It's What I Do: A Photographer's Life of Love and War

by Lynsey Addario

I spoke to myself out loud, a tactic I used when my inner voice wasn’t convincing enough:

It is something we discover accidentally, something that happens gradually. We get a glimpse of this unusual life and this extraordinary profession, and we want to keep doing it, no matter how exhausting, stressful, or dangerous it becomes. It is the way we make a living, but it feels more like a responsibility, or a calling. It makes us happy, because it gives us a sense of purpose.

I found that the camera was a comforting companion.

discovered the privilege of seeing life in all its complexity, the thrill of learning something new every day. When I was behind a camera, it was the only place in the world I wanted to be.

it has taught me to look beyond myself and capture the world outside.

But when I am doing my work, I am alive and I am me. It’s what I do.

could wake up on any given morning and go to almost any destination; the countries of Europe were accessible by train and inaccessible only because of my own inhibitions or fear.

I was untrained, but I began to teach myself, studying photography in books and newspapers, to see how powerful scenes could make a tired old story new again.

Something I had perceived until that moment as a simple means of capturing pretty scenes became something altogether different: It was a way to tell a story.

was lucky enough to discover something that made me happy and ambitious at an age when I couldn’t conceive of fear or failure, when I had very little to lose.

for that great epiphany of a moment, the wondrous combination of subject, light, and composition.

the inexplicable magic that made the image dive right into your heart.

I often lived with an aching emptiness inside me.

I was at that tender age when decisions about love and life seemed somehow intertwined, when the questions of whom to love and what profession to choose seemed essentially the same question: How do you want to live?

I got up before dawn; I went to bed at midnight.

I just smiled out there, alone on the balcony, and knew that this feeling could sustain me forever.

was now a photojournalist willing to die for stories that had the potential to educate people.

I wanted to see what else I could do, and for that I needed to try a different region.

My attention turned to Africa. For years I had imagined it a continent where I could lose myself in the people, the stories, the light, the colors, the heat, smell, dust, grime—and my photos.

I was still trying to figure out how to take pictures of them without compromising their dignity.

Tread lightly, be respectful, get into the story as deeply as I could without making the subject feel uncomfortable or objectified.

Over the years I forced myself to be creative in how I covered the same scenes over and over.

As ugly as the conflict was, the protagonists were beautiful, wearing brilliantly colored fabrics and, despite the persistent hardships, wide, toothy smiles.

Trying to convey beauty in war was a technique to try to prevent the reader from looking away or turning the page in response to something horrible. I wanted them to linger, to ask questions.

amazed me that all the women had the maturity and strength to love their children regardless of the circumstances out of which they were born.

I had the privilege to travel and to walk away from hardship when it became too much to bear.

The sadness and injustice I encountered as a journalist could either sink me into a depression or open the door to a new vision of my own life.

I traveled more than ever, but the concept of home became more important, more essential to my sense of balance.

The love between us was organically unconditional,

In my late teens I had made a promise to myself that every day I would push myself to do something I didn’t want to do.

I allowed myself to enjoy life only if I worked hard, if I tested my limits, if I created a lasting body of work.

freedom and exhilaration I had when I was living in the dirt in a place like Camp Vegas, where life’s utter necessities, like water, food, sleep, and staying alive, were all that mattered?

All that time, sacrifice, and commitment had been worth it.

Did our lives depend on statistical probability?

The simple image of one of us in a wooden box, after leading such a full life, was too much to bear.

because in a sense, our work was our life. It defined who we were, it wasn’t just a job we did for a living, and I needed to hold on to that for as long as I could.

It was the most incongruous, most unfair juxtaposition of life and death I had felt since I began my journey as a photographer.

had to admit, my pregnancy and the vulnerabilities of motherhood had offered me yet another window on humanity, yet another channel of understanding.

hadn’t truly understood that painful, consuming, I-will-do-anything-to-save-this-human-being kind of love.

My experience as a parent has taught me a new understanding of the subjects I photograph.

experience the worst in people but to remember the beauty.

believing that if my intentions were pure and I focused on my work, I would be OK.