Do you ever feel like the world knows you—but doesn’t?
They know what time you show up to work.
They know your birthday.
They know your favorite snacks.
They know what you’ll never order.
They know you hate grapefruit juice.
Your family knows parts of you.
Your partner knows what you’re willing to share in that moment.
And still—there’s another layer of you that exists quietly.
One that doesn’t always get airtime.
That’s something I’ve always felt, even before I had language for it.
For a long time, I felt like I was moving through life in two lanes at once.
In one lane, I was working. I had flexibility. I earned great tips. I made my schedule work for me. It was structured in a way that allowed me to live well and move through the city on my own terms.
In another lane, I was a graduate. I had done the internships. I had imagined myself moving in a different direction—media, storytelling, something that felt aligned with the dreams I carried early on.
That lane didn’t disappear.
It simply waited.
And I was always aware of it.
The job was just a job.
But life kept unfolding around it.
And no matter where I was going—on my way to work, celebrating another milestone with someone I care about, or simply moving through the city—I found myself noticing spaces. Moments. Scenes that didn’t ask for attention but stayed with me anyway.
Nothing had to be wrong.
Nothing had to be celebrated.
What stayed with me was how it felt to capture a moment.
Finding Meaning in the In-Between
I didn’t set out to document anything important. I didn’t think I was building a collection. I just knew that every time I paused to notice—something shifted.
What drew me to those moments?
Why did they feel resonant enough to hold onto?
Over time, those captured moments grew into something I didn’t yet have a name for. They became markers. Quiet timestamps. Proof that even when life feels layered, something meaningful is still happening.
And that’s when I realized something important.
When Stories Needed Another Language
I’ve always lived in words. Storytelling has been my home for years—through books, through illustrations, through language that helps make sense of experience.
But I knew then that words weren’t enough on their own.
Photography had to be part of the story.
There’s something powerful about a photograph. You can show the same image to ten people and they’ll all see something different. One sees a beginning. Another sees an ending. Someone else recognizes a moment they’re still in.
That openness is what drew me in.
As a storyteller, I kept thinking—how incredible would it be to share moments in time that were part of my story, and allow them to keep becoming something new?
That question became the foundation for
New York, New York: Her Tale of Two Lanes — From Whispered Dreams to Touching the Sky.
It was just something that I did.
Sometimes on a walk.
Sometimes while celebrating another milestone with someone I care about.
Sometimes simply moving through the day.
Wherever I was, if something moved me, I kept it.
I froze that moment in time.
I didn’t force it.
It was joy I could never explain.
And somehow, that was enough.
Over time, those moments began to speak back to me—not loudly, not all at once, but in a way that felt familiar and entirely new.
That’s where this book comes in.
This collection brings together sixty photographs—moments gathered over time—not to explain where I was going, but to honor where I was. The pauses. The small wins. The subtle signs that two things can be true at the same time—and often are.
Whether you’re visiting New York,
or walking in two lanes of your own,
or holding parts of yourself the world doesn’t always see—
this book is an invitation to pause.
To notice.
To remember.
And maybe—just maybe—
to realize you’re already closer than you think.