04/29/2026
I wrestled with whether or not to post this moment for a while now.
For context, I’m a widower. I lost my wife in 2023. Our boys were 7, 6, and 4 at the time, old enough to remember her, to carry her love forward. And somehow, even after everything, they still meet the world with open hearts. They still ask, “What can I do to help?”
Time softens the edges. It gets easier to breathe, to move through a day without feeling like you’re drowning. But there are nights when it all comes rushing back, sudden, heavy, undeniable. On those nights, I sit with them in it. I carry what I can, because I want them to know they don’t have to carry it alone. They deserve to grow up feeling safe, protected, and held even in grief.
It’s hard without Luthien, helping them grow up without their mom. There are moments where hope feels distant, where the future I once imagined feels out of reach.
That is when I found myself picking up a camera. Not for big milestones or perfect moments...but for the small, quiet ones. The ones we usually let pass without noticing. The ordinary, fleeting seconds that used to feel endless.
Because I’ve learned how quickly those moments can become everything. It's not the big moments I find myself mourning, but the small, constant, vulnerable, safe moments.
Photography, for me, became a way to hold onto what can’t be held. A way to honor what we had, and to remind myself and them that "there's some good in this world Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for"
And yet…these kids.
They meet me there with kindness. With empathy. With a kind of grace that humbles me. They remind me, that even after unimaginable loss, something good can still take root. That love doesn’t end; it changes. That we are still capable of showing up for each other.
“I wish the Ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.”
“So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”
