Boredom's not an option. These are a few of the top events in the city each year, including a rodeo, free summertime music festival, and a chili cook-off
Meet some rodeo queens (or be crowned as one yourself) in R-Town’s annual celebration of the Wild West. Three days of mutton bustin’, tie-down roping, and barrel racing are all doing the community some good: Proceeds from the event funnel into local organizations like Ramona Town Hall and the Guy B. Woodward Museum. This month marks the 45th annual Ramona Rodeo, which takes place in the Fred Grand Arena and draws more than 12,000 attendees each year.
For nearly half a century, OB has hosted a chili cooking competition that has drawn thousands of hungry locals. (Buzz Cannabis presented this year’s event, so taste testers could have been under the influence of munchies-enhancing drugs.) Non-chili-related street fair festivities include beachfront live music, Fun Zone family-friendly play areas, and a Dirty Birds wing-eating contest.
Photo Credit: Cole Novak
Chicano Park Day
In 1970, Chicano Park was set to become a California Highway Patrol station. The problem: The city had promised a community park in that area. After decades of development fractured Barrio Logan and displaced thousands of families, Chicano locals were tapped out. So, for 12 days, locals occupied the area under the Coronado Bridge, blocking bulldozers and planting cacti. It worked. Construction stopped, and that area is now Chicano Park. Each year, locals celebrate the successful preservation of Chicano Park and the resilience of the Chicano Movement.
Solana Beach gathers at Fletcher Cove Park at the start of each summer for two days of live music ranging from country to pop to Chicano rock, plus an arts and crafts fair, an international food court, a beer and wine garden, and the Solana Beach Firefighters Association’s pancake breakfast. The event is free, but if you want an elevated experience, grab Seaside Pavilion ($75) or VIP Deck ($160) tickets for reserved seating, private cash bars, exclusive restrooms, and discounted swag.
Courtesy of North Park Music Fest
North Park Music Fest
The entire North Park neighborhood hosts an annual music festival, meaning a dozen venues—from Queen Bee’s to Bacari to North Park Community Park—become live music spaces each June. Some locations are open to the public, but if you’d prefer lounge access at Granada House and line-skipping privileges, check out the $65 VIP passes. General admission otherwise starts at $25.
Lemon Festival
It’s weird if you don’t wear a lemon-themed outfit at Chula Vista’s annual Lemon Festival. For one day each August, Third Avenue pays tribute to the city’s former “Lemon Capital of the World” status with live music, citrus-themed photo ops, arts and crafts vendors, a lemon cook-off competition, and plenty of other food that doesn’t include the famed hesperidium. But who would want that at Lemon Fest?
That was the question on loop in my head as I sat, nearly catatonic, watching my chickens scratch and crap, from a chair on my patio. It was the first Monday after dropping my one and only at college on the other side of the country. I was tired to the bone and in shock. Eighteen-plus years of permission slips, math homework, Barbie play (ugh), carpooling—my God, the carpooling—and a teenager who, for four years and counting, communicated almost exclusively through side-eye and not-so-under-the-breath clapbacks. Parenting is insanity, and when it stops, it feels so good and so bad all at once.
Photo Credit: Aaryn Belfer
I won’t linger on my personal recovery here, except to say: Part of moving on is dealing with that empty room. What do we parents do with the utensil vortex, and more importantly, when do we do it?
My daughter’s room sat for two years like a forgotten museum exhibit, preserved—not because I was sentimental, but because my husband was. While he didn’t want her to feel erased when she came home, I wanted to expunge her Totoro-meets-Pepto-Bismol gray-and-pink aesthetic, the sports jerseys, the inspirational stick-on decals from Etsy, the bazillion discarded beauty products that didn’t make it into the blue duffel bags.
My metamorphosis took a while, but I built a new, brilliantly free, empty-nest life. No more driving hundreds of miles a week, no more bleachers, no more ref whistles reverberating in my dreams. I reclaimed myself, then I hired a professional to help me reclaim my kid’s bedroom.
EBSCO’s Research Starters series says that “empty nest syndrome” is a real, if not clinical, diagnosis—no chart line, no billing code. Just a recognized experience of grief, loneliness, and diminished purpose that can take up to a year to resolve.
