Down The Rabbit Hole And Back Again
There was a time in my photography journey when I could feel my muchness slipping away—the bold, clear, artistic aliveness that had defined my early career felt entirely misplaced. Like Alice wandering further from the path, I found myself chasing what was safe, sellable, and palatable until the work no longer felt like mine. I stood at the threshold of a new chapter—one cycle ready to close to make space for something truer to emerge.
In May 2025, I hit pause, stepped away from my business, took a break from social media, and asked myself if I still wanted to be a photographer. The answer wasn’t a simple yes or no, but a realization: if I was going to keep creating, it had to be on my own terms. That meant returning to the subjects that first lit my creative spark—gymnastics, dance, and the raw, unpolished honesty of portraiture. It also meant giving myself permission to explore beyond photography and let my creativity flow into whatever mediums and projects call to me next.
With that clarity reclaimed, I’m building my work around what feels alive and true: portraits and projects that honor individuality, movement, and connection. Whether I’m capturing an athlete mid-leap, a milestone portrait, or a tender exchange between lovers, my goal is the same—to create art that reflects your authenticity and energy, shaped by my creative eye.
While my art and business will continue to evolve and include other avenues of creative expression; my dedication to honesty and presence in my work remains constant. As a true Piscean, my creative world is fluid by nature—ever-shifting, much like Alice’s own journey. Stepping honestly into my work means embracing this flow and uncertainty, and trusting that the chapters that unfold next will be heartfelt.
A twist in my spine, and my story.
This is me at twelve years old, recovering from scoliosis surgery in 1992. I had a Harrington rod fused to my thoracic spine, a procedure that ultimately ended my ability to keep training and competing in gymnastics. I’m smiling in this photo, but losing gymnastics and certain physical abilities as I knew it, was devastating.
No one could have explained then how deeply I would grieve the loss of this version of myself, how long it would take to feel strong again, or find something I could love with the same resonance and depth. Before and after my surgery, the highlight of my month was the arrival of International Gymnast magazine, a portal back into a world I deeply missed. These pages were my lifeline.
What you don’t see in this photo are the posters and photographs of gymnasts that covered my closet doors and bedroom walls. Without realizing it, I was developing my photographic eye and preferences for what would influence my work decades later.
Losing gymnastics was a deep grief, a loss of identity and the closing of a beloved chapter. That grief still shapes what I notice and choose to honor in the photos I make today. Whether I’m photographing gymnastics, portraits, or my own family moments; I’m drawn to the small, tender glimpses of vulnerability and strength—alongside the sense of a bigger journey unfolding. For me, being a photographer is more than making pictures for a profile page; they’re a way of marking a chapter in someone’s life and the meaning it holds.
