It was raining the day I drove through the Loyalsock State Forest. That soft, steady kind of rain that blurs the edges of the trees and makes the whole landscape feel like it’s holding its breath. I was on my way to a powwow—a gathering I’d looked forward to, one I’d written about before. But this time, I was going alone.

The first powwow without my husband.

I didn’t feel particularly brave. I wasn’t chasing adventure or trying to prove anything. I went because I wanted to honor the moment, the people, the land. And, to be honest, because I didn’t want to stop going to the places we used to go together.

As I sat down later to write about that day, something rose up in me quietly—not as a dramatic realization, just a quiet question:

Who am I when no one’s watching?

It’s not the kind of question you answer right away. It’s one that stays with you.

In recent months, I’ve found myself on more road trips alone. Out photographing the sky at sunrise, standing by fences at golden hour, walking into small town diners or forest clearings without anyone beside me. And I realized—I’m not doing these things because I feel bold or independent. I’m doing them because life has shifted, and now it’s up to me to keep going.

But these moments alone have started to teach me something.

There’s a version of me that shows up when I’m alone. She’s quieter. Sometimes uncertain. But also, maybe, more honest. There’s no performance in those moments—no one to impress, no one to take care of, no script to follow.

Just me. And maybe that’s enough.

We wear so many identities—partner, parent, friend, professional—and they matter. But they’re not the whole story. When they shift, or fall away, we’re left with something much smaller, but also much truer.

So now, when I’m driving through the woods in the rain or standing in a field with my camera, I let the question sit with me:

Who am I when no one’s watching?

And I invite you to sit with it too.

You don’t need to answer it right away. Just notice who shows up in the quiet. What you feel. What you carry. And maybe even who you’re becoming.

Because sometimes, the quiet moments—when no one else is looking—are the ones that show us the most.