Damilare Abiodun

In November 2008, I lost my father. His passing marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life — one filled with uncertainty and challenges that would eventually shape who I am today.

I didn't know it then, but that loss became the first page of a story God was still writing.

Along the way, a woman from the United States came into my life — someone I would come to call my American mum. She supported my education from primary school all the way through university, believing in a future for me long before I could see it myself.

Among the things she sent were disposable and pocket cameras. She encouraged me to capture moments — everyday life, family, my surroundings, ordinary experiences. At the time it felt simple. Looking back, she was placing a seed in my hands.

Those small cameras taught me to notice. Long before photography became my work, it was quietly becoming my way of seeing the world.

Growing up separated from my parents, losing my father at a young age and living with relatives left its mark. For years I wrestled quietly with questions of identity and belonging — unsure of where I fit, or who I was becoming.

But that search, as difficult as it was, became the ground where something deeper grew. Healing came slowly, through faith, through people who saw more in me than I saw in myself, and through a growing sense that my life had not been preserved by accident.

I began to learn that identity is not something we invent. It is something we discover.