Oman: Where My Story Really Began

Nakhal Fort

I often think of Oman as the place where my life truly began, not in the sense of where I was born, but where everything changed.

I met my husband when we were just 19, on a night out clubbing. Somewhere between the music and chaos, he told me he was training to be a commercial pilot and would soon be moving to Oman to begin his career. At the time, it sounded like a far-off dream, his dream. I didn’t realise it would soon become mine too.

A few short years after, we were married. By late 2014, I had followed him across the world to Oman, watching him step into the career he had worked so hard for. It was exciting, but also completely overwhelming. I hadn’t even moved out of home before leaving Australia, and suddenly I was living in a new country, far away from my family, figuring out life as an adult in a place that felt so unfamiliar.

We were incredibly lucky, though. My husband has Omani heritage, which meant we had family there. They welcomed me with open arms and made a foreign place feel like home. To this day, they are people I miss deeply.

After our first year living with family, we moved into our own apartment. It didn’t take long for me to make a decision that would shape the next chapter of our lives- I signed us up to foster a local street dog… without telling my hubby of course. The next day, we picked up Lenny.

Lenny quickly became my constant companion. Over the next few years, my husband was often away for work, and it was just the two of us most of the time. It was a difficult period, I was homesick, lonely, and trying to find my place in a life that felt very different from the one I had known.

But slowly, things began to shift. I found a community within our gated compound. Other pilot wives who understood the lifestyle, the long absences, and the quiet days. We leaned on each other and filled our time together.

Because I couldn’t work on my visa, I started volunteering with animal rescue groups. I took photos of street dogs to help them get adopted, not realising at the time that this small act would spark something much bigger. That’s where my photography journey began.

I also became deeply involved in advocacy work, campaigning for more humane population control methods for street dogs and cats. I put together presentations, worked with rescue groups, and tried to use my voice to make even a small difference.

As time went on, my husband and I began travelling more, and my camera came with me everywhere. I started to see the world differently—through light, composition, and storytelling.

But then everything changed.

On one of our overseas trips, Lenny was killed in a fire at the boarding kennels where he was staying. It’s still hard to put into words the devastation I felt. He had been my constant for over two years, my comfort in a foreign country, and suddenly he was gone in the most traumatic way.

I fell into a deep depression. My mum flew all the way from Australia to be with me, something I will never be able to thank her enough for. But eventually, she had to leave, and my husband had to return to work. I was faced with the reality of being alone in an empty home, without my soul dog.

So we made a decision, we would foster again.

That’s when Cooper came into our lives. He was a tiny, skinny street dog, covered in bite marks, the only survivor from his litter after his mum was killed and his siblings starved. He needed saving, but in many ways, he saved me.

There’s something about street dogs- they live fast, harsh lives. Many don’t often make it past two years old on the streets. But their resilience is unmatched.

Cooper was full of chaotic puppy energy, so naturally, we added another foster into the mix. Arlo came first, staying just two weeks before being adopted (a win we celebrated). Then came his sister, Sadie, who never left. She became the fourth and final member of our little family.

Then COVID hit.

The world shut down, and suddenly everything became very small. Friends began returning to their home countries, and life felt uncertain again. To cope, I threw myself into other photographers courses, learning everything I could and refining my skills.

When restrictions eased, I started dragging my husband (and sometimes the dogs) on photography trips around Oman. Somewhere along the way, I fell completely in love with it.

That passion eventually led me underwater.

My first underwater photography trip was to the Daymaniyat Islands, just off the coast of Muscat. It was whale shark season, and I had searched for them before without success. But this time was different.

It felt like the ocean gave me a gift.

There were only a handful of us in the water, surrounded by whale sharks feeding. Everywhere I looked, there was another one. I would be photographing one, turn around, and another would be swimming straight toward me, and I’d have to quickly move out of the way. It was overwhelming in the most magical sense, the kind of experience that feels almost unreal.

After nearly six years in Oman, filled with both incredible highs and some of the hardest lows of my life, it was time to leave.

Getting home to Australia wasn’t simple. Because of strict import laws, we couldn’t bring the dogs directly from Oman. Instead, I flew with them to the Netherlands, where we stayed for a month. From there, we took a 16-hour pet taxi to the UK, settling in the Devon countryside for five months before finally being allowed to return home to Australia.

When we got back, life shifted again. I stepped away from photography for a while, focusing on renovating our home and simply enjoying being back. I later worked as a vet nurse, grounding myself in a different kind of care and routine.

For over 3 years my camera sat untouched mostly untouched (besides a trip to Mongolia), life was busy.

Until one trip changed everything again.

A visit to Lady Elliot Island reignited something in me. The passion came rushing back, stronger than ever, and I found myself drawn once again to underwater photography. That is a story for another day.

And just like that, a new chapter began.

But grief doesn’t neatly belong to the past.

Even now, years later, the loss of Lenny still lingers in ways I never expected. It shows up in quiet moments, and in the lead-up to every trip I take. No matter how much time has passed, I still feel a deep anxiety at the thought of leaving the dogs, even when they’re safe at home with my hubby. That sense of fear, of “what if,” never fully goes away.

This life I’m building through photography is one I love deeply. It’s given me purpose, passion, and experiences I once only dreamed of. But it also asks something of me. It asks me to leave, to step away, to trust that everything will be okay.

And sometimes, that’s the hardest part.

It’s a delicate balance, between the desire to explore the world and the weight of what travel has taken from me. Between chasing new experiences and carrying the memory of loss.

Looking back, Oman wasn’t just a place I lived, it was where I grew up. It’s where I found my independence, my resilience, my purpose, and my passion. It gave me heartbreak, healing, and direction.

It’s where my story really began.