I'm Ian Miller Kavin. People who know me call me Ian.

They see a guy with an American name, an American accent, maybe a little too tall to blend in easily on the crowded streets of Chiang Mai. They assume I'm just another foreigner who ended up in Thailand for the weather, the food, or maybe the Instagrammable temples. But most of them don't know that my story didn't begin here — and it didn't begin in the U.S. either. It began somewhere in between.

I was born in Austin, Texas — a city of cowboy boots and live music, where my dad, Mark Kavin, grew up. But before I could even walk, we were boarding a plane across the world to my mother's hometown in northern Thailand. That's where I grew up. That's where I learned to ride a motorbike before I learned how to drive a car. That's where I ate sticky rice with mango under a bamboo roof during monsoon season. That's where I became… me.

But who exactly am I?
Well… I'm a 26-year-old boy — yes, I'll say boy, not man — because sometimes I feel like I never really grew up. I still live with my parents in the same modest house tucked behind the jasmine trees my grandfather planted. Every morning, I wake up at 8 a.m., not to head off to a fancy office or chase some grand dream, but to take care of things around the house. My dad's away most of the time for work, and my mother — my mâe — needs someone now more than ever.

She had a stroke last year. It changed everything. One side of her body is weak, her words slower than before, but her eyes… they still hold the same fierce love. She used to sing while cooking breakfast. Now I hum those tunes quietly while stirring her porridge. Some days, I feel like I'm holding the pieces of our family together with thread, pretending it's all fine when it's not.

I have a younger sister, Mayuree Miller. She's the one who's working, building her career, chasing goals. And then there's me — the guy who finished a Fundamentals of Acting course, of all things. I thought it would help me find confidence, maybe even a path forward. But the truth?

Every time I step on stage, my chest tightens, my throat locks up, and my heart races like I'm being chased by something I can't see. Last semester, during one of the final performances, I almost fainted in front of everyone. The lights were too bright. The silence from the audience was too loud. And the panic… unbearable.
Sometimes I ask myself: Why did I even choose acting? Why dive into a world that demands you to be seen when all I want is to disappear when eyes are on me?

Flashback: Acting Class, Final Semester
The classroom was freezing — not because of the air-conditioning, which barely worked — but because of the nerves. Cold, sharp, creeping up my spine like a warning.

"Okay, Ian, you're up," Professor Mallory said, clipboard in hand, her eyes scanning everyone with that half-impatient, half-hopeful look. She didn't know I was already spiraling inside.

I stood up, my palms wet. My classmates — twenty pairs of eyes, too many — turned toward me. Some smiled politely, others were bored. I clutched the worn script in my hand, the lines memorized, rehearsed in front of the mirror a hundred times. But now, they slipped from my brain like water through my fingers.

I took a breath. One line in… two lines… and then it hit.
That familiar rush — the wrong kind. My heart pounded like it wanted to break out of my chest. My hands shook. My vision narrowed. I couldn't hear myself speak anymore, only the sound of blood rushing in my ears. The lights, the silence, the pressure — it was all too much.

My co-actor stared at me, confused, waiting for my cue. Professor Mallory tilted her head, about to say something, but before she could, I stepped back, stumbled a little, and sat down—or maybe collapsed on the floor. I don't remember which.

I heard someone ask if I was okay. I wasn't. I couldn't speak.

That was the day I realized acting might never be for me — not because I didn't love stories, not because I didn't want to be someone else for a while — but because my body refused to let me.
After that, I skipped the next few classes. Said I was sick. No one asked too many questions.

Back to the Present
After that day in class, something shifted — not just in me, but in how people looked at me.
Before, I was the quiet one. The guy who didn't talk much but always showed up, always listened. Some classmates would sit next to me, borrow a pen, ask about homework. I was never the center of attention, and I liked it that way.

But after the panic attack, it was different.
Some of them avoided eye contact. As if fear were contagious. As if the sight of me losing control reminded them they could, too.

A few asked if I was okay. But not because they cared — because it was the polite thing to do. Their eyes flicked away before I could answer.
I remember Mei Noi — the one who always partnered with me during improv games — she started choosing someone else. I couldn't blame her. Who wants to work with someone who might break down in the middle of a scene?

The worst part wasn't the embarrassment. It wasn't even the panic itself. It was the silence that followed.
No one said anything outright. But I could feel it — the space growing between me and the rest of them. I became the fragile one. The unpredictable one. The guy who couldn't handle it.

It made going back to class harder. I'd sit in the back, nod along, pretend to take notes. My body was there, but my mind was somewhere far away — usually at home with Mâe, or lost in thoughts about who I was supposed to be if this path no longer made sense.

A Quiet Decision
It didn't happen all at once.
There wasn't some dramatic goodbye, no standing in front of the mirror tearing up my script, no emotional farewell to my classmates. It happened quietly, like a candle burning itself out. A slow flicker until the flame just… wasn't there anymore.

One night, I sat at the edge of my bed after helping Mâe into hers. The house was silent, except for the soft hum of the fan and the distant barking of street dogs. I stared at the shelf above my desk — where my acting notes, monologue printouts, and that thin course certificate were gathering dust.
I remembered how I used to hold those papers like they meant something. Like they were proof I was moving forward.

But now? They felt like pieces from someone else's life.
I reached up and slowly took them down. Not angrily. Just gently, like folding away a memory. One by one, I placed them in a box — not to throw away, not yet — but to put away. Out of sight.

