Oman: Where My Story Really Began

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 the government 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. But behind all of that was a very simple, powerful motivation: if Lenny deserved to be safe, loved, and seen, then so did they all.

As time went on, my husband and I began travelling more, and my camera came with me everywhere. What started as something small quickly became a constant, something I reached for instinctively wherever we went. 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. The freedom we had been living with disappeared almost overnight. I was already in the middle of grief, and then, one by one, I began losing my friends too. Not in the same way, but to distance, as they returned to their home countries. Goodbyes came quickly, and life felt uncertain all over again.

To cope, I turned inward. I threw myself into photography courses, spending hours learning, practicing, and refining my skills. It gave me something to hold onto, a sense of direction when everything else felt out of control. In a time where the world felt paused, it gave me a way to keep moving forward.

When restrictions finally began to ease, I felt this pull to get back out into the world again, even if it was just within Oman. I started dragging my husband (and sometimes the dogs) on little photography trips; chasing light, exploring new places, and putting everything I had been learning into practice.

And somewhere in those quiet adventures, something shifted. What had started as a way to cope slowly became something much more. I wasn’t just learning photography anymore, I was falling 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, always hoping, always coming up empty. So I tried not to expect too much this time.

But this time was different.

It felt like the ocean gave me a gift, like a quiet moment of grace when I needed it most.

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, completely in awe, then turn around and find another gliding straight toward me, so close I’d have to quickly move out of the way. It was constant, surreal, almost impossible to take in all at once.

And in that moment, suspended in the water, surrounded by something so much bigger than me, I felt it again, that same feeling I had when I first picked up a camera.

A sense of wonder. A sense of purpose.

In many ways, I had just started to find my rhythm again. Photography had become something meaningful, something that gave me purpose after grief, uncertainty, and years of searching for direction. I was beginning to feel that connection again, seeing the world through that familiar lens of curiosity and intention, starting to rebuild the creative part of myself that had carried me through so much.

And then, just as it was settling, life shifted again.

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 also started working as a vet nurse, staying close to animals in a more steady, everyday way.

For over 3 years my camera sat 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 (this is a story for another day.)

And just like that, a new chapter began.

But grief and trauma don’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.

But when I really reflect on it, I’m reminded that this path began with something simple: a camera, a group of street dogs, and a quiet hope that a photo might help them be seen. Photography, for me, was never just about creating beautiful images, it was about giving a voice to those who didn’t have one.

That’s something Lenny gave me. And it’s something I carry forward.

Because now, as my world expands beyond those early days, I feel that same pull again, to use my photography with purpose. Only this time, my focus is shifting toward the ocean. Toward marine life, toward sharks, toward a world that is so often misunderstood, forgotten, and in need of its own advocates.

The fear of loss hasn’t left me. If anything, it’s shaped me. It’s made me more aware of how fragile and precious life is, whether it’s a street dog on the side of the road or a shark beneath the surface.

And maybe that’s the thread that ties it all together.

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 I found my voice.

It’s where my story really began.

In loving memory of Lenny, the one who started it all.