Does my past define me? This question has been haunting my thoughts of late, and it began when I saw the images from one of my photo shoots with Marsha Lane Foster.

The process for these therapeutic photo shoots varies a bit. Sometimes I write a piece, and Marsha and I brainstorm over images that convey that idea while attempting to be artistic without being obvious. Other times Marsha has a concept she wants to capture which I either save for future blog posts or am inspired by the image to write about in the moment. The most fascinating process, however, simply evolves during the photo shoot itself, and I am faced with images of raw emotion that cannot be denied.

Because Marsha is a good friend, and I trust her as more than just a photographer but as a confidant and all-around wonderful human being, I am comfortable in front of her camera. I let down my guard and allow myself to express my deepest thoughts and feelings, and Marsha catches them all in such a way that I am able to see the real me. Its beautifully terrifying to see these images, for if I saw any other person with those same expressions, I would be compelled to comfort them and encourage them. Seeing these emotions bleeding from my own face and body elicits the same response; I want to care for me. It is terrible and wonderful and humbling and such a gift.

During our last big shoot, I drug my sweet husband along for the ride. He was a very good sport. Anyone who knows Rick can easily understand how an exercise in self-expression could be a bit daunting for him, but he did great. The original purpose of the shoot was to produce images based on my feelings of inadequacy in relation to my soul mate. I have never felt that I deserved anyone as amazing as my husband, and have lived our entire 25 years together waiting for him to realize his mistake. Marsha was to simply work her magic and photograph the conversation during which I explained these thoughts to my husband. One of the somewhat obvious props we decided to use was a suitcase to symbolize the baggage I brought with me to our union. We also decided to use handcuffs to represent both my belief that Rick’s inflated sense of loyalty has trapped him in this marriage as well as my misconception that I am forever bound to this baggage. The idea was for Rick to unlock the handcuffs and, thus, free us both from this bondage, helping me to understand his love and his choice to remain with me.

But that is not what happened.

When Marsha started taking the pictures, and Rick started moving in to turn the key, I couldn’t let him. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that if I lost my “baggage,” I would somehow lose part of myself. As a result, I fought him. The emotions were very real, and, as usual, Marsha caught them all. When I opened the document and saw the images on my computer screen, I quickly closed my laptop. The question reached up from the pictures and slapped me right across the face,