Creating a Sanctuary
Courtesy of Treci Smith
I turned to Treci Smith of Treci Smith Designs because I loved what she did with her son’s bedroom. (Full disclosure: She’s a friend.) After several interrupted attempts at reimagining the room, she designed a den for her husband, Amir. The couple, married 32 years, raised four kids in their four-bedroom ranch home in Bonita, and over the years, the kids switched rooms and pairings countless times.
The house Tetris continued as each child went off to college. But when their youngest left, his bedroom atrophied. It became a haphazard office and, for one stubborn stretch, nothing at all. A purgatory.
“We wanted to utilize every room in our house,” Smith says, “not letting it be a room that just sits empty.” She finally made a plan to evict purgatory, but the pandemic hit, and all four kids moved back home. It took a while longer before the room was finally hers to play with.
Courtesy of Treci Smith
What Smith created in its place is magic. It feels like a speakeasy. Dark, moody, and deliberately masculine, the den looks like how sandalwood and musk would smell if they took physical form. It’s got a bar cart, Amir’s cigars, a speaker, a desk for his real estate research, and French doors that open to a courtyard and pool.
“When we think of meditation, we think of light and airy,” Smith says, rejecting that there’s only one way to create calm. “It’s a sanctuary. It’s a place where the rest of the world doesn’t really feel like it exists.”
Smith doesn’t talk about trends. “I think everything has to have a purpose, and not just to be magazine-ready,” she says. “So I ask clients, ‘How do you want to feel in this space?’”
For my project, Smith isn’t interested in erasing the past so much as spotlighting it. As she guides me in reimagining my kid’s former room, she’s pushing back on my urge to wipe the kid out of it entirely. “I don’t want her to feel like she’s been pushed out of the house, essentially,” she says. “The room is now functioning for other purposes, but it’s still hers.”
She pulls a painting of my daughter off the wall in another part of the house for use in the new space. She also caught sight of a planed section of a pantry door from our last house, which has my daughter’s height marks in my handwriting, climbing as she grew. “Grab that,” she tells me. “It has to go in.”
That’s not just decoration. It’s continuity.
Photo Credit: Hali Makanah
From Playroom to Paycheck
For years, the biggest room in Melissa Gaviria’s Rancho Peñasquitos house was a shared bedroom and playroom for her two kids—absorbing blocks, toys, and balls that, with impressive consistency, never made it into the ball pit. As the kids grew, the room saw less use, then emptied out entirely: Her older child moved out, her younger one moved upstairs.
Gaviria tried turning it into an office, but “that was just one little corner of a whole big room,” she says. When a coworker converted part of a house into an Airbnb-ready ADU, Gaviria was inspired.
She hired award-winning designer Jen Guerin of JG Color Studios to create a junior ADU. It’s technically attached to the house but is functionally its own unit, with a French-door entrance on the side so guests never have to walk through the home’s main living space.
Gaviria didn’t wait until both kids were gone to build her nest egg (the unit pays her mortgage, and she rents the whole house in the summer and travels). The kids were 14 and 10 when construction started, and she gave them markers and crayons for one last pass at the walls. I ask whether she left any of their artwork as an homage. She laughs, “I can’t rent with a Godzilla on the wall.”
I beg to differ there.
Photo Credit: Hali Makanah
Guerin pulled from Gaviria’s Colombian background, incorporating blues and a deep burnt orange as nods to home.
Guerin, who’s designed dozens of these transitions over 20 years, says most parents pivot more slowly than Gaviria. “It always starts with paint,” she says, “then flooring and slowly a replacement of all items.” But the instinct, fast or slow, is the same: “This chapter isn’t about erasing the family story. It’s about making room for the next one.”
Enveloped. Safe. At ease, creative, and a little bit sexy. I wanted an understated drama that didn’t match our minimalist, midcentury design elsewhere in the house, but that matched the inside of my soul. I wanted dark and light, color and whimsy. I wanted to never want to get out of bed, and for guests to feel that too.
Another parameter: I had a tight budget. I mean, let’s be real about the economy, right? Smith guided me toward a dark paint my husband and I put on ourselves, then sourced used and vintage pieces to go with the bed and other accoutrements we already had, and mixed in a few new pieces from Ikea—like the two-tone green speaker lamp. She nudged me not to erase my kid entirely, so I dug through boxes of ephemera in the garage, framed some old artwork, and tucked a few other mementos away for discovery, should someone look closely.
