MMS 173 ASSIGNMENT 6: END BLOG - ONE SHOT SUMMARY
HELLO!
In this final reflection, I chose a single image to encapsulate everything MMS 173 meant to me, a journey of seeing, feeling, failing, and growing. More than a technical summary, this photograph symbolizes quiet strength, inner change, and the power of noticing. Through this one-shot summary, I look back at the goals I set, the fears I faced, and the moments that reshaped my understanding of photography, and of myself. This isn't just a picture. It's a turning point.
Brave as a Dying Sun
As Tom Ang once said, “A picture can be worth far more than a thousand words.” But not every picture screams to be understood by others. Some whisper only to you, echoing truths you’ve long buried beneath layers of calm. That’s what this image is for me.
They say sunsets are romantic. That they’re peaceful, poetic, soft. But to me, this one felt different. It wasn’t gentle, it was heavy, like something final. Like something letting go.
I remember standing there, camera in hand, but more importantly, heart in pieces. That sky burned like it had something to say, like it knew the quiet wars I was fighting inside. The water reflected it all too well: smooth, unbothered on the surface, but beneath it? Chaos. Weight. Questions that never got answers. Emotions I never gave names.
At first glance, it's simple. A sunset. A boat. Tranquil waters. The kind of scene you scroll past a thousand times on social media. But to me, this isn’t just a sunset, it’s a slow exhale. A gentle surrender to endings that aren’t always tragic, but necessary. It’s not about aesthetics. It’s about what I’ve endured to even notice the beauty in something as fleeting as golden light on water.
This photo holds a quiet rebellion against despair. You see, sunsets are not just beautiful, they're brave. They burn as they die. They give everything in their final breath of the day. I see that in myself now. For so long, I feared joy. Because every high was followed by a fall. A cycle that made me question whether the light was worth it if nightfall always came after.
The water here—calm, yes—but only on the surface. That’s how most of us move through life. You never see the storm beneath. You don’t see the parts of me that still gasp for air below—the trauma, the self-doubt, the exhaustion from treading emotional waters that never seem to still. It’s deep. It’s dark. It’s endless.
And then there was the boat.
Small. Silent. Still. Not going anywhere. Not lost, just... waiting.
Unremarkable to most. But to me, it’s everything. It’s what keeps me from sinking. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s still here. Because I’m still here. I’ve weathered storms, capsized in grief, floated in numbness. But I’ve stayed afloat. My boat, this fragile vessel of will and memory and healing, endures. That boat, without an anchor, without sails, wasn’t weak. It was surviving. Quietly. And that takes more strength than most will ever understand.
And in the distance, the silhouette of the mountains stands quiet, watching. They remind me of the climb. The illusion that once I reach the top, everything will be okay. But peaks aren’t permanent. Life dips again. You rise, you fall, and sometimes, you rest in the in-between. That’s where I am now.
You see, people don’t talk about the weight of beauty. How even the most golden light can ache. Because when something is that beautiful, all you can think is, What if this doesn’t last? What if it’s just a brief flicker before everything goes dark again?
And maybe that’s the truth I needed to face. Maybe life is made up of these fleeting, in-between moments—the ones that don’t demand attention, but quietly stitch us back together. Maybe healing doesn’t look like climbing mountains or breaking free. Maybe it looks like floating. Like watching the sun burn out while knowing you’ll still be here when it rises again.
So no, this picture isn’t just a sunset. It’s a moment I stopped hiding from myself. A memory of stillness. The grace in letting the sun set. The courage in sitting still while the dark comes. A testament to surviving the dark without knowing when the light will come back.
It’s not just beautiful—it’s honest. And sometimes, that’s more powerful than anything else.
And tomorrow? I’ll rise again.
Held Together by a Boat and Burning Sky
One of the most profound takeaways from this course, something I now deeply value, is the power of storytelling. But before I speak about that, I want to take a moment to look back at where I began.
As I’ve shared in a previous blog, photography was something I appreciated from a distance. I admired the beauty in well-composed images, often wondering how photographers managed to capture such striking moments. I was intrigued, but I never really pursued it seriously. It was more admiration than intention. At the time, the idea of being behind the lens felt distant, something for others, not quite for me. I never imagined I’d find myself in a program that would make it a part of my journey. And yet, life quietly led me here, and I’m genuinely grateful it did.
When I was planning out my BAMS program, I saw MMS 173 listed. Just reading the course name sparked excitement. I began researching, wondering if I needed a professional camera. But reality set in, I couldn’t afford one. So, I made a choice: to make the most of what I had. My phone became my lens, and I resolved to use it with purpose, not limitation.
By the time I finally enrolled in MMS 173, I carried with me both excitement and ambition. I set high expectations. I didn’t want to just learn how to take better pictures, I wanted to understand. I wanted to see the world more intentionally, to train my eyes and heart to capture what words often fail to express. I was drawn not just to technique, but to meaning. I wanted to tell stories.
From the very first lesson, it became clear: photography is far more than pressing a button. It’s vision. It's intent. It’s the marriage of technical knowledge and personal truth. Learning the elements and principles of photography, the rules of composition—these weren’t just academic terms. They were the foundation of a new way of seeing. I was relieved that the lessons didn’t bombard me with jargon; instead, they built me up from the basics, nurturing creativity rather than overwhelming it. And even with just my phone, I began to apply them. It was transformative. Suddenly, light wasn’t just brightness, it was emotion. Framing wasn’t just placement, it was perspective. Everything carried weight.
