WHO DO I DO IT FOR?
For the holy ordinary.
For the ecstatic still.
For the ones who keep every letter,
who walk the long way home,
who believe there’s meaning in stars,
and tenderness in ruins.
For the wild-hearted,
the ones who show up soft
and stay that way.
This is for you.
WHAT DO I DO WHEN I'm NOT DOING IT?
I mother a brilliant teenager who teaches me everything.
I get lost in fog. In lists. In locusts.
In moss, in myth, in the light before morning arrives.
In the quiet. In the loud.
I revel in the spaces where stillness gathers.
Because moments dissolve before we realize they were everything.
Time slips through open windows
and quiets rooms that used to echo with laughter.
It leaves us holding small things
that once felt infinite.
I do this because I know the weight of a moment.
Photographing you is not about control.
It’s not about poses or proof.
It’s about reverence.
About creating something that holds the warmth
long after the light has changed.
WHY DO I DO IT?
I translate feeling.
I document tenderness before it turns to memory.
Sometimes it looks like a wedding unfurling in slow motion,
a fever dream of hands and glances and held breath.
Sometimes it looks like an aura caught in colored thread,
a soul pulled into form with light and shadow.
I don’t just take photos. I hold space.
For unraveling, for blooming, for remembering.
For the quiet magic of being fully seen.
WHAT DO I DO?
(by the numbers)
180+ Weddings Witnessed 12 Hard Drives Filled
30+ FAMILIES RETURN YEAR AFTER YEAR
6 Fog machines for dream making aesthetics
Countless shoes Lost TO rivers and rain
...AND COUNTING
THE ART OF PRESENCE
(This is the soul of the work.)
I call what I do philosography.
It’s the blend of philosophy and photography.
I believe that a photograph isn’t just an image, but an inquiry.
Who were you, in this moment?
Who are you becoming?
What does light reveal that words cannot?
To me, the camera is a portal.
A space where time folds.
Where memory softens.
Where being seen becomes sacred.
I do not capture moments.
I let them carry me.
I move like fog through the frame—
still, listening,
allowing space
for you to unfold
as you are.
This is not photography.
This is witness work.
The slow reverence of presence.
You are not asked to perform here.
You are invited to be.
To shift.
To shimmer.
To soften.
To come undone—
and not apologize for it.
THE ART OF SEEING
(This is how it began.)
I didn’t become a photographer.
I always was.
My first wedding was arranged between Pound Puppy plushies.
The camera? A Ninja Turtles point-and-shoot.
I was five, but even then, I knew: something needed keeping.
Since then, I’ve documented everything I could hold still long enough to feel—
friends, family, animals at the shelter,
a perfectly made My Little Pony bed.
I didn’t know I was building a life. I just couldn’t help but look.
That looking became a practice.
It deepened in the darkroom of my first high school photography class.
It sharpened through my studies in philosophy at Purdue.
It took shape when I earned certifications in digital photography and graphic design from NYIP.
It rooted when I apprenticed under a master photographer in Chicago for four years—
learning light, learning presence, learning patience.
Then I moved to Tennessee.
And I began again.
Solo.
Carrying everything I had learned—about light, about humans, about timing—
and turning it into something of my own.
Ten years later, I’m still here.
Still learning to see.
Still wondering what else the light might reveal.
