I’m not a technical photographer; I believe photography is a way to document light, life, and the essence and soul of our subjects, whatever they may be. To me, it’s about how you see and how you are present in the moment with a subject or scene. For me, the best camera is always the one that’s with you, but just as important are patience and presence. Over the years, I’ve found that the most meaningful images come when I quiet the noise, trust my instincts, and let light, emotion, and composition lead the way. Although I know that may seem vague and abstract, so I’ve put together this gentle guide of practical and technical tips to improve your photography, based on my experience.

This differs from my typical photography posts, but I felt compelled to write it. Lately, I've been feeling the tides of change in my life and work. As I write this, my desk window is wide open, and my little red cardinal keeps popping by to say hello on the branch, curious and watchful as if he has something to say. It's these little moments that bring me back to the present. Despite the changes, I've never felt more grounded in my life or confident in my energy. This energetic shift feels rooted in honoring creative potential and surrendering to the unknown.

When I get ready for a shoot, whether it’s for a client or just during my own travel adventures, I find myself balancing two things in my mind: being completely present in the moment while also keeping a loose visual storytelling framework in the background. I start by being open to whatever catches my eye, tuning in to the energy of the scene or the emotions of the subject. At the same time, I hold onto a flexible mental guide, a narrative arc that guides how the visual story will unfold. At its core, a visual story is just like any other story — it’s not just a single image, but a collection of moments woven together, creating a rhythm, a sense of time, a deeper meaning or elaboration. Much like a well-crafted written narrative, it has a beginning, a setting, characters, and an emotional tone.

Why does this feel so hard? What isn’t working? Why doesn’t this feel as good as it did before? I’m not feeling as inspired lately…These are some thoughts that I have had recently, to be honest. Some were kind of always there, lingering in the back of my mind, and now have just started to bubble to the surface. I think every photographer will find themselves at this point of questioning their path and their direction. I don’t think it's a sign that anything is inherently wrong, but one that is actually a good sign of opening doors to go deeper into ourselves and our craft. We live in a chaotic, noisy world, one that is exacerbated by social media. We see people's highlight reels, their best photos, their best work, and the glossy photos, but what we don’t see are the struggles and challenges behind them.

Light is like our paintbrush as photographers. We use it just like an artist, sculpting and shaping our scenes. There’s something truly enchanting about golden light, the kind that feels like warm honey, with tones so rich they remind you of amber. This light is a dream, no matter what genre of photography you’re into. We’ve all been there, waiting for the sun to dip low on the horizon, casting its golden glow over the landscape. But consider this thought, if you will. If you’re always waiting for that perfect golden hour, you might be missing out on so much more. There are countless other expressions of light, so many different shades and subtleties just waiting to be explored. We have twelve hours in a day (depending on where you live, of course), and if you’re only holding out for that one fleeting moment of “ideal” light, you’re missing out on so many other opportunities.

At some point on our creative journey, we all find ourselves second-guessing. It’s just part of the process and life really. We start to wonder if we’ve got the right settings, if we should take that opportunity if we’ve captured all the shots we need, if the client will love the images, or if we’ve overlooked something crucial. These moments can feel overwhelming and uncertain, but they’re really just gentle nudges. Invitations to take a step back, reconnect with ourselves, and tap into something deeper. When people say “trust your gut,” what does that really mean? It can come off as vague or even frustrating in the moment.

It’s been about five years since I truly embraced photography, not just as a hobby, but as a career. It wasn’t a full 180 from fashion design, but close enough to make me question if it was the right choice. Still, photography had always lingered in the background, ever since my mother gave me my first camera when I was seven.. I was a quiet, sensitive child, and hiding behind the lens felt like a safe place to observe and participate in the world. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was already learning to see with intention, feel deeply, and be fully present.

Many of you have asked how to tell if a photo works, and to be honest, it’s a tough question to answer definitively. That’s because every image exists within its own unique context: the light, the subject, the moment, the intent behind the frame. And perhaps most importantly, photography is deeply subjective. What makes a “good” photo can vary widely from one person to the next.

Sure, there are foundational principles, like the rule of thirds, balance, leading lines, and the power of odds, that can guide composition. And yes, technical sharpness and exposure can play a role. But even when an image checks all the “right” boxes, it might not land emotionally or visually for everyone. On the flip side, a blurry, rule-breaking frame might resonate deeply and linger in someone’s memory.

Lately, I’ve been soaking in the quiet joy of spring, the gentle warmth of morning light, the way the sun lingers softly into the evening, and the color slowly unfurling where only bare branches once stood. There’s something deeply hopeful in it, watching blossoms awaken, tender and fragrant, unapologetically alive.

But spring, in all its vibrancy, is also a quiet teacher.

Because what we’re witnessing now — the color, the blossoms, the return of life didn’t appear overnight. These blooms we marvel at have spent the long, quiet winter hidden beneath the surface, germinating in stillness, gathering energy in the dark. Growth was unfolding even when it looked like nothing was happening. That’s the part we often overlook, that true transformation begins in the unseen, quiet spaces where no one is watching.

This post feels a little different from what I usually share, but it comes from what I know to be true. It’s something that’s been with me for a long time—steady and constant—and I know it’s not just in thought, but in a way that feels deeply rooted in who I am. I’ve never been drawn to the technical side of photography. I’ve always followed a different rhythm—one shaped by curiosity, intuition, a sense of wonder, and deep appreciation for beauty. And while I find inspiration in breathtaking landscapes and exotic new travels, the place where I feel most creatively free isn’t always behind the camera.