Have you ever stood on a shore that made you feel like time itself was holding its breath?

By the time I reached Point Lobos that evening, I had already driven eight hours through on-and-off rain, chasing a sunset I wasn’t sure I would see. The sky grew stormy, and when I stepped out of the car the air felt sharp and cool against my cheeks. Then I saw the staircase. Natural stone, uneven and steep. With MS, every step felt like a question. Could my legs carry me? Would they hold on this shifting ground?

I took the stairs slowly, breathing prayers with each careful move. The wind tasted of salt and rain. My muscles ached, and the chill slid through my jacket as the sun dipped lower. When I finally reached the top, the world opened. The Point Lobos shoreline stretched out in front of me, cliffs glowing in soft gold, waves rolling in shades of turquoise and deep blue. Clouds, bruised with purple and rose, moved like a living ceiling.

I walked back and forth along the cliff’s edge, searching for the place that felt right. The wind pushed against me, tugging at my jacket and camera strap. When I set up the tripod, another challenge waited. Gusts shook the legs, and a light rain spattered my lens. I wiped it, adjusted the settings, and tried again. It felt a little like my own body, unsteady at times, but still standing.

As the light faded, the storm broke just enough. A thin line of sun slipped under the clouds and lit the waves and rocks with a quiet fire. I pressed the shutter and held my breath. In that moment, I knew something deeper than “I got the shot.” I knew, once again, that God was with me not in spite of the struggle, but right in the middle of it. Every shaky step up the stone stairs, every gust of wind, every doubt had become part of the beauty he was writing on that shoreline and in my heart.