What My Camera Taught Me About Empathy

By Scott Rollie Pettit

Desperation and a Camera

I didn’t pick up a camera to make art. I picked it up because I didn’t know what else to do.

I was recently out of prison. I could still smell the prison on me. The experience was still that fresh. The weight of my past surely was going to break me. Surely, I was doomed. I was also grasping at the reality of my suicide attempt which had happened during the last year. An act that left me hollow, disoriented, and unsure if I deserved to be here. I didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t know how to live.

Photography wasn’t a plan. It was a lifeline.

I remember the first time I walked the streets with a borrowed camera. I didn’t know how to adjust aperture or ISO. I didn’t know what made a “good” photo. But I knew I needed to see something, anything, that reminded me the world was still turning. That people were still living. That maybe, just maybe, I could learn to live again too.

What I didn’t expect was how the camera would change the way I saw people.

At first, I was drawn to the dramatic: neon signs, cracked sidewalks, the way city light spilled across broken glass. But slowly, I began to notice the quiet things. A woman brushing hair from her child’s face. A man sitting alone on a bench, staring into the distance. A teenager laughing with friends, trying to hide the tremble in his hands.

These weren’t just images. They were moments. And each one whispered something to me: “Look closer. There’s more here.”

The Science of Seeing and Feeling

It turns out, this shift wasn’t just emotional: it was neurological.

Recent studies in neuroscience show that when we view emotionally resonant photographs, our brains activate a network called the mirror neuron system. These neurons fire both when we perform an action and when we observe someone else performing it. They’re the biological basis for imitation, and more importantly, for empathy.

When I saw someone frown, my brain subtly mirrored their expression. When I photographed someone in pain or joy, my body responded. I wasn’t just documenting. I was participating. Photography became a way to engage my own emotional circuitry, to reconnect with the parts of myself that had gone numb.

This mirroring effect is part of what psychologists call “Theory of Mind:” our ability to imagine what someone else is thinking or feeling. Photography, especially street and documentary work, activates this capacity. It invites us to step into someone else’s shoes, even if just for a moment.

And that moment matters. Empathy begins with attention. And attention, sustained and intentional, rewires the brain.

From Isolation to Connection

When you’ve been through hell, you start to recognize the shadows in others. You see the way someone’s shoulders sag under invisible weight. You notice the flicker of fear behind a smile. You understand that pain doesn’t always scream: it often hides in plain sight.

My camera became a bridge. It allowed me to witness without intruding. To honor without exploiting. To preserve without possessing.

There was a man I photographed early on: he was sitting on the curb outside a laundromat, his hands stained with grease, his eyes distant. I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t need to. In that moment, I saw him. Not as a subject. Not as a symbol. But as a human being carrying something heavy.

I took the photo, then sat beside him. We didn’t talk much. Just shared the silence. That was enough.

Empathy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just being willing to stay.

As I kept shooting, I began to understand that photography wasn’t just helping me see others, it was helping me see myself. The man behind the lens was also someone worth witnessing. Worth honoring. Worth preserving.

Photography as a Human Universal

According to a 2021 study published in Frontiers in Psychology, photography has become a “human universal”—a behavior that transcends culture, geography, and technology. The researchers propose the “Mental Utilization Hypothesis of Photography,” which suggests that photography aligns with core human mental mechanisms, especially those related to social connection.

In other words, we take and share photos not just to remember, but to relate. To cope. To connect.

This framework helped me understand why photography felt so healing. It wasn’t just about aesthetics; it was about survival. My brain was using photography as a cognitive and emotional strategy to re-enter the social world. To re-engage with humanity. To reimagine myself as part of it.

And in doing so, I began to heal. There’s something sacred about documenting life as it is. Not as we wish it to be. Not as we’re told it should be. But as it unfolds: messy, beautiful, heartbreaking, and whole.

The Ethics of Witnessing

Empathy also means letting go of control. I can’t stage the perfect shot in the street. I have to trust the world to reveal itself. That trust (of the subject, of the moment, of myself) is what makes the image real. It’s what makes it human.

Now, when I photograph, I ask myself: Am I seeing this person, or am I truly witnessing them? Am I documenting, or am I preserving something sacred?

Empathy demands more.

It demands that we slow down. That we listen. That we resist the urge to categorize, judge, or simplify.

It demands that we stay curious. That we stay humble. That we stay human. It taught me that the most powerful images aren’t the ones with perfect lighting or flawless composition. They’re the ones that make you feel something. That make you pause. That make you remember.

They’re the ones that remind you: this person matters.

And so do you.

A Practice, Not a Feeling

Empathy isn’t just a feeling. It’s a practice. A discipline. A way of moving through the world with open eyes and an open heart.

It’s choosing to see the person behind the behavior. The story behind the silence. The humanity behind the hurt.

Photography taught me that.

It taught me that every person I pass on the street is a universe of experience. That every wrinkle, scar, and gesture carries history. That every glance is a conversation waiting to happen.

It taught me that I don’t need to fix people. I just need to witness them.

And in witnessing others, I found the courage to witness myself.

I began to photograph my own reflection; not just in mirrors, but in the people I met. In the stories I captured. In the moments I preserved.

I saw my own loneliness in the man waiting for a bus at midnight. My own longing in the child watching pigeons scatter. My own resilience in the woman dancing alone in the park.

Photography gave me language when I had none. It gave me purpose when I felt useless. It gave me connection when I felt untouchable.

It gave me empathy—not just for others, but for the broken, beautiful parts of myself.

Full Circle: What the Lens Refused to Forget

I used to think prison was the end of my story. That the concrete walls and steel bars had sealed my fate. That the suicide attempt was the final punctuation—proof that I had nothing left to offer, no reason to stay. But the camera refused to let that be true.

Photography didn’t erase those chapters. It illuminated them.

Each time I raised the lens, I was reminded of the man who once couldn’t bear to look in the mirror. The man who believed he was beyond redemption. The man who sat in a cell wondering if he’d ever feel human again. That man still lives in me. But he’s no longer alone.

The act of photographing others—of witnessing their pain, their joy, their quiet dignity—became a way to reframe my own narrative. I wasn’t just a former inmate. I wasn’t just someone who had tried to die. I was someone who had chosen to see. To stay. To feel.

There’s a photo I keep tucked away. It’s not technically impressive. The lighting is uneven, the composition imperfect. But it means everything to me. It’s a self-portrait I took in the early days—my face half in shadow, half in light. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that image captured something essential: the tension between despair and hope. Between who I was and who I was becoming.

Photography taught me that healing isn’t linear. It’s layered. It’s slow. It’s stitched together through moments of grace and grit. It’s found in the silence between shutter clicks, in the breath held before pressing the button, in the decision to walk the streets instead of hiding from them.

I’ve photographed people who remind me of the cellmates I left behind. Men with haunted eyes and calloused hands. I’ve photographed women whose laughter carries the same tremble I once felt in my own chest. I’ve seen the echoes of my own story in strangers—and instead of recoiling, I leaned in.

Because empathy isn’t just about understanding others. It’s about refusing to abandon yourself.

The camera became my mirror, my compass, my companion. It didn’t ask me to be perfect. It asked me to be present. It didn’t demand answers. It invited questions. It didn’t erase my past. It helped me carry it with tenderness.

I still think about the night I almost didn’t make it. The silence. The weight. The finality I thought I wanted. And then I think about the thousands of moments I’ve captured since—each one a testament to survival, to connection, to the radical act of staying.

Photography didn’t save me in a dramatic, cinematic way. It saved me in the smallest ways. By giving me something to hold. Something to see. Something to feel.

And in doing so, it gave me back to myself.