The Walk That Wasn’t Mine

by Nathaniel Flauger | Eternal Moment Photography

Part 1: Seventeen Years Stiff

I started working when I was sixteen.
Sabre Lanes—bowling alley floors sticky with soda, the sharp hum of pinsetters, the quiet rhythm of routine. I learned to bartend there. Cook greasy burgers on a flattop. Fix jammed lanes and broken conversations.

I stayed six years, left, came back, floated through the next decade on a tide of hourly wages and hope that maybe something would eventually click.

I sold shoes.
I served banquets.
I worked in hotels—got fired from one.
Sprayed yards for mosquitoes.
Photographed kids in front of backdrops they didn’t choose.

And in between it all, I showed up for my daughter—my reason, my root. Abigail.

Each job gave me just enough to stay afloat, never enough to move forward.
And through all of it, I walked the same way: stiff. Braced. Neck up, eyes alert.
Not curious—cautious. Like I was always scanning for the next threat.
Like my body didn’t trust the ground under it.

Because deep down, I didn’t.

The world teaches you early to watch your back when you’re just getting by.
You don’t walk in confidence when your paycheck barely covers groceries.
You don’t walk in peace when every smile feels like a mask, every boss’s praise like a hook waiting to pull you back in.

Seventeen years of labor.
Of clocking in for someone else’s dream.
Of feeling my time swallowed by people who could replace me in a day—
While my soul whispered that I was meant for more.

Part 2: The Shift

In October 2024, I found myself working at a camera store.

At first, it felt like a step closer to what I loved—photography.
I got discounts on gear, picked up knowledge, started building out my tools.

But the more time passed, the more I realized I wasn’t building me.

I was still standing behind a counter, waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure.

I watched families come in and spend thousands.
I explained lenses. Taught settings. Smiled.
And all the while, I felt this ache growing.

Because I wasn’t just helping them—I was ready to be them.
Ready to be the one doing the work, making the images, telling the stories.

Instead, I was earning $12 an hour under fluorescent lights, surrounded by gear I knew how to use—but couldn’t afford to waste my time not using.

There were family dynamics in that store, too.
Tensions unspoken. Frustrations worn on faces.
A son with a constant scowl. A manager by title but not by grace.
I carried their moods in my bones like extra weight.

Every shift left me tired in places sleep couldn’t reach.

And then something shifted.

Not in the job. In me.

I started working out more—building my legs, strengthening my core.
Nothing dramatic at first. Just movement.

But with each workout, I noticed something was changing.
Not just how I looked—how I walked.

My posture shifted.
My glutes activated.
My midsection held me up.

I wasn’t just walking.
I was inhabiting my body.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was on the lookout for danger.
I felt grounded. Present. Mine.

It made me realize:
I didn’t need the job.
I didn’t need the mask.
I didn’t need to stay small.

What I needed—was to leave.

Part 3: The Walk That’s Mine Now

On April 19, 2025—Bicycle Day, no less—I walked out of that camera store for the last time.

Sold a camera and a lens to a family on the way out.
Taught a 10-year-old boy how to shoot in manual.
Showed him shutter, aperture, ISO. Explained the histogram.

Gave him the kind of guidance I wish someone had given me at that age.

It was the perfect full-circle moment.

And then—I walked.
Not out of obligation.
Not out of exhaustion.

Out of choice. Out of truth.

I walked in my body like it belonged to me.
No stiffness. No tension. Just presence.
My core engaged. My glutes carrying power.
My neck no longer scanning for what might go wrong—
But relaxed, open to what might go right.

I walked like a man with a purpose.
Like someone who no longer needs to "retire,"
Because he’s finally doing the thing he was born to do.

I walked like someone who carries faith—
Not because he sits in a pew,
But because he walks in the light.

Because he is the light.

I don’t need a cathedral to find Christ.
I walk in church every day.
My movement is my prayer.
My photography is my ministry.
My presence—real, unmasked, awake—is the offering.

I didn’t leave work.
I left servitude.

I didn’t quit.
I claimed.

And now?

Now I walk the world as myself.