Most guests won’t notice. They’ll just sink into the bed and not want to leave, which is the whole point. But if you know where to look, my ladybaby is still in there—she’s just not running the place.
Aaryn Belfer is a writer and editor specializing in nonfiction across art, architecture, and culture. Once upon a time, she wrote a provocative column for San Diego CityBeat (RIP). She was a runner up in the 2025 Matchbook Stories contest at the San Diego Central Library and is irrationally happy about it. Currently in her Soft Girl Era, Aaryn has expensive taste in (mostly flat) shoes and will choose a great art exhibit or live jazz concert over almost anything else. Except, possibly, Javier Bardem.
A Rare Look Inside Callaway Golf’s San Diego Test Center
The Ely Callaway Performance Center is where tour-level fittings, cutting-edge technology, and golf equipment you can’t buy yet all come together
Courtesy of Ely Callaway Performance Center
By Tina Mickelson
“Come test something.”
Those are quite possibly my three favorite words in the English language—all due respect to “I love you” or the highly underrated “you were right.”
I’ve been a PGA Golf Professional since 1994, and yes, full bias disclosure, a Callaway Golf Ambassador for 18 years. One of the bonuses that comes with that combo is access to the Ely Callaway Performance Center—a place so exclusive it gives “velvet rope” vibes.
Originally opened in 2006 as a highly functional (yet not exactly breathtaking) test facility, the ECPC got a serious glow-up in 2018 when Gil Hanse (along with partner Geoff Shackelford) turned it into what can only be described as a fully engineered golf playground. Hanse is no stranger to golf course renovations. In 2024, he completed an extensive redesign of the Omni La Costa North Course in Carlsbad, so it could host the NCAA Division 1 Golf Championships. He also worked on acclaimed courses like Winged Foot, Merion Golf Club, and Oakmont Country Club.
In just two months, it went from a standard test center and R&D lab to a fully dialed-in golf playground.
Courtesy of Ely Callaway Performance Center
What was once purely practical is now intentionally designed to be both precise and inspiring. The targets are staggered with purpose—forcing creative shot-making while also calling you out on your actual distances (no more “that’s my 150-yard club … ish”).
Add a massive hitting area, bunkers and greens that mimic real on-course conditions, a “Himalayas” putting green (named for its roller-coaster undulations), an upgraded indoor putting lab, and a 120-decibel sound system blasting a very golf-appropriate playlist, and suddenly it’s a rare blend of high-performance testing facility and “don’t mind if I stay here all day” energy. Since this isn’t exactly open to the public, SDM asked me to take you behind the curtain.
As the iron gates part, it feels less like arriving at a practice facility and more like being granted backstage access at a rock concert—if the bandmembers were made entirely of launch monitors and perfectly manicured turf.
There are no mats. No guessing. No “I think that one felt good?” Just conditions that mirror exactly what tour players see in competition. Because when you’re testing equipment at this level, accuracy isn’t a bonus—it’s the whole point.
Even the sand matters. Different textures. Different densities. Because bunkers have personalities, too, and they are often unfriendly. And the golf balls? Brand. New. Not the usual “these have seen some things” range balls. New balls mean consistent spin, truer trajectory, and no surprises. The older a golf ball gets—and the more it’s been baked in the sun, scuffed, or generally lived a full and complicated life—the less reliable it becomes. Think of it like this: fresh ball, predictable performance; old range ball, slight chaos with a side of mystery.
I’m escorted to my personal hitting bay—basically a pop-up shaded oasis stocked with enough equipment to make a gear junkie weak in the knees. Shafts in every weight and profile imaginable. Heads lined up like they’re waiting to be drafted by their favorite team.
Courtesy of Ely Callaway Performance Center
Toptracer technology was patiently waiting to track every one of my swings, each shot instantly delivering ball speed, launch, spin, carry distance, and dispersion (a polite way of saying consistency, or lack thereof), so there’s no guessing—just data telling the truth, whether I like it or not.
We start with irons. Different heads, different feels, different results. When I miss a shot, the ball tends to leak right, so we check lie angle. A quick adjustment—2 degrees upright—and suddenly the clubface is consistently square at impact like it remembered its job. Effort level: down. Ball flight: improved. Confidence: creeping back.
