Radiates|| Round here

“Round here, we always stand up straight / Round here, something radiates…”
—Counting Crows

There are stories we inherit.
Stories we rewrite.
And stories we finally become brave enough to tell—without needing them to match anyone else’s version.

In recent years, I’ve had to confront what happens when the truth becomes inconvenient…
When pain is repackaged to protect legacies…
And when love is made conditional on staying quiet or toeing the company line.

What do we do when the version of family we once believed in starts to unravel—
When the people we looked to for shelter become strangers in their own stories?

I’ve seen this not just in myself, but in people I care about—their marriages, their children, their parents—fractures no one talks about, but everyone feels.

And there's a kind of ache that doesn’t ask for answers anymore.
It just asks for peace. Round Here isn’t just a photo. It’s a feeling. A remembering.

It reminds me of the silence between people who once knew each other.
Of how grief can live just beneath love.
And how the hardest goodbyes aren’t loud—they’re quiet. Slow. Like fading light.

This post isn’t about blame.
It’s not about resolution, either.

It’s about the strange grace that comes when you stop forcing healing where there’s no honesty—and start choosing your own peace.
Your truth.

Sometimes the bravest thing isn’t confrontation.
It’s release.

In the quiet spaces between the noise, I’ve learned something important:
Healing doesn’t always look like reconciliation.
Sometimes, it’s simply naming the pain.
Accepting the past.
And walking forward with open hands—even if you’re walking alone.

This journey has been one of unspoken roads—paths not taken, conversations left unsaid, and relationships redefined.
But in the stillness, there is clarity.
In the letting go, there is freedom.

“She says, ‘I know it's only in my head.’ / But the girl on the car in the parking lot says: man, you should try to take a shot. Can't you see my walls are crumbling?”

These lyrics echo something real—something I’ve lived.
The pressure to hold things together.
To stay inside someone else’s version of the truth.
But also the quiet pull toward authenticity, even when it costs you connection.

Photography helps me hold that tension.
It lets me capture what I can’t always say.
Each image is a reflection—not just of where I’ve been, but of what I’ve chosen to carry… and what I’ve chosen to set down.

It also honors those who’ve shaped me, even when their part in my story was complicated.
As they say, we are the sum total of everyone we’ve ever met.

But I’ve come to understand this too:
As much as the human spirit craves connection…
In the end, this is our life.
Not theirs.
Not anyone else’s.

Every day we wake up, we alone are responsible for how we choose to live.

There’s a certain silence that settles between people who once knew each other.
Not the silence of peace—but of pause.
Of avoidance.
Of rewriting.

And at some point, you stop trying to correct the record.
You stop chasing the why.
You stop waiting for someone to come back with clarity.

And instead…
You start telling your own story.

This isn’t bitterness.
It’s recognition.
That sometimes, the door stays closed—not from hate, but from preservation.
That healing doesn’t always look like a reunion.
And sometimes the most radical act of love is the choice not to go back to what broke you.

Art has been my way through the hard parts.
It gives shape to things unsaid.

This post—this photo, these lyrics—isn’t an explanation.
It’s a witness.

Why the Bridge—the Beautiful Golden Gate?

Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to meet some truly prominent people. Every so often, someone will ask, “What’s one of the most memorable moments you’ve had in the presence of fame?”

And funny enough, I always think of the same thing.

It’s not a person.
It’s a place.
A presence.

The Golden Gate Bridge.

I was sixteen, flying from Boston to San Francisco—my first time on an airplane. I just went for it. BOS to SFO, across this vast country. I remember landing and feeling like I had stepped onto another planet. Northern California was unlike anything I had ever known.

I’d seen the bridge in schoolbooks, magazines, movies, and TV. But standing in front of it for the first time? It wasn’t just impressive—it was awe-inspiring. A kind of reverence filled me that I still remember.

Maybe it was also the fact that my uncle had moved from Boston to San Francisco, which made him feel like a bit of a celebrity in our family. And somehow, this place—his place—felt larger than life.

In 1994, I came back to the Bay to attend a semester of college and work an internship.
Same bridge. Same awe. But now I was older. Beginning to shape my own identity.

