I started to shoot a little differently. Fewer staged moments. More of the texture and quiet in-betweens. Maybe that’s the balance I’d been missing—not between climbing and creating, but between experiencing and expressing.

Coming home, I’m not sure I have it all figured out. I probably never will. But I know that I need both of these parts of me to be in conversation, not competition. Climbing will always be my foundation. Photography helps me make sense of it, share it, and sometimes even rediscover it.

This trip didn’t just reconnect me with climbing—it reconnected me with why I climb, and why I tell stories in the first place. I’m heading into the rest of the year with less certainty, but more clarity. And maybe that’s a good place to be.