Perhaps I no longer know who I am, and why the sudden revelation, you may well ask. Perhaps for far too long, I have considered what I do so intrinsically ephemeral I feel it has no value when it does not clear my high bar. One that I so rarely reach.

I assume, like all photographers, I aim for perfection; in doing so, maybe I’m missing the point. Perhaps I’ve got things around the wrong way. Connection, not perfection. Context rather than subtext.

Because I’m always chasing dreams, I’m never happy with what I have in the hand, nor can I ever be, and thus I only consider what is in the bush. And that has blinded me to the obvious.

For I had never stopped to think that my photographs are not just my photographs, and sometimes, if you are lucky, they have a life of their own. Pity my selfish eyes.

That which I considered ephemeral becomes precious, without my intervention, because the vision that took the image is secondary to the ones that view it. Their emotional connection elevates an image in a way that I can never see. Or feel.

Vanity, an ideal and an ideology, closes my eyes to that simple fact. The notion that after that fleeting moment, an image can live on humbles me. The idea that a photograph I took is shared within a family and becomes part of its history fills me with joy, a little jealousy, and some regret.

I was paid to shoot, so am I an assassin or a freedom fighter? Then comes the hypocrisy: here I am, getting paid to do what I so rarely do within my own family. So here I sit, the guilt overwhelming me.

I have once again created precious moments for a family that is not my own, such a long, long way from home. But where is home? My heart is here in London, but I was born in Bideford, where most of my family still reside.

I have been paid to attend far more events than I ever have as a family member, and that has only just dawned on me. As has the guilt. I’m so confused. Why have I never felt like this before?

I think it all stems from a single conversation when the veil was lifted, as I was told how precious a family found the wedding and blessing photographs that my partner and I had taken.

It may sound strange, but up until then, I had never thought to think of my work outside of its artistic value or the opportunity that any event gave me to perfect my craft or hone my skills.

I couldn’t see the wood for the trees, and as a newspaper photographer, I never would, for you rarely engage with a reader at that level or intensity; however, but here you do.

Perhaps life was easier the other way around.