I believe photographs matter most after the moment has passed.

Not when everyone is dressed perfectly and making direct eye contact into the lens, not when kids are smiling on cue, not when life feels calm and put together.

But years later— when you’re standing in your kitchen and your house feels quieter than it used to be, when you’re desperate to remember how it all felt and just hold on to it all a little longer.

I started photographing because I was afraid of forgetting. And that snowballed into photographing others’ memories to keep them from forgetting, too.

Forgetting the way small hands reach for yours without thinking. Forgetting the sound of laughter filling the room and bare feet scurrying too fast around a corner. Forgetting the ordinary days that end up being everything.

As a wife and mother, but frankly as a human, I know how quickly time moves. I know how easy it is to tell yourself we’ll document it later— and how often later never comes.

That’s why I photograph life as it actually is.

The connection. The chaos. The tenderness. The good stuff.

Because one day, these photos won’t just show you what life looked like— they’ll remind you how much you lived, how deeply you loved and how profoundly you were loved right back.