Finding My Way Back to Wonder

There are a few things unfolding behind the scenes right now — some collaborations taking shape, the possibility of art prints (finally!) seeing the light of day, and a handful of creative ideas that keep nudging at me. I’ll share more about all of that in 2026. For now, I just want to say: I’m still here. I’m still photographing, still documenting my life and our travels. I just haven’t taken on portrait sessions in a long time — and honestly, stepping back has given me room I didn’t realize I needed.

For years, my work revolved around being a mirror for other people. Capturing their moments, their memories, their milestones. It was beautiful and deeply meaningful… but it was also consuming. I poured so much of myself into other people’s stories that somewhere along the way, I stopped tending to my own.

A lot of that work was with military communities across the globe — and serving them will forever be one of the greatest honors of my life. Helping families showcase their love and resilience in the middle of constant change felt personal to me. As a lifelong Third Culture Kid and Air Force “brat,” I know what those photographs mean. Before the days of instant everything, photo albums were lifelines — the way we stayed connected to our people, our memories, our adventures. Sometimes those pictures were all we had. That work mattered. It still does. But giving that much of myself year after year eventually took its toll.

Photography has always been part of my identity — not just a job or something I’m good at, but the way I move through the world. It’s how I process life, how I hold on to the magic of ordinary days, how I offer small reminders of hope or perspective to myself and anyone looking in. Lately I’ve wondered if part of my purpose in this strange little slice of existence is simply to notice beauty, to gather it up, and to share it with the people who need reminders of softness or clarity or a moment to breathe.

And somewhere inside that journey, grief changed me.

These last five years have been heavy with loss — each one unexpected, each one devastating in its own way.
A second trimester loss that carved a quiet ache into my bones. Then losing my soul dog of twelve years, Frankie — my constant, my shadow, the one who saved me when my life felt like it was unraveling. Her passing cracked something in me that still feels tender. Then my grandfather — wise, spiritually grounded, endlessly curious. My soft place to land in conversations about God, life, philosophy… usually over French fries, mayo, and a cold beer. And finally, my cousin Krissy — my wild, brave, fiercely loyal cousin. The girl I grew up beside. My connection to girlhood, to becoming, to all the messy, hilarious, formative parts of growing up. She was my person before I even understood what that meant.

Losing them reshaped everything.
These are the kinds of losses that don’t go away — they settle into your bones and become part of who you are. And as strange as it sounds, one of the hardest parts is realizing that what I have left of them are photographs. Little pieces of their light I was lucky enough to catch. Images I didn’t know would someday matter this much.

Their absence softened and sharpened me at the same time. It changed the way I see the world, the way I value memory, the way I understand the sacredness of pressing the shutter. It reminded me — painfully and beautifully — why preserving a moment is holy work.

And honestly? The world could use more of that tenderness. We’re surrounded by noise — anger, fear, division, outrage. Everyone telling us what to pay attention to, and not once does it sound like, “Look around. There is beauty here. There is meaning here.” But there is. Even in the chaos, there is raw humanity, there is ache, there is wonder, there is mystery. There are cycles and stories unfolding all around us, asking to be seen.

I want my art to be a window into that. Even if it just reaches one person. Even if it simply helps someone breathe differently for a moment.

And through all of this, I’ve started to see how hungry we all are for real connection — the kind that isn’t curated, performative, filtered, or flattened. We share more in common than we think. People are tired, scared, stretched thin, longing for meaning. I’m right there with them. And the more I observe, the more I feel pulled toward creating work that calls us back to ourselves, back to each other, back to what’s real.

Maybe that’s why I keep dreaming about a little farmhouse in the hills of North Carolina — bare feet on cold floors, birds in the trees, slow mornings, gratitude everywhere. Fresh coffee lingering through quiet hours. Days filled with creativity, curiosity, reflection. A life that is small and slow and deeply rooted. That’s the kind of existence I want guiding my work.

Which means… this space is going to change.

How I show up online is going to change.

I’m tired of perfectly crafted captions and polished feeds and the performance of authenticity. Everything is starting to look the same, and half of what we consume isn’t even made by humans anymore. So I’m choosing something different. I’m choosing honesty. Curiosity. Mystery. Soul. I’m choosing to document the journey instead of producing content.

I’m not promising a posting schedule or a theme or a brand aesthetic. I’m not committing to anything other than what feels true. I will share what I want to share, when I feel ready to share it. And I’ll stay close — very close — to whatever the Lord is preparing for me in this season.

So… here we go.

A new chapter.
A gentler one.
A more intentional one.

Thank you for being here. It means more than you know.