When it comes to composition, one approach has always worked well for me. This method is failproof for me—it always brings me back to storytelling. Before I even line up my shot, I ask myself: Who or what is the subject? Who is the hero of this photograph? Just like in a novel or a film, there's a hero —the main character, the lead role. Your subject could be a person, a building, a flower, a mountain range, a statue—anything that serves as the anchor of your image. It’s what tells the viewer, “This is what this photo is about.”

Light is often the main character in every story I tell with my camera. It’s the first thing I notice before I even pick up my camera. Sometimes, the way sunlight touches the ocean or how a deep blue sky highlights a golden field stops me in my tracks. Before I even think about composition, I'm watching what the light is doing, its direction, intensity, and color. The magic often lies in the subtleties: noticing how side light at a 45-degree angle reveals texture or how light behind an object makes it look like it glows from within. Observing light and its interactions in the natural world is key to visual storytelling.

Try this: observe light at three different times of day—morning, noon, and late afternoon—and see how its mood and story change each time.

We all wrestle with the same things: What gear do I really need? How do I find my style? How do I deal with self-doubt?

I’ve gathered some of the most common questions people ask me about photography, along with my honest and personal answers. I hope these bring you clarity, encouragement, and remind you that you’re not alone in your journey.

And remember, these are just my personal perspectives, shaped by my own experiences as a photographer. There isn’t one “right” way to approach photography. Take what feels helpful, try things out for yourself, and leave the rest. What matters most is finding what feels true and sustainable for you.

I never attended photography school; my journey began with pure enthusiasm and passion. The only education I had was a summer astrophotography workshop, where I realized how much I needed to learn. My early attempts to capture the Milky Way were underwhelming, with fuzzy stars and underexposed photos. Lacking formal training, I often felt that I was hiding, not fully expressing myself, and questioned whether I was "worthy" of the title of photographer. This even led me to hide my amateur camera in embarrassment. Imposter syndrome settled in and stayed.

I don’t think anyone seeking a linear, clearly defined career would choose a creative one. There’s no blueprint and no sure ending. There is no precise roadmap or set of steps. Those drawn to a creative path, I think, must possess a spirit of adventure. At the very least, they show a tolerance for discomfort and the uncontrollable. For photographers, this is especially true. On a clear, crisp December night in Vermont, I realized that photography was an integral part of my identity. My phone read -17 degrees. The sky, etched with stars, made its mark. The cold was sharp enough to shatter. My stinging cheeks and numb fingers fumbled with my basic camera, my eyes being the only part of me exposed.

I just returned to Maui after a quick visit home to Vermont—a much-needed break that helped me reset and recharge. The last few summer months have felt like a blur, with work on a new client shoot on Lanai and the busyness of life leaving little time to truly enjoy the season, despite the ocean being at my feet. Visiting home after eight years away in summer, I was reminded that Vermont’s summers are about simple joys—thunderstorms, fireflies, and the taste of garden tomatoes. These moments made me realize the importance of pausing to reconnect with the season’s energy.

We’ve all been there. You get home, so excited to check out your photos, certain there are a few gems on the card, only to upload them and feel that sinking feeling.

They just look…flat.
Dull.
Lackluster.

Maybe even boring?

It’s disappointing, especially when you felt the beauty in the moment. But I want to gently remind you: this happens to every photographer, and it isn’t so much as you doing something wrong, but maybe a misreading of the situation or poor circumstances that are out of your control. A flat photo isn’t a failure, it’s simply a clue.

If I were to pick up the camera again for the very first time, I would place my focus not on perfection, not on gear, and not on the endless technical how-tos, but on time. I would carve out gentle, uninterrupted time in my days or weeks to simply be with my camera, to wander and notice, to follow the flicker of curiosity or excitement wherever it might lead. I would let myself make the awful shots, take too many, miss the moment, and keep moving forward anyway. I would grant myself full permission to make mistakes, to experiment freely, and to create without questioning whether it was “good enough” or “right.” I would approach photography like a conversation with myself, with the world, with light and shadow. I would allow myself to be drawn toward whatever I felt pulled to: stillness or motion, my mother’s flower garden, the full moon, people or petals, soft light or the starkness of noon. If I didn’t yet know what kind of photography called to me, I’d let myself try everything.

Let’s face it, most of us can’t just pick up and travel on a whim, chasing cinematic, Instagram-worthy shots. Maybe you work full time, and photography is a quiet luxury you get to indulge in the pockets of free time amid a hectic life and work schedule. Often, we’re caught in routines that keep us tethered, and the days blend into each other, filled with to-do lists, dishes in the sink, errands to run. Life can feel messy and uncurated. At least mine is!

But still, I believe there’s something beautiful to be found in the ordinary, in the messy middle, in our daily lives that are raw and authentic.

This journal entry is about honoring the beauty of the everyday: the quiet, familiar moments that we often overlook. The ones we pass by without a second glance. The ones that make up most of our lives. The scenes or subjects we may even take for granted every day, either in our home, on our commute, or in our neighborhood.

Photography has always been there, quietly in the background of my life. As a young girl, I would bundle up and trek out into the freezing winter night to photograph the stars. I didn’t know then what it meant, only that I absolutely loved it. Those small, solitary adventures out in nature began a lifelong love. Years later, I found myself on 7th Avenue in New York, immersed in mood boards and concept development, where photography still lingered quietly behind the scenes. Even when it wasn’t my main focus in my career at that time, it never left me. That love was always there, even if it was a bit dimmed or rusty.

About eight years ago, I decided to return to photography more intentionally. At first, it was just a hobby, something that brought me so much joy.