Next we look at the different shaft options—because nothing says “fun afternoon” like realizing a higher kick point can change your entire golf identity. Shaft flex (how much the shaft bends during your swing) helps determine whether you get more height and distance or more control, while kick point (where the shaft bends the most) influences your ball flight—lower kick point for higher launch, higher kick point for a flatter, more penetrating shot. In other words, one small tweak and suddenly you’re hitting shots you’d normally only describe later, slightly exaggerated, over a glass of wine.
Then we move through the bag: hybrids, fairway woods, drivers, wedges. It’s a full rotation of “try this,” “now try this,” and “okay wait … THAT one.”
And yes—the new Quantum driver and fairway woods made an appearance. Without getting too deep in the weeds, they’re faster, more forgiving, and smarter (thanks to AI face mapping) than previous models. Translation: Even your mishits are now slightly less embarrassing. And they were not the only things getting tested. My patience was under attack because the driver and woods would not be available to the public for a good three months.
Courtesy of Ely Callaway Performance Center
Watching the fitting team work is like watching a Formula 1 pit crew. Clubs are swapped in seconds. Shafts tightened, adjusted, replaced. One minute you’re swinging something that seems “fine,” and the next, you’re holding a club that feels like it is a part of your DNA.
Then there’s the putter fitting. Drivers are physics. Putters are therapy. Inside the putting lab, sensors track everything—tempo, face angle, path—things you didn’t even know could be measured. Within minutes, my data politely informs me that my putter face is slightly closed at impact. Not shocking, but also not ideal.
A few quick adjustments—different head (with a bit more weight at the toe to discourage the face swinging closed at impact), shorter shaft (so I feel more over the ball, which helps my eyeline)—and suddenly the ball starts rolling exactly where I’m aimed.
Same stroke. Same golfer. Completely different outcome. If only the rest of life worked like that.
And then there’s the part that feels slightly classified. The ECPC isn’t “just” a performance center—it’s also where future equipment lives before the public even knows it exists. I’ve been there when certain clubs were basically under surveillance. Not “don’t touch,” but more “please keep phones in your pocket.”
It’s golf’s version of Area 51. Except instead of aliens, it’s drivers that won’t hit shelves for another year—and like I mentioned, waiting is not my strong suit.
Getting to test the newest equipment isn’t just a perk—it’s part of the job. It’s what allows me to stand in front of students and say, “I’ve tried it. I know what works and what doesn’t. And more importantly, I know why.” And if I happen to sprint to my car every time the phone rings and someone says, “Come test something” … well, that’s just professional courtesy.
Callaway isn’t the only place to get your swing analyzed and clubs fitted. You can stroll into big retail spots like The Golf Mart or Golf Galaxy, book a next-level session at a dedicated studio like Club Champion or True Spec Golf, test brand-specific gear at various manufacturing companies (many located in Carlsbad), or even combine a lesson and a fitting at GOLFTEC. And let’s not forget your local golf course, where fittings happen on actual turf, on a driving range you have some history with—many times with the golf professional who is familiar with your swing so they can give you valuable input. With this many options, there’s really no excuse, other than pride, to keep blaming your clubs.
A perfectly designed home rarely happens by accident. Those kitchens that feel effortless and rooms that seem to tell a story the second you walk in? They’re usually the work of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
It’s knowing which ideas will actually work, which materials will hold up over time, and how to turn a collection of choices into a space that feels intentional. That’s where a professional interior designer comes in.
For the American Society of Interior Designers (ASID) California San Diego Chapter, the goal is to help people see interior design as more than just the finished look. Behind every well-designed space is a process built on technical expertise. Designers are educated in everything from professional software and construction details to building codes, space planning, materials, and functionality.
Courtesy of ASID
“People don’t always realize how much goes on behind the scenes,” Kirsten Recce , current president of the ASID California San Diego Chapter, says. “Our designers are not just doing furniture placement and color selection and picking out new fluffy pillows. That’s not what they’re trained for.”
ASID members bring formal education, continued learning, and industry knowledge to their projects, helping create spaces that are not only beautiful, but designed to work. A paint color that changes completely depending on the lighting. A material that looks beautiful in a showroom but doesn’t make sense for everyday life. A layout that photographs well but doesn’t function for the people living there. These are the details where professional guidance can make all the difference.
