In August 2025, a fight with my father left my right hand torn open by wooden splinters — the aftermath of a moment I didn't know how to contain. Over the following year, I photographed my hand: the raw wound, the splinters working their way out, the bruising fading, the scars settling in. Watching my hand heal through a lens changed something in how I saw myself and the complicated love I carry for my family. What began as a document of an injury became a document of grief, and a new way of seeing the family I came from.
For months I kept the work private, afraid of what photographs of a damaged hand and a broken door might say about me. When I finally showed it to a close friend, I understood this work was never only mine. The weight of an unresolved relationship with a father, the shame that follows — these are not private ex