When I was a little girl, our home was filled with photo albums. Thick, well-loved books we’d flip through on quiet afternoons, reliving the magic of our childhood. They weren’t just pictures, they were stories. Frozen moments of laughter, birthday parties, camping trips, and sleepy-eyed Christmas mornings. Through those albums, we learned who our family was, the aunts and uncles we didn’t see often, the grandparents who lived far away. We saw ourselves grow up, one snapshot at a time.
My mom was a photographer. She always had a camera in hand, and posing for photos became second nature. Looking back, I realize how special that was, how healing and confidence-boosting it was, especially for three girls navigating adolescence. In a world that often points out your flaws, our photos reminded us of our light. We could see ourselves as we truly were, radiant, growing, full of life.
When we were teenagers, my mom brought out our baby boxes. Little treasure chests of our early years, each filled with keepsakes and, of course, more photos. We spent hours going through them. Each picture, each tiny item, told a story. But they weren’t just for us. They were for our future children. A legacy in images, moments meant to last generations.
That’s why I do what I do. That’s the heartbeat of my photography.
I remember the Christmas I got my first digital camera. I couldn’t stop smiling. It was my turn to capture the world through my eyes, to freeze time and keep it safe. When I got my first phone, the photo gallery filled quickly. I started uploading them to VSCO, sharing what felt beautiful to me. Light filtering through trees, the way laughter looked on a friend’s face, little things that felt big.
Photography became my way of connecting, not just with others, but with life itself.
At 16, I lost someone very dear to me. A constant in my childhood, suddenly gone. And in my grief, it was the photos that comforted me most. They brought back forgotten moments. They let me remember him as he was. And they made sure he was never truly gone. Years later, when I lost a close friend in my early 20s, it was my Snapchat memories that helped me hold on, to the inside jokes, the road trips, the joy. All those little pieces of life we so easily forget.
That’s the power of a photograph. When all else fades, it's what we have left. It becomes a thread tying us to the people we love, the places we’ve been, and the person we once were.
Now, in my mid 20s, I get to witness my friends becoming spouses, parents, homeowners. And I get to stand beside them, not just as a friend, but as the one who captures their milestones. I photograph the beginnings of their forever, the roots of their family tree.
And so, I say this from the bottom of my heart: get the photoshoot. Whether it’s with your partner, your kids, your siblings, your grandparents, whoever you love most. Take the time. Make the memories. Preserve them.
This is your legacy.
