Turning Wrenches, Turning Pages: The Unexpected Road That Led Me Here 20250101_094830

The smell of grease never really leaves you. Even after all these years, I catch a whiff of it—burnt oil, metal shavings, the unmistakable scent of effort—and it takes me right back. Before I was a photographer, before I was a filmmaker, before I ever thought about telling stories through a lens, I told stories with my hands.

I was an automotive technician for 16 years. I spent most of that time under the hoods of Hondas, chasing down problems, solving puzzles made of wires and gears, fixing what was broken. The work was physical, demanding, relentless. It taught me patience. It taught me grit. And most of all, it taught me that some things are worth the fight.

So when I spent the last year and a half searching for a used car that wasn’t a rolling catastrophe, it felt a little like coming home. And when I finally found a diamond in the rough—a 2010 Lexus RX 350 with 117,000 miles—it was more than just a car. It was a project. A challenge. A reminder of the part of me that never really left.

Rebuilding Something Worth Saving

I started the way I always do—with the details. I pulled out the seats, stripped the interior, scrubbed every surface until it was cleaner than it had been in years. There’s something deeply satisfying about this kind of work, the kind where progress is immediate. Where you see the transformation happening in real time. A dull, stained carpet turns fresh again. Leather seats regain their shape. Little victories stacked on top of each other.

Then came the real work.

The maintenance was overdue, no surprise there. The transmission fluid was "lifetime" fluid, a marketing term that sounds reassuring until you realize it just means "the lifetime of the transmission, however long (or short) that may be." I manually flushed it, knowing full well most owners never bother. The valve cover gaskets were seeping, a slow leak whispering that bigger problems weren’t far behind. The spark plugs were original, long past their prime. The throttle body and MAF sensor needed cleaning. The serpentine belt needed replacing.

So I got to work.

I’d forgotten how physically demanding it all was—how much of yourself you leave behind on the job. Bruises bloomed across my hands, scratches ran up my forearms. My knuckles met metal more times than I’d like to admit. And just when I thought I was in the clear, I rolled the rear valve cover gasket on the install. A rookie mistake. One that meant doing the whole damn job over again.

Frustration set in. That old, familiar feeling. The one I knew too well from my days in the shop, when yesterday’s problems were still waiting for you in the morning, now joined by today’s fresh batch of new ones.

But here’s the thing—I don’t give up.

I learn. I get better. I keep moving forward, even when progress is so slow it seems nonexistent. Sometimes when you're struggling, when it feels like you’re making more problems than progress, you’re actually right where you’re supposed to be. Because that’s where real learning happens. That’s where you grow.

So I took a breath, rolled up my sleeves (figuratively, at least—there were too many scratches for actual sleeves), and I did it again.

The Lessons You Don't Expect to Learn

I could tell you this was just about fixing a car. But it wasn’t.

This whole process reminded me of who I was before I held a camera. The technician. The problem solver. The guy who refused to quit just because something was frustrating or painful or harder than expected.

It also reminded me of how much I’ve changed.

Being a tech was brutal—physically, mentally, emotionally. It wasn’t just about fixing cars. It was about showing up, day after day, knowing you’d get your ass kicked by something that didn’t care how tired you were. And when I walked away from that world, I didn’t realize how much of that pressure I was carrying until it was gone.

But here’s the twist: that same mindset, that same grit, that same refusal to quit? It’s what makes me a better photographer. A better filmmaker. A better storyteller.

The ability to see details others miss. The patience to work through a problem until it’s solved. The understanding that progress sometimes feels painfully slow—but as long as you keep moving forward, it is progress.

That’s the thing about experience. You don’t always know what it’s teaching you until years later, when you’re under the hood of an old Lexus, fixing problems that remind you of an old version of yourself.

And maybe, just maybe, realizing that version never really left.