I sat back down and whispered to the room, or maybe to myself, "I think I'm done."
And it felt… both like relief and loss.
I wasn't angry at myself. Not anymore. I had tried. I had stood on stage, felt the lights, spoken the lines. But sometimes, trying isn't enough to make something fit. Sometimes the dream isn't yours to keep, no matter how badly you wanted it to be.

I had no idea what came next.
But I knew this: whatever future I had, it would start not with pretending to be someone else… but finally learning how to be me.

Almost the End
It was near the end of the last semester when Professor Mallory asked to speak with me after class. Her tone was gentle, not like the sharp authority she usually carried when someone forgot their cue or missed a rehearsal. This was different — personal.

"Ian," she said, folding her hands on the desk, "I know this hasn't been easy for you. But I also know you have something real inside you. Something honest. That's rare."

I kept my eyes down, unsure how to respond. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. It was full — heavy with things we both knew but hadn't said.

"You don't have to keep performing if it hurts you," she added. "But finish the course. Just finish. You've come this far. And after that… maybe it won't be the stage. Maybe it'll be something else. This generation… there are so many ways to tell stories, to create. You might find your place where you least expect it."

I looked up, finally meeting her eyes. There was no pity in them. Just respect. And something close to pride.

"I know you meant that," I said softly. "Thank you. I appreciate everything."

She smiled — a small one, but it stayed with me. "You'll be okay, Ian. You just need time. And space to find your voice — in your own way."

That was the last conversation we had before graduation.

And I think, in some quiet way, it permitted me to let go of who I thought I had to be — and make room for whoever I was becoming.

A New Lens
It started small.
Scrolling through Instagram late at night, past the usual selfies and travel reels, I found myself stopping more and more on portrait photography pages. Not just landscapes or food — but people. Emotions frozen in frame. The way a simple tilt of the head or shift in light could tell a whole story without a single word.
Model photography. That's what they called it.

I didn't know why I was drawn to it — maybe because it still felt like acting in some way. Just… quieter. Instead of being the one on stage, I could be behind the curtain. Framing someone else's story. Capturing a feeling rather than performing it.

The more I looked, the more I believed: Maybe I could do this.
So I started teaching myself. YouTube tutorials. Free online guides. I'd study angles, lighting, lenses, editing styles — anything I could find in the few quiet hours between household chores and helping Mâe with her exercises.
Then I begged my dad.

Not like a kid begging for candy — this was different. I stood in the kitchen one evening while he was washing his lunchbox from work and said, "Pà, I want to try something. I think I'm serious about this."

He turned to look at me, towel in hand.

"I want to learn photography. Real photography. I've been studying, and I think I have a chance… but I need a camera. A good one. Like the Nikon D850."

He didn't answer right away. Just nodded, slowly, like he already knew this conversation would come.

Later that week, he came into my room holding a small box wrapped in brown paper. "I can't afford new," he said, "but this one's good. Second-hand. From a guy at work."

I opened it. Nikon D850.

I didn't say anything at first — the lump in my throat was too big. But he saw the look on my face, and he smiled. It was the same tired smile he wore every morning before work, but softer now. Like maybe, just maybe, he was glad to see me want something again.

"I know you stayed for her," he said, quietly. "And I know you've given up a lot. But that doesn't mean you stop living, Ian."

And that was the first time in a long while I felt like I could still have a future — one click at a time.

First Shots
So I started at home — where everything else in my life had always begun.

My first subject? Mayuree Miller. My younger sister, the star of her own digital world. She was more than willing — she practically jumped at the idea. As a content creator, she loved dressing up, posing, playing with moods and styles. She'd been asking me to take her photos for months before I even considered holding a camera. Funny how things work out.

She showed up to our first mini-session in the living room wearing a wide-brim hat, a flowy off-shoulder dress, and the confidence of someone born to be in front of a lens.

"Don't mess this up, Photographer-nong," she teased, flipping her hair dramatically.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't blink too hard, Superstar."

The first few shots were shaky — my hands still learning the feel of the camera, the buttons, the way light dances through a lens. But then something clicked — not the shutter, but inside me.

It felt right.

And then there was Mâe.

She couldn't walk much, not without help, but she insisted on putting on her soft pink blouse and a small gold pin that used to belong to her mother. She smiled when I pointed the camera at her — really smiled, like she hadn't in months. Not just for the photo, but for the moment.

It was happiness shared between the three of us — a rare, honest kind.

We decided to make a weekend of it. My dad was away for business, and the beach wasn't far. We packed the car with snacks, a picnic mat, and enough clothes to survive an impromptu photoshoot with Mayuree's 10 outfit changes. Mâe sat in the front seat, humming a song I hadn't heard in years.

When we reached the coast, the wind greeted us first. The sea was a soft blue, and the sand warm beneath our feet. I took out the Nikon — my Nikon — and felt that same stillness in my chest, the good kind. The kind I never felt on stage.

Click. Mayuree dancing barefoot near the water.

Click. Mâe laughing as her scarf blew away and Mayuree chased it.

Click. A self-timer photo of all three of us, smiling under the orange glow of sunset.

And for the first time in a long while, I thought — maybe I don't need to perform to be part of a story. Maybe I just need to see it… frame it… and share it.