Wife. Homeschool mama. Collector of stories, pages, and podcasts. Photographer of the fleeting and the forever.
I was born and raised in Cape Girardeau, Missouri—once a place I dreamed of leaving behind. But somewhere along the way, through the quiet click of a shutter, this town softened in my eyes.
Now, I see it differently.
In the golden hush of evening light, I notice a toddler’s laughter dancing on the breeze. A gentle kiss pressed to a cheek. The rhythm of inside jokes, the warmth of shared glances, love unfolding in the smallest, most sacred ways. These moments live and breathe within the very landscapes I once passed by without a second thought.
And somehow, through it all, this place became more than where I’m from.
It became magic.
We couldn't afford a photographer
So I became one.
From the very first days of my son’s life, I was reaching for my camera.
I felt this deep ache to hold onto it all—the tiny milestones, the sleepy smiles, the belly laughs that seemed to come and go in the blink of an eye.
Our story was a tender one in its own right. In many ways, I grew up alongside my son and his dad—now my husband. As our family stretched and deepened and changed, I found myself standing in the beautiful tension of it all: so grateful to watch him grow, and yet quietly longing to keep time from slipping through my hands.
There is only one first birthday.
One season of baby curls and chubby hands.
One night I will rock him to sleep for the last time—though if I’m honest, that moment may have already come and gone without me even realizing it.
Motherhood taught me that time is both cruel and kind in that way.
So I learned to welcome each new milestone, each new version of our life, while letting my photographs become a way to return—to remember, to linger, to keep the tenderness of those days close long after they’ve passed.
Because while childhood moves on,
the memories don’t have to.
When my daughter was born, I borrowed a camera from a friend to try my hand at DIY newborn photos. I simply wanted to preserve those first tender days—the tiny features, the sleepy stretches, the newness of her. But somewhere between the quiet click of the shutter and seeing those images come to life, something in me shifted.
I was hooked.
I didn’t know a thing about settings or editing then, but I knew one thing for certain: I needed a camera of my own.
So I tucked away every extra dollar I could, little by little, until I was finally able to buy my very first camera—a Canon M50—in October of 2021.
It arrived just in time for our annual zoo trip to celebrate my son’s birthday, and I was beyond excited. I kept it on factory settings (painful, I know), shot everything in JPEG (even worse), tossed on a Lightroom preset, posted the photos to Facebook, and carried on like I had truly done something.
And honestly? I had.
Because even though I had so much to learn, that was the beginning.
Since then, I’ve grown in ways I never could have imagined. I’ve learned how to see light, how to tell stories through images, and how to preserve the feeling of a moment—not just what it looked like, but what it felt like to live it.
Over time, family and friends began reaching out, asking me to photograph their own lives and milestones. And each time, I said yes with a full heart.
Because what started as a simple desire to hold onto my own memories slowly became something even sweeter:
a way to help others hold onto theirs, too.
The shoot that changed it all.
One bright July afternoon, I picked my daughter up from daycare and took her to our local bike trail for a quick little session ahead of her birthday.
She wore the sweetest pink overall dress and carried three perfectly pink balloons, grinning from ear to ear as if the whole world had been made just for her. We wandered beneath the trees, listened to the birds overhead, and laughed our way down the trail. It was simple, ordinary, and altogether magical in the way only motherhood can be.
At the time, it was just a fun afternoon with my girl.
But looking back now, I can see it for what it truly was—
the quiet, beautiful beginning of my photography journey.
After I shared Annie’s birthday photos, my inbox filled faster than I could have imagined.
Again and again, people asked the same question:
“Who took these?”
And when I answered, “I did,”
the response was almost always the same:
“You need to start a photography page.”
“Can you take our pictures?”
And just like that, something that had once felt distant—something I had quietly dreamed about for over a year—suddenly felt possible.
A career in photography no longer seemed like some far-off idea meant for someone else.
For the first time, it felt like it could be mine.
So I chose a business name, created my Facebook and Instagram pages, and began building something from the ground up with equal parts excitement, fear, and determination.
Then in August of 2023, I made a leap that felt monumental:
I upgraded from my Canon M50 to a Canon R6 Mark II.
And if you’re a photographer, you already know—that was no small step.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, things began to bloom.
Fall bookings rolled in.
Sessions filled my calendar.
And with every family, every golden hour, every tiny in-between moment I captured, I learned more—not just about photography, but about myself, about storytelling, and about what it means to build a business with heart.
What began as a desire to preserve my own family’s memories slowly became a calling:
to create beautiful, meaningful images for other families, too.
Because photographs are more than something pretty to frame.
They are memory made visible.
We all know what it feels like to hear a certain song and be instantly carried back—
to a warm summer evening,
a road trip with friends,
a first dance,
a season of life you’d give anything to revisit for just a moment.
That is what I want my photography to feel like.
I want my clients to look at the images hanging on their walls and be transported—
back to the golden light,
the laughter of their children,
the way that day felt in their bones,
the love that lived there.
In less than a year, I had the honor of photographing over 30 sessions, and had the opportunity to step into the wedding world as a second shooter—an experience that has only deepened my love for this work.
And, years later, still, I am learning.
Still growing.
Still refining.
Still becoming.
I am not perfect, and I never will be.
But I think there is beauty in that, too.
Because every mistake, every breakthrough, every lesson has shaped this journey into what it is.
And I hope that by sharing both the messy parts and the meaningful ones, maybe another photographer somewhere—one just beginning, just like I once was—might feel a little less alone in their own journey.
