This morning in Rome, as the city began to stretch awake, I wandered with no agenda. I walked with open eyes, letting the city show me what it wanted me to see. I passed layers of history, columns standing tall among buzzing vespas, and alleyways that echoed with the footsteps of millions before me. But it wasn’t the grandeur that stopped me—it was a girl.
There she was, suspended between two pillars under an ancient fountain, drawing. She was utterly lost in her world, unaware of the heavy traffic of lives and stories moving all around her. Something about that moment, that stillness inside chaos, struck me deeply. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do in some way—find a thread of focus, of creation, of meaning, amid the overwhelming noise?
Today I post early, because tonight I take part in a group exhibition of 40 women photographers here in Rome. I’m showing two pieces—two personal moments turned visual stories. Being part of this exhibition is a gift. To share space with so many women from around the world, each with a unique voice and vision, feels deeply affirming. It reminds me that the act of seeing—and of being seen—is vital to who we are.
Rome is overwhelming in its depth. You can’t just look at it—you have to listen. The city speaks through every stone, every passerby, every crack in the cobblestones. And today, for me, it spoke through a little girl, drawing her world beneath ancient gods.