Still, one of the biggest misconceptions about hiring an interior designer is that it’s reserved for massive renovations, luxury homes, or people who already know exactly what they want. The process can feel intimidating. Where do you begin? Is a designer worth the investment? What if you only need help with one room?
ASID’s answer: start with one hour.
ASID’s Spruce Up events break down one of the biggest barriers between homeowners and professional design: knowing where to begin. Held twice a year, the community program gives homeowners the chance to work directly with an ASID designer through a one-hour, $125 consultation in their own home. Whether you’re looking for advice on furniture placement, window treatments, kitchen and bath updates, remodeling ideas, vacation rentals, color selections or something else entirely, the upcoming September 2026 event offers an approachable way to get expert guidance before committing to a full project. Signups are open through Sept. 7, with consultations taking place Sept. 21 through Oct. 31. Proceeds benefit ASID San Diego’s educational and community programs. Register here!
Courtesy of ASID
“It’s a great opportunity for people who are in that exploratory phase,” Recce says. “Maybe they’re not sure they want to hire an interior designer yet, or they think it sounds daunting or expensive. This gives them a chance to discover what working with a designer is actually like.”
Design is personal. A good designer isn’t just creating a beautiful room; they’re helping create a space that fits the way someone lives.
“We’re a resource to all of San Diego County,” Recce says. “It doesn’t cost anything to pick up the phone and call and ask. We’ll answer.”
It was the summer of 1999. MTV, The Matrix, and first-generation PlayStation glowed on tube TV sets all over America. What a time to be alive. Smartphones weren’t yet stealing people from the moment. Cultural was a shared reality. During the last few minutes of the monoculture, Tony Hawk executed the first-ever 900 at X Games V in San Francisco. That’s two and a half aerial rotations with a side of the dizzies.
The time had run out on the Vert Best Trick competition long before the 11th attempt when he pulled off the fateful feat. Nobody cared. Not the judges, not the competition, and certainly not the crowd. “Let that bird fly,” they said. Once the trick was landed, they partied like it was 1999 … because it was.
That was the tipping point when the skateboarding world exploded, going from counterculture to a national phenomenon. Shortly after that, “Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater” video game came out, introducing millions of kids to what skate culture looked like. Oh, the game had a killer punk soundtrack, too.
We can all thank Hawk for the globalization of skateboarding. But we can also recognize his local influence and how San Diego County continues to be a hub for skateboarders young and old, for competitors and street skaters. To see it all, go to Park De La Cruz in City Heights—or, heck, any other skatepark in the county—which, at 19,000 square feet, is about twice the size of the average skatepark and has signature features like an M-shaped transition ramp. The amount of talent that continues to evolve in this county is a testament to deep-rooted skate culture and world-class athletes supporting the next generation.
Photo Credit: Casiel Sanchez
The Skatepark
I’m a little early for a skate lesson with pro skater Mike Owen when I get to Linda Vista Skatepark. In the 2010s, Owen ranked as one of the world’s top bowl riders. He’s the founder of San Diego Skateboarding and has “helped thousands of kids, teens, and adults learn to skate safely, confidently, and with style,” the company’s site says. And now it’s my turn. We start the lesson on the nearby tennis courts, getting my basic foot mechanics down. Safety before style.
In terms of street plaza features, the massive Linda Vista Skatepark is loaded with rails, stairs, manuals, and ledges. There are more bowls than you can get from Cava: a flow bowl, backyard-style pool, and vert bowl. The main feature is a full pipe for advanced line riders. It’s a hell of a park, even if somebody just wants to watch the action from the 100-foot-long pedestrian skybridge overhead.
Right now, San Diego has over 50 public skateparks scattered throughout the county. “There are now more [skateparks], more resources for them, and more terrain,” Owen tells me. “Now, they’re offering different competitive style skateparks that help for competitions. The best parks have a variety of different terrain where you have things for beginners and bigger transitions. Not every town has that.”
San Diego, luckily, does. But despite the bounty, Owen believes there should still be more—public skateparks are safe spaces for all to learn and develop on-board skills. Without them, a huge portion of San Diego’s culture withers. Encinitas could be the next city to add a skatepark to the county’s roster: In early July, the Encinitas City Council appointed 12 local skaters and community members for the newly established Skate Feature Committee. In partnership with two councilmembers, the committee’s purpose is to design a working skatepark or feature for the city.