And then, after 20 years of dreaming and planning, my family and I finally moved here.
Same beautiful bridge—but now it felt like an old friend.

This bridge has been with me through every version of myself.
From a teenager visiting for the first time… to a parent raising a teenager of my own.
It’s been a constant.
A landmark, yes—but also a witness.

I’ve seen it through the eyes of a boy, a student, a husband, a father.
And in each season of life, it has met me with the same quiet strength.

San Francisco has always carried a sense of home for me—maybe because my grandmother was born and raised here. Maybe because so many of my formative memories are tied to this place. And while they say never meet your heroes, the Golden Gate has never let me down.

When friends visit, I’m proud to introduce them to this big, rust-colored suspension bridge of a friend.
It’s one of the few things that’s remained solid through all the change.

Back in 1994, Counting Crows’ “Round Here” was playing everywhere. The emotion in Adam Duritz’s voice, the lyrics, the weight of it all—it matched my life perfectly.
The perfect storm of coming-of-age, of letting go, of becoming.
And through it all, the bridge stood—like it always does.

I’ve taken countless photos of the Golden Gate over the years. From the Marin Headlands. From distant hillsides. From long-range perspectives out on the bay.
But this one—this photo—is different.

It’s taken looking up.
Not from afar. Not detached.
But from right underneath—camera in hand—still in awe, just like the first time we met.

“Round here, something radiates…”
Even now.
Maybe especially now.

ICON: Counting Crows – "Round Here"

As a fan of Counting Crows since their debut album, it's not an exaggeration to say their music has become part of the soundtrack of my life. I’ve seen them live many times, and each show has left a lasting impression.

The last time I saw them, I was side-stage—thanks to some generous friends from the band Live. I stood just ten feet from Adam Duritz backstage. He was deep in conversation with friends, and even though I’ve never been shy about saying hello, this time felt different.

Maybe it’s because his music has meant so much to me over the years, or maybe it’s that strange familiarity we feel with artists who have helped us make sense of our own emotions. In that moment, I didn’t need to interrupt. I felt like I already knew him—and sometimes, that’s enough.
So instead, I’ll say it here: Thank you—for the beautiful music, for the lyrics that hit deep, and for giving us one of my favorite songs of all time.

“Round Here,” the opening track of August and Everything After, isn’t just a song—it’s a mood, a mirror, a slow-burning unraveling of what it means to grow up and try to hold yourself together in a world that keeps asking you to fall apart.

Adam Duritz wrote the song during his time with his previous band, The Himalayans. According to an interview with Glide Magazine, the lyrics were largely improvised in a jam session—spoken straight from instinct. When he listened back, most of what you hear now was already there. Only light edits followed.

Duritz has described “Round Here” as a reflection of the loneliness and confusion of young adulthood—the way we often rely on second-hand advice and tired clichés when we’re struggling to make sense of ourselves. The characters in the song cling to mantras that no longer work. It’s about watching someone disappear into themselves, becoming more of a memory than a person.

That theme—searching, losing, evolving—echoes throughout August and Everything After. And “Round Here” captures it perfectly.

While “Mr. Jones” is widely known as Counting Crows’ breakout hit, Duritz has said that it was “Round Here” that truly launched their career. Before “Mr. Jones” took off on radio, the band performed “Round Here” on Saturday Night Live and The Late Show with David Letterman—introducing audiences to a sound that was both raw and poetic.

To this day, “Round Here” remains one of Adam Duritz’s most meaningful songs. It’s alive—it changes with every live performance, shaped by the moment and the energy of the crowd. He’s known to stretch and rework lyrics on stage, letting the song evolve just as we do.

That’s part of its power.

Duritz once said that his goal has always been to write songs that are emotionally true in the moment—and if that moment changes, the song should be allowed to change too. “Round Here” is a perfect example of that commitment. It meets us where we are, again and again.

More than a song, “Round Here” is a reflection—a piece of art that captures the ache and beauty of becoming. It’s a song you grow with. And if you let it, it will grow with you.