In 2019, just after graduating from the University of Georgia, I was offered a full ride to a three-year MFA program. It seemed like the natural next step—I wanted to become a full-time visual artist.

But after many sleepless nights, I declined. I told friends and family the same thing I said to the MFA program, “I want to explore the world and seek real-life experiences. I’m afraid academia might sterilize my work.”

Though I wasn’t exactly sure what I meant by “real-life experiences,” I’d romanticized adventure and the unknown—places and people I hadn’t met. I hoped to live a life rich with spirituality and self-discovery, so I could pour that richness into my art.

Six years later—after teaching in Colorado, Spain, and New York City—I realized I’d lost sight of that plan.

Have you ever walked down an unintended path, not because you couldn’t turn back, but out of inertia? That was me.

The dream of becoming an artist began to feel out of reach—something I could aspire to but never truly attain.

Then I found a job as a Facilitator for the StoryCorps Mobile Tour program.

Working for StoryCorps feels like a fever dream, where time blurs and people come and go like shadows.

One man who sat in the mobile booth still haunts my mind. Wrongfully incarcerated for 60 years in Angola—the bloodiest prison in America—he had no resentment or anger, only hope. At 80, all he wanted was to find the love of his life.

Listening to his soft voice, emotion poured out of me unexpectedly. I couldn’t stop crying that night. How can the world be so cruel? I asked myself. But he didn’t ask that question. He was simply grateful to have made it out and cherished the life he had left. Even after losing his entire family, he smiled, dressed in his favorite outfit and golden chains.

Other voices echo in my mind—like a man who wished to escape himself and his feelings of inadequacy—until he realized you can’t outrun yourself. You must face and embrace who you are without judgment.

He’s now a successful artist in the Utah desert, where the wind animates his sculptures. His gray hair suits the childlike wonder he still carries.

Collecting stories teaches me about myself—through the lives of others, their joy, pain, and everything between.

I never had grandparents to tell me stories, so I found stories to call my own—ones I hope to tell my grandchildren someday.

Life on the road is raw and philosophical, but also solitary, pushing me to find refuge within myself.

At nights, I’ve found myself in Kentucky, the desert of St. George, or a loft near the Edmund Pettus Bridge—looking out with a suitcase and restless excitement to forge my path.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there is no “normal” path.

I’ve met people who found love in their 40s, spent all their savings to see the world one last time after losing their sight, and who found home in foreign lands.

So now I’ve been wondering: why write my story in stone, when it’s still being written?

“I crave real-life experiences,” I typed six years ago to the MFA office I declined.

I’m now at the end of my one-year StoryCorps contract, carrying my own story and wisdom from those who shared theirs.

I’m a more complete human—and a better artist, unafraid of mistakes because they add color to stories.

I never attended grad school, but I’m about to graduate—from story collector to storyteller.

Thank you to those who made this journey possible, to the storytellers who understand the power of a story, and to the MFA program I once declined: thank you for believing in me. I believe in myself now, too.

It only took a trip around the world—and back—and a pair of listening ears.

Joan brings curiosity, empathy, and a deep sense of presence to the StoryCorps Mobile Tour. As a facilitator, he guides participants through their conversations, helping them feel seen, heard, and supported while capturing stories that might otherwise go untold.

His approach is rooted in the belief that every voice matters, and that listening closely to the experiences of others can reveal universal truths about resilience, hope, and human connection. 

On the road, Joan doesn’t just record stories—he witnesses them, carrying the lessons and perspectives of each conversation with him as he travels from town to town.