But like any big project, Owen says, it’s a long process to add another skatepark to the community.
“I wish it were easier,” he says. “When there are different contractors for different things, [there’s only] a certain amount of time to build. It gets tricky.”
Then there’s the matter of funding the actual construction and development of the skatepark. That usually comes from grants, fundraisers, and donations. For reference, Linda Vista Skatepark was built on a $4.46 million grant from the California Department of Housing and Community Development in 2014. With an additional $40,000 donated by the Tony Hawk Foundation, the park opened in 2018 and is the largest in San Diego’s Parks and Recreation system. The best way to get a skatepark in your neighborhood, Owen says, is to start a petition and reach out to your city.
Photo Credit: Blair Alley
The Street Skaters
Jordan Thrower’s first street skate sesh at San Diego City College in 2003 ended with a police chase. The campus was swarming with skaters riding rails, jumping stairs, and grinding tricks on benches, curbs, and ledges. When the cops got on their loudspeaker telling them not to run, everyone obviously ran. Back then, cops would give tickets and confiscate boards. The vibe has loosened since. “Now, the police don’t really care,” Thrower says. “They just make you leave. It’s not anything crazy.”
Street skating is when riders use real-world urban obstacles, rather than pristinely designed bowls or ramps—such as in college campuses, downtown areas, corporate buildings, and malls. Abandoned mini-golf courses and construction sites do the trick, too.
Thrower says the street skating hub here isn’t as huge as it once was. Thanks to modern technology and social media, skaters aren’t tied to any certain place to create skate videos. You know, those videos that could have been taken this year but have the low-fi vibe of 2004, where skaters carve down stairwells into parking lots, over mailboxes, or across park benches. The silver lining: Even though there are fewer street skaters than there once was, those who stayed in San Diego are still tight.
“Everyone skates with each other and knows each other here,” Thrower says. “In LA, it’s not really like that. It’s small there, but not everybody knows each other, and they don’t really skate with each other too much. They just have a lot of little crews.”
Back in 2015, Thrower started his own street team and brand that sells boards and shirts called Tantrum. The Tantrum team is split between San Diego and San Francisco. It doesn’t take much to be a part of a skate team. You just have to be a good hang.
“The way I pick people [for the team] is if I can get along with them,” he says. “It doesn’t even really matter if they’re that good. If you’re likable and funny, you can pretty much be on the team.”
Photo Credit: Marc Wierenega
The Future
Running it up to North County, a Vista-based nonprofit organization called Exposure Skate has been shaping up the youth since 2012. Its mission is to give more opportunities to otherwise underrepresented women, girls, and non-binary individuals by offering classes and camps. This, to build up confidence and community. We could all use a little bit of that, eh?
Thanks to Exposure Skate, 13-year-old Joey Yarbrough has found herself competing in the LA Olympic trials. (Her first time on a skateboard came at just 18 months old at an Exposure Skate Rising event.)
While competing for Team USA in Rome in June of this year, she finished 13th at the first Olympic qualifier for LA28. Currently ranked 21st in the world and 5th among American women, the young prodigy is blooming. And she’s in good company and mentorship from her biggest influence, Bryce Wettstein.
“She taught me at the first Exposure Skate Rising when I was little,” Yarbrough recalls. “I compete and skate with her all the time now, and it’s super fun. [At Exposure,] it feels so good to have someone there to help me whenever I need it. They’re like my family, always encouraging me and always there for me.”
Yarbrough will be just 15 years old when the Olympics go down in LA. She’s following the Olympic torch carried by other locals such as Wettstein, Ruby Lilley, Jordyn Barratt, and Exposure Skate’s Amelia Brodka.
“I’m working my hardest to get there,” she says. “I’ll also work my hardest to go higher in the Olympics, maybe on podium. That’s just my dream. So, hopefully it’ll come true.”
Jake Peterson is a San Diego-based journalist and culture writer. His work explores the city’s music scene, sports, local characters, and the offbeat corners of San Diego’s subcultures.
Big feelings hit us all. Younger populations—or those who haven’t yet developed their own language of expression—outsource angst through external means. That’s where homemade haircuts, studded belts, and musicians like The Cure, Elliott Smith, or Phoebe Bridgers come around. In San Diego, though, there’s a nonprofit that gives youth a way to feel not only heard, but also understood, through photography and digital storytelling.
