I woke up at 7 a.m. with sandbags of anxiety on my chest. The dorm setting threw me back almost a decade. Do I have a test today? A paper due? The realization was quick to catch up with me. No, just major life decisions to make.

I walked to Poynter lost in my own circular thought pattern. Do I take it? Do I want it? Is it being offered? Will something better become available?

I made a PB&J, grabbed a bottle of water, my notebook and pen and took a seat next to the man himself, surrogate grandfather, the embodiment of journalistic ideals cast in bronze. I could think of no other place I'd rather greet this decision.

A lizard crawled from the shadows onto the sunny sidewalk and began to bake. He cocked his head as I greeted him, "Hello, leezard." I thought to continue our conversation but I recognized I was procrastinating. Just make the call, Julia.


"My do it."

I was always stubborn, driven to master things on my own. Early on it was cutting my own meat and drinking milk from the "big girl" glass even when my little hands couldn't lift it. My older brother, easily frustrated, would throw fits when he didn't get things on the first try. I would watch and master, then insist, "My do it."

I was self-sufficient, but not without fear. My room, on the second floor of the house, overlooked our back yard and the small forest beyond. During the summer when I was 5, I pitched a small red tent on my bed and filled it with stuffed animals.

One night strange noises floated in my open windows. It sounded like a small horse whiney punctuated by a low growl that could only be a large cat (think panther) or the hum of the engine of a UFO. I cried out for my dad.

He knelt next to me near the window as he shone a flashlight out into the darkness. The light found the curious eyes of four small screech owls, a family of them, perched just outside my room. Their calls had sounded so horrific to the ears of a 5-year-old, but once I saw them, the fear evaporated. They're here protecting you, my dad told me.


In addition to being stubborn and independent as a child, I was fat. And you know how mean kids can be. They called me "Fatty" and asked me if I was a boy or a girl. Stripped of my name and gender I receded into the background to avoid drawing more insults. I became an observer. I ached for someone to recognize I had something to contribute, even if I was ugly. I needed someone to make it safe for me to speak up.

In high school, I grew into a new body. But I stuck to my old shy habits. I was freaked out by everything new and different. And what isn't new and different about high school? Every two weeks I drove my paycheck across town to a bank near my old neighborhood. I needed to know the floor plan, the system. I didn't want to appear lost or out of control.

I couldn't tolerate scrutiny. I couldn't ask for information, couldn't sit in a restaurant alone.

In college, I wanted to be in a photojournalism program, but I chickened out. I made an appointment with a professor to look over my portfolio. On a sunny, crisp fall day my freshman year I brought a shiny black case full of prints to his office. We talked about my goals and skills for a few minutes when a group of his students brought in prints from their first assignment, still wet from the darkroom. He turned from our conversation and raged at them for not using the right filters, for making low-contrast prints and choosing "boring" things to take photos of. I took back my portfolio. He said, "Thanks for dropping by." I never went back again. I had the skills to be in the program, but not the thick skin.

So I majored in psychology to better understand my fear. I deepened my understanding of difference - of people who are sick, injured or without love. I learned about relationships, personalities and cigars.

Over the years I began to master my fear. I studied abroad for six months. One fall day in Arezzo, Italy, I found myself on another park bench, unable to walk into a store to buy boots because I didn't speak Italian. I walked for six hours up and down cobblestone streets trying to circumnavigate fear, but I kept running into it. I was exhausted, full of self-loathing. I decided to quit torturing myself, go home and brush up on my Italian. I never bought the boots.

After graduation I went into education research. A place where I could help change Texas classrooms from the refuge of a bland cubicle. I pushed paper. I wore nylons. I was bored.

Things had to change.

At the end of those eight-hour work-for-the-weekend days I would take the nylons off in the bathroom of the lobby and ride my bike to the community darkroom where I rented time on an enlarger. Energized, hours melted into the red safelight as images from weekend excursions, walking the streets of Austin and the occasional freelance job appeared in the chemistry.

I took some classes at the local community college. My print for final critique was a photo I took of a homeless man dancing in front of a stage at a concert. Everyone connected with the look of joy on his face, an emotion that defies economics.

With my camera I could use my persona of quiet observer to help others see the good in each other. With my camera I had a tool to overcome my fear - Robert Capa's imperative to get closer, a community of peers to help me get there.


It was a long road to this bench in Florida. Longer than the drive from my internship in Chicago. Longer than the drive from my school in San Francisco to Chicago.

Four years ago, I packed up my life in Texas and drove west to California. I took a buy-out from the boring job and never wore nylons again. I thought, driving out, that a grad degree in psychology was my end goal. By the time I hit New Mexico, I knew I would pursue photojournalism.

My fear of the unknown still lingers. Yet, my vulnerability is an asset, a transparent layer through which my empathy and openness are easy to see. I can be hurt, but I wish you no harm.

I still prefer a sure thing to the unknown. A structure within which I can succeed. A path within darkness from which I am ever emerging.

Being passive still feels safer than drawing attention to myself, being active in my future.

Sitting on that bench with a phone in my hand, I already knew I had the job. When the editor on the other end of the phone told me the job was mine I was elated, relived, proud. This is what I worked for all those years. Now, was I going to take what was visible, the known - or would I ask for something more and tread in that emotion I worked so hard to overcome.

In many ways that little girl on the bed, looking out at the screech owls is here today. For years I've been shining a flashlight at my life, trying to identify the source of my fears.

I know now that for me, there will always be an internal struggle. Approach the stranger. Go into the home. Be a part of the lives of other people. But I also know that when I do, when I manage to step over my fear and into the larger world, there will be beautiful pictures to make and, even more important, a life to live.