Then came our first assignment. It asked me to look inward, to reflect on my own work, my own “why.” That’s when something shifted. These weren’t just random photos I had taken out of impulse or boredom. I began to realize: I had always seen something in those moments. I just hadn’t known how to name it before. Emotion. Memory. Growth. Each image, even the imperfect ones, held fragments of who I was and who I was becoming. Through this reflection, I started to understand that imperfection doesn’t weaken a photo, it gives it soul. It tells the truth.
Then came the first quiz. I remember how anxious I was, overthinking, preparing intensely, going through the materials over and over again, worried that I’d have to memorize a mountain of concepts. But when I finally took it, I realized something unexpected: it wasn’t about memorization. It was about understanding. Application, not regurgitation. That difference mattered to me. For once, learning wasn’t a chore, it was meaningful. It felt aligned with how learning should be: rooted in experience. Because when you apply what you’ve learned, it stays with you. It becomes part of how you see, think, and create.
The second assignment offered another kind of lesson, humility and inspiration. It allowed me to view my classmates’ work, and it felt like a wake-up call. Their photos weren’t just technically impressive, they were emotionally resonant. I saw pieces of their inner worlds, captured in light and shadow. At first, it felt like a slap, not in a discouraging way, but as a reminder that artistry requires effort. Their images reflected thought, depth, and heart. And while some works felt more raw or still-developing, the courage to express, to try, to grow, it was all there. It made me want to be more intentional with every frame I took. It fueled my desire to improve, to connect more deeply with what I was trying to say through each image.
The assignments also included creating an e-portfolio, a task that challenged me both creatively and technically. From layout to content, it took time and energy. But it was more than a requirement. It was practice. A process of self-curation, of deciding which moments mattered and how to present them. It taught me that photography isn’t just about what you shoot, it’s also about how you share.
Then came Unit II, where things began to shift more technically. I dived into the exposure triangle, experimented with silky water effects, night photography, portraiture, and more. This unit consumed most of my time, not because it was burdensome, but because it was captivating. I failed, tried again, failed better. I experimented endlessly with light, shutter speed, and ISO. At times, it felt confusing. But it was also the most enjoyable part of the journey. It gave me a newfound appreciation for how precision and creativity intertwine.
The Midpoint Blog marked a moment of reflection. I looked back on how much I had grown, how I had started to see differently. Not just technically, but emotionally. I wrote about how I became more experimental, more open to failure, and more intentional. How I had begun to learn not just from lessons and readings, but from my peers, from trial and error, from the world itself. It was like waking up to a new version of myself.
Then came the face-to-face meeting, an experience I had longed for after years of online learning. I left home early, only to be caught in campaign traffic, which made me late. I feared the atmosphere might be intimidating, especially as an introvert unfamiliar with my groupmates. At first, it was. But over time, we found rhythm. We connected. The interaction felt human, warm, and real. It was a reminder that learning isn’t just about screens and modules, it’s also about shared spaces, shared energy.
Assignment 4, the Bucket List, was another turning point. I had often postponed creative exploration, overwhelmed by academic tasks. But this assignment gave me the push I needed. It was freeing, capturing motion, patterns, flowers, height, and night scenes. It helped me solidify my grasp of the exposure triangle and encouraged me to step outside my usual habits. It reminded me of the joy of simply trying.
Unit III took us into post-processing, an area I naturally leaned on, especially since I didn’t have a high-end camera. I often relied on editing to enhance dull lighting or correct technical flaws. But the modules and discussions reshaped my mindset. I began to see post-processing not as a crutch, but as a finishing touch. Good execution should come first. Editing, I realized, should enhance, not compensate.
Then came Assignment 5b: the self-portrait. It felt vulnerable. Awkward. Uncomfortable. I disliked how I looked, how I posed. But I sat in front of the camera anyway. I clicked the shutter again and again. And in that repetitive act, something shifted. This wasn’t just a photography task, it was a confrontation with myself. Every angle I tried, every lighting choice, was a small act of courage. I began to understand not just how I looked, but how I wanted to be seen. In the end, my final photo wasn’t about perfection. It was about presence. About showing up. About patience, acceptance, and growth.
Throughout the course, the synchronous sessions added another layer of connection. They gave space for exchange, for laughter, insights, and questions. Hearing my classmates’ voices, their thoughts, and their interpretations made the learning experience richer. I didn’t just learn from my professor; I learned from everyone in that virtual room.
Now, as I reach the final blog, I feel full. This course unfolded more than just lessons, it unfolded me. From the anxious student at the start to someone who now holds a camera with intention, I see how far I’ve come.
There were moments I wish I had done more, given myself time to explore, pushed past hesitation, and embraced creativity without waiting for the "right time." Sometimes, I let other responsibilities pull me away from what could have been deeper discoveries. And while the class was thoughtfully guided, a bit more structure in feedback might have helped me grow even further.
As for the photo that sums it all up, I chose this image of a boat resting in the stillness of sunset. It may seem simple, but it holds everything this course meant to me, calm amidst learning, reflection within motion. It wasn’t staged, just captured in a moment of presence. That boat mirrors my journey: drifting with uncertainty at first, then slowly finding direction. It reminds me that growth doesn’t always roar; it can arrive quietly, like light spilling over the water, changing everything without saying a word. There were challenges, yes. But what I gained? It goes beyond grades or technical skills.
Because what I discovered, what I now carry forward, is storytelling.
Photography, I’ve learned, is more than capturing what’s in front of you. It’s capturing what’s within you. It’s the art of noticing. Of honoring emotion. Of freezing moments that carry meaning, even if no one else sees it. This course taught me that every image has the potential to hold a story, not a loud one, not always obvious, but a whisper of truth, a reflection of self.
And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve learned: that sometimes, the most powerful stories are told not in words, but in light, in silence, in stillness, and in the courage it takes to press the shutter and say, this is how I see the world.