So, writing a blog is somewhat of a new and inconsistent practice with me, so bear with me while I parse this out.

This past week, I was a part of the 71st annual Missouri Photo Workshop. It was something I'd wanted to do for about four years now, ever since I volunteered to be part of the crew for the first time my sophomore year of college. It introduced me firsthand to the power of local photojournalism, the value in holding up a mirror to communities and showing them pieces of themselves they may not have known existed or may not have seen in a different way for many many years. I wanted to be part of the historic legacy that this workshop leaves for the small towns of Missouri.

That being said, I knew how difficult this workshop would be; I didn't even expect to be accepted the first time I applied (I was, which was a pleasant surprise). See, here's what I've noticed: the Missouri Photo Workshop teaches unexpected lessons. Every time I volunteered to be part of the crew, I was placed in a role I hadn't initially wanted, and was always confused about why I'd been placed there – that is, until the end of the week, when I could look back on the work I'd done and found that it had in fact been the perfect place for me to be to learn new skills, meet new people and otherwise grow as a photojournalist and human being.

So perhaps I was somewhat foolish, then, knowing what I knew and still going into the workshop as if I could predict what lessons I needed to learn to succeed* in the end. Nevertheless, this is what I did. Participating in MPW – and even just applying to it – was a big point of anxiety for me in the months preceding the actual workshop, because I consider myself pretty terrible at talking to strangers. I forced myself to step forward into the role of a participant after two years of being on its crew because I saw an opportunity to force myself to talk to people and become better at finding and following up on stories.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I found a story and got it approved within the first couple days. I'd spent all day talking to people, and I felt as if I'd just stepped outside of myself a little bit. Well – perhaps not outside of myself, just into a different part of myself. Like, instead of exiting a house, just going to a different room. All in all, talking to people wasn't nearly as nerve-wracking as it had been to me prior to diving into the workshop.

Then, that story fell through. And then the next idea did. And then the next story I tried to start did. All of my problems were rooted in access other people around my subject were willing to give me – I wasn't allowed into a construction site here, a hospital there...understandably so, in most cases. All these issues were outside my personal control; I'd still found subjects who trusted me enough to allow me to photograph them, had these outside influences not existed.

Still, I felt like utter crap, like somehow it was my fault these things were happening. I was fully prepared to face my worst fear and stand in front of my classmates, faculty and professors with a table void of prints at the end of the week. By Wednesday evening, when I still hadn't found a solid story to follow, I thought I was doomed**. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't full-on panicking in my car at multiple times during the first half of the week.

Then, something magical happened. With help from the amazing faculty and crew (*ahem* especially David Rees, *ahem*), I found myself a story: the little local diner at the end of Main Street, aptly named Main Street Diner, hadn't been approached for a story yet. I spent two days (well, one and a half, because that's all I had left at that point) sitting in the diner, observing, waiting, seeing, photographing. By the end of the two days, I'd grown to love every little nook and cranny there, notice what made the place special, and (hopefully) photograph it. I'll leave you to be the judge of that last part, though. Once it's uploaded to the interwebz, I'll share that link somewhere or other on social media.

I thought I'd come in to learn how to talk to people. In the end, I'd learned that, and so much more: how to deal with failure, how to accept things that were outside of my control, and how to continue keeping an honest, compassionate mindset even when frustrated out of my mind. An extra perk? I don't think I'll ever be afraid of feature hunting again. This workshop gave me tools I didn't know I needed and showed me how far I have to grow from here (and it's a lot...which is never a bad thing).

Thank you, to everyone who made this workshop possible: Ethan Weston, Zhihan Huang, Jim Curley, Brian Kratzer, David Rees and all the faculty and folks on my team; without your guidance, wise words and impressive time committment, I couldn't have even stepped into Boonville feeling like I could do this. To all the crew, especially Jennifer Mosbrucker, Madison Parry, Maddie Davis, Amanda Lee, Army Feffer and Tristen Rouse: You were my emotional anchor during that week. You understood what I needed and loved and supported me through it, all the while doing your crew jobs fabulously. I will always be grateful for your kinship. And finally, to the people who participated alongside me for MPW 71: you all inspire me to be a better photojournalist and human being. Thank you.

*Success is relative; my goals are different from others' goals, and I personally defined success this week as "make pictures that wouldn't embarrass me, my faculty or the professors who'd so lovingly cultivated me as a photojournalist for the past five years.

**Pardon the drama, but it certainly did feel that way. This workshop means the world to me.