Outside The Lens’ mission is to amplify the voices of systemically marginalized young people and help them develop the confidence (and artistry) to tell their stories and shape their communities. OTL just celebrated its 25th anniversary earlier this year with dual exhibitions of student work at San Diego Central Library and Museum of Contemporary of Art San Diego. Since 2001, more than 30,000 students have completed programs at OTL, getting their hands on industry-respected DSLR cameras (no shade to iPhone photographers), editing files and images with Adobe Creative Suite, and recording podcasts. Participants explore their worlds through the lens and on the mic.
“Our biggest opportunity, and what’s really needed, is to bridge the understanding between the youth and their communities and how people are seeing what youth are going through right now,” says OTL Executive Director Sarah Beckman.
OTL’s participants, Beckman explains, are young people navigating systems that never gave them access to the tools and mentorship that inspire creative expression, financial mobility, and civic engagement. The nonprofit offers support—in the form of meals, transportation, and healing-centered educators—and a creative outlet for exploring and coping with those challenges.
OTL’s in-school programs meet California core standards for arts and partners with at least 37 schools and community sites throughout San Diego, including the Monarch School in Barrio Logan, East County Community School in El Cajon, and Creative Performing and Media Arts School in Clairemont Mesa. The nonprofit doesn’t just work within the school system. Its Media Makers program invites young adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities to express their place and purpose in the world through film, photography, animation, design, and entrepreneurship.
“We’re always asking the question, and we’re engaging youth in our civic discussions [of], ‘How can we make this city somewhere youth want to be?’” Beckman says. “‘How can we make San Diego somewhere for young people to build a future?’”
This year OTL’s annual Voice Out celebration event spotlighted student work that hung on gallery walls beside “Giants,” the Dean Collection at MCASD. The Voice Out contest is open to all San Diego youth ages 8 to 25; all submissions are published in a catalogue and displayed in a public exhibition. These are some of the students’ works, and their words, from the past three years of Voice Out.
Lines and Light Within Structure
“I wonder how the architect decided to connect the beams [at Del Norte High School] by creating repetition. Without color [in the photo], the structure becomes the focus of the image.” –Monroe S., 15
The Quiet In Between
“Every day, time slips forward, whether we notice it or not, and life can feel overwhelming in its constant motion. In this long-exposure photograph, the blurred train rushes past, symbolizing the speed of life, while the still subject remains grounded and aware. It’s easy to become tangled in society’s expectations: what to wear, what grades to earn, what future to chase. In that rush, we forget to pause. The stillness in this image becomes a breath, a moment of reflection. Through it, I hope to show that wonder lives in slowing down, in watching the world blur while choosing, even briefly, to stand still.” –Leo N., 15
Enough
“Teenagers constantly wonder if they will ever be enough. I wrote words on the mirror that might represent what a teenager thinks about when it comes to being ‘enough’ for the people around them. They might wonder if they are pretty, smart, or good enough. I wanted to bring attention to what thoughts teenagers struggle with in everyday life.” –Illiana I., 16
Go Skate Day
“I took this picture during Go Skate Day in 2023 or 2024 I think … but who cares? It’s sick! Keep riding!” –Danny I., 18
Never Let Go
“This was taken at an all-women’s retreat in the mountains to heal inner trauma, at the end of the trip where we all hugged each other and healed. My mother is the one being hugged and one of her friends is embracing her. Place is somewhere you belong, somewhere you feel comfortable in, and somewhere you can be yourself. I believe womanhood and friendship is not only a place but home.” –Michelle G., 16
Growing up, Laika Nur, MD, Scripps Clinic sports medicine specialist, loved watching beach volleyball when the Association of Volleyball Professionals tour came to her hometown of Chicago. A talented volleyball player herself, she remembers sitting in the stands all day, and once, even got a couple autographs. Years later, Dr. Nur was attending a professional event focused on women’s sports, and the discussion turned to a new professional women’s volleyball league. The general manager and coaching staff for San Diego’s team, the Mojo, happened to be in attendance, and Dr. Nur took the opportunity to ask them if they needed a team doctor. Flash forward to the Mojo’s inaugural 2024 season, when Dr. Nur officially became the team physician. Click here to read more about Dr. Nur and how she incorporates lessons she learned on the court into her practice.
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