When I was six, I wandered a wedding with a handful of forgotten disposable cameras.

No one noticed me — not really — not as I crouched low to capture the glitter on a tablecloth or the small joy of a child dancing on an uncle’s feet.

I didn’t know it then, but I was already becoming the storyteller I was meant to be.

 

My mother developed those photos, and something shifted.

From that moment on, I was gifted a camera for every occasion. I used them up in days — framing the world through my child-heart eyes:

a mess of tree roots, a sky full of clouds shaped like wolves and angels, the silence of rocks, the colors of rain-soaked evenings.

I didn't know how to say what I saw, so I let it speak through visual poetry instead.

 

Photography became my language.

A way to freeze emotion — not just the pretty parts, but the ache, the awe, the real.

To this day, I still see life that way. Poetic. Messy. Wildly sacred.

The quiet grief in a fallen tree. The untold love in a grandmother’s eyes as she watches her daughter cradle new life.

The unfiltered joy of muddy brothers, sisters in dress-up gowns, and a mother silently watching her child become someone new.

 

I don’t pose people — I witness them.

I don’t just take photos — I hold space.

What I capture is your story as you live it, the beauty you didn’t realize you were already radiating.

 

This is my soulwork. My sacred offering to life.

A lens into the truth of being alive.

A mirror to show you just how radiant you already are.