How Cameras Found Me: A Story From the 90s
I don’t remember the first time I held a camera. I don’t remember the first photo I ever took. What I do remember is how it felt to be seen.
I was born in 1986 to teenage parents who were doing the very best they could with what they had. We didn’t have much money, but we had a whole lot of figuring things out as we went. Like many families in the 90s, cameras came out for birthdays, holidays, and the occasional special moment, but photography wasn’t something we thought of as art or legacy back then. It was just life.
When I was around twelve years old, my mom took me to Kmart for professional photos. If you grew up in that era, you know exactly the kind I mean. The backdrop, the lighting, the photographer behind a big, serious-looking camera. Those photos were meant to be sent to a potential modeling agency, but what stayed with me wasn’t the goal, it was the experience.
I remember the photographer. I remember the camera. And I remember how she made me feel.
She posed me gently. She told me where to place my hands. She noticed my angles. She made me feel confident in my own skin at an age where confidence doesn’t always come easy. When I saw those images, I didn’t just see a girl in a photo, I saw myself, and I liked what I saw.
Looking back now, I realize how powerful that moment was. Not because of the photos themselves, but because of the care behind them. Someone took the time to see me, to guide me, and to show me a version of myself that felt beautiful and worthy.
I didn’t know it then, but that feeling planted a seed.
As the years went on, cameras continued to weave their way through my life in quiet, unremarkable ways. Disposable cameras. Family snapshots. Memories frozen without much thought—but always with feeling. Somewhere along the way, photography stopped being something happening to me and started becoming something I wanted to give to others.
Today, when I photograph mothers, families, and newborns, I think about that twelve-year-old girl sitting under studio lights at Kmart. I think about how much it mattered to feel confident. To feel beautiful. To feel seen.
That’s what I strive to give every person who steps in front of my camera.
Not perfection. Not pressure.
But reassurance. Guidance. And the quiet confidence that comes from being photographed with care.
Photography, for me, has never been just about images. It’s about honoring where we come from, preserving the seasons that shape us, and reminding people, often in moments they don’t realize they’ll miss, that they are worthy of being remembered.
And if I can give even one person that same feeling I walked away with all those years ago, then I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
