07/24/2026
I have always been an artist. I just didn’t always know what that would mean.
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It started with painting. Then photography followed close behind — high school, then college, then the one constant through every move my husband’s military career asked of us.
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Then I second-shot a wedding, almost as an afterthought, and I surprised myself by loving it. The problem-solving. The range. Portraits, family photos, photojournalism, all inside the same ten hours — it felt like exactly the kind of challenge I was built for.
Thirteen years and three cities later, that part hasn’t changed.
But something in me shifted about a decade ago, when my father passed away unexpectedly.
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I started thinking differently about the camera in my hands.
It’s a profound thing, because I am not just capturing images. I’m creating a record of something that happens exactly once. That is not something I take lightly — not anymore, not since I understood in my own body what it means to only have the photographs left.
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Here’s what I believe: a photograph is not a product. It’s a promise. A promise that what happened on that one day will not simply dissolve into the blur of memory, the way days like that always threaten to.
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So at every wedding I photograph, I bring my whole attention. I am never just recording. I am reading the day. Staying close to what matters and anticipating the moments nobody thought to ask me to catch.
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The standard I hold for my own work isn’t about a trend or a style I’m chasing. It’s about honesty. I want every image I hand back to look like the most beautiful version of what actually was. Because here’s the truth underneath all of it: I am creating the memories you will return to for the rest of your life. That is the job. Not the posing, not the timeline, not the gear — that. Every image I make carries the full weight of what it means to hold someone’s memories, and I don’t know how to do this work any other way.
