10/13/2026
15 years ago, I picked up a camera because I loved taking pictures.
I had no idea how much those pictures would eventually mean to me.
When you're young, you don't always understand the weight of the moments you're capturing. You know they're important. You know people want to remember them. But you haven't lived enough life yet to truly understand why.
15 years later, I understand in a way I wish I didn't have to.
I've photographed new marriages, new babies, growing families, little ones who are suddenly taller than their parents, and generations of families all standing together in one photograph.
I've also photographed people who are no longer here.
And that's the part that hits differently now.
Because somewhere along the way, life happens.
The babies grow up. The kids stop needing you quite as much. The holiday traditions you started without even thinking about them become the very traditions your grown children carry into their own homes.
The family photos that once seemed like just another thing to schedule become some of the most valuable things you own.
And sometimes, the people in those photographs are still sitting right beside you, but you're already grieving the loss of who they used to be.
Alzheimer's has taught me a kind of grief I never knew existed.
The kind where someone is still here, but pieces of them have been disappearing for years. Where you find yourself missing someone you can still hug. Where a photograph can bring back a version of them that you would give absolutely anything to have one more conversation with.
I don't think the younger version of me could have ever understood that.
This past year especially, I've found myself looking at life differently.
I notice the little things more.
The way grandparents look at their grandchildren. The way a mom holds her baby without realizing that one day she'll struggle to remember just how tiny they were. The way families laugh together, completely unaware that someday they'll wish they could go back to that exact moment.
The ordinary things.
The things we rush through because we're too busy thinking about what's next.
And I think about all the families who have trusted me over these last 15 years to capture pieces of their lives.
I wonder how many of those photographs have become something more than just a picture.
How many are now sitting in frames beside someone who is deeply missed.
How many are pulled out when someone needs to remember a face, a smile, or a time when life looked a little different.
How many have become the only photographs a family has of everyone together.
I used to think my job was to take beautiful pictures.
Now I realize that sometimes my job is to preserve something people don't even know they're going to lose.
And that's a responsibility I don't take lightly anymore.
As I get older, I'm trying to slow down. Not just with my camera, but in my own life, too.
To get in the pictures with my children. To capture the generations of our family who are still here. To appreciate the holiday traditions, the messy kitchens, the everyday routines, and the moments that don't seem important enough to photograph.
Because one day, they will be.
And when that day comes, I don't want to wish I had taken more pictures.
I want to know that I did.
15 years ago, photography was something I loved doing. Today, it's something I understand on a completely different level.
And to every family who has stood in front of my camera over the years, thank you.
You may have thought you were just booking a photo session.
But you were trusting me with a little piece of your family's history.
And after 15 years of living, loving, losing, and watching life change right in front of me, I finally understand just how much that means. ❤️
