Person First. Photographer Second. Always.
If you want to know who I am, start with my actual life – not the curated version, but the everyday rhythm that shapes the way I see people.
I’m married to a man my son calls a tree – steady, gentle, rooted – and for some reason animals treat him like he’s a Disney Princess who wandered off set. My son is autistic, brilliant, unintentionally hilarious, and the reason I now know more about How to Train Your Dragon, vigilantes, and oddly specific Minecraft YouTube lore than I ever expected to retain as an adult.
And the cats?
Moonsheen — agent of Christmas-tree-related chaos.
Snowfall — currently in an existential crisis about being a cat.
Buddy — diagnosed by the vet as “orange.” No, really.
Most mornings involve tea (Hashimoto’s insists), some version of me negotiating with my brain about functionality, and at least one cat testing the laws of physics. Evenings usually end with my husband, a warm bed, and a show we’ve seen so many times I can fall asleep halfway through an episode with zero consequences.
This is my actual life – chaotic, grounded, warm, and very real.
And this is the version of me you get when you step in front of my lens.
The Way I Move Through the World
People describe me as intense, but not in the “emo” sense – more in the “I notice things most people overlook and yes, it can feel fucking weird to be seen that way” sense. I read people by how they take up space, how they shrink, how they stretch, how their energy shifts when they stop bracing. I don’t use that to judge – I use it because I don’t want you to feel you have to perform.
I’m witchy as hell, but in a grounded, functional way. Not aesthetic – the kind where my magic literally shoved me back onto my path when everything went sideways. My worldview rests on one truth: people deserve to be treated as people – human, complicated, and every last one worthy of being seen and loved without their mask.
How Photography Actually Fits Into This
I picked up my first camera at 13, during a year where everything felt too loud, too heavy, and too much. The darkroom made sense. Light in; truth out. It was predictable when nothing else was.
I learned on film, not digital.
I learned how to build images from scratch – chemicals, enlargers, filters, the slow process of turning light into something you can hold.
Photography didn’t start as a dream – it started as recognition. A place where I wasn’t wrong just for existing.
Life pulled me away for a long time. Trauma has a habit of doing that – rearranging everything without permission.
Then I won a camera in a work raffle – a cute little beginner thing trying its best. It sat untouched in my office for almost a year because we weren’t… speaking yet. Every time I looked at it, it seemed to say, “You’re not ready,” and honestly? Fair.
When I finally picked it up, it was like waking up a piece of myself I’d left on a shelf. Two weeks – that’s all it took to outgrow that poor thing. It tried, but it wasn’t built for someone who understands light the way I do.
A friend noticed immediately and gifted me a professional camera. That was the moment everything snapped back into place – not gently, not gracefully, but like jumping onto the front edge of an avalanche: massive force behind me, barely in control, somehow riding it anyway.
That’s when I knew: this wasn’t a hobby making a comeback. This was me coming home.
What You Should Know About Me If You’re Considering Working With Me
I don’t perform. I don’t expect you to either.
I’m human, grounded, direct when I need to be, gentle when it matters, and the kind of person who values your Self on principle.
I see people – really see them – and I photograph from that place:
Not for perfection.
Not for performance.
But for the truth light reveals when you finally stop trying to manage yourself.
If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re in the right place.
