Where Our Food Begins: Photographing the Hands That Grow It

Recently, I photographed something really close to my heart — my parents planting potatoes and onions in their village garden. It's a quiet plot just about a 10-minute drive from their home, nestled in another village, and though the day was a bit rainy and cold, there was this undeniable beauty everywhere — the kind that only spring can bring. Trees were blooming, the soil smelled rich and alive, and the birds were calling out like they knew the season was waking up again.

This wasn’t just a spontaneous photo opportunity. I went there with the intention to capture a small piece of my family’s life — something for our albums, something just for us. It’s hard to put into words how much I value these moments. In a time where fewer and fewer people in my generation have gardens or even know how food grows, I feel incredibly lucky to still be part of this rhythm — planting, working, watching things grow.

Seeing my parents work that land, hands deep in the soil, was both humbling and inspiring. They do so much with their garden — it’s not just for themselves, but also for me and even the neighbors. That kind of giving and self-sufficiency feels rare these days. Watching them, I felt a mix of pride and gratitude that’s hard to explain. I knew I had to preserve it, not just with my eyes, but through the lens too.

Honestly, I dream of having a big garden of my own one day — full of vegetables, herbs, berries and animals. City life doesn’t call to me the way the land does. Being surrounded by nature, by growth, by silence — that’s the life I want. So each time I get to witness my parents tending to their garden, it’s like I’m getting a glimpse into that dream. And every time I help them — even in small ways — I learn something new.

We often take food for granted, especially when it just appears neatly packaged in supermarkets. But to grow it, to know the story behind each potato or onion — that’s something else entirely. It's a kind of luxury that isn’t talked about enough. Natural, homegrown food is a treasure. It feeds your body, but it also feeds your soul. And I’m so grateful my parents have passed that value down to me, even if I don’t have my own land — yet.

This little photo story is my thank-you to them. A way of saying “I see you, I appreciate you, and I’ll remember this.” Maybe one day I’ll look back at these photos from my own garden, and smile at the memory of how it all started — with muddy boots, cold hands, and two people quietly teaching through action.

The photos are below — a mix of dirt, green sprouts, warm jackets, and love. I hope they make you feel even a little of what I felt that day.

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