Real life doesn't need to be made perfect to be worth preserving.
There are moments in your life when everything makes sense. When you find your passion and, somehow, your purpose. Photography for me has always been about preserving the most vulnerable and meaningful moments. The moments that cannot be recreated. The moments that pass far too quickly. On August 10th, I found myself in one of the most sacred spaces I have ever been invited into. A room full of women who have walked the path of stretching, growing, and breathing life into the world.
The summer sun warmed the room through the wide windows, looking out onto a beautiful yard that will someday be full of swing sets, toys, and the shrieks of joy that come from jumping through a sprinkler. It felt almost poetic that Mom was laboring toward the direction of all that was to come. Birth is one of those experiences that offers no guarantees. And yet, in that room, there was so much peace. So much strength. So much love. Mom was surrounded by support from every direction, Even her pups, anxiously awaited the arrival of their baby brother!
"It felt almost poetic that Mom was laboring toward the direction of all that was to come."
And as I moved through the room with my camera, quietly documenting what was unfolding, I found myself thinking about something that had happened that very morning. I had been looking at new cameras. I had convinced myself that maybe a new camera would bring me more joy. That maybe better equipment would help me become a better photographer. That perhaps having the newest technology would help me capture moments like the ones I was hoping to photograph. And yet, hours later, I was standing in this room with a camera that is more than ten years old and a little 35mm lens. And I was capturing incredible joy. I was capturing strength. Pain. Tenderness. Anticipation. I was capturing a mother giving everything she had to bring her baby into the world. And then, suddenly, he was here. The room changed. Everything became quieter for just a moment as everyone took in the reality that this baby they had been waiting for was finally here. A brand-new life.
And I realized there is no new camera that could ever outperform life unfolding in front of you. No lens can make a moment more meaningful. No amount of megapixels can manufacture the look on a mother's face when she meets her baby for the first time. No piece of equipment can recreate the feeling of a room when everyone holds their breath for those first moments of life. Suddenly, it didn't have to be perfect. Because life isn't perfect. Birth certainly isn't perfect. And these photographs don't need to be perfect either. They just need to be honest. Because the beauty wasn't in creating the perfect photograph. The beauty was already there. It was in the exquisite pain of labor. It was in the hands reaching out to support Mom. It was in the people waiting with anticipation. It was in the pups who didn't quite understand what was happening but knew something important was coming. It was in the summer light spilling through those windows. It was in a mother meeting her son for the very first time. And it was in the quiet realization that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I don't think there will ever be a more meaningful moment to document than the first moments of life. To be trusted with those moments is a gift I will never take lightly.
And as I left that afternoon, I thought about the camera I had been so convinced I needed that morning. Maybe the camera was never the thing that was going to bring me joy. Maybe the joy has always been here. In being present. In noticing. In preserving the moments that can never happen exactly the same way twice. The camera is a tool. The real gift is being there when life happens. And sometimes, there are moments when everything makes sense.
This is why I photograph.
