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.

This might be a roundabout reflection, but stay with me, I have a feeling this might meet you somewhere along your own path, maybe even a place you’ve quietly carried for a while.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a shift. One I didn’t expect and one I didn’t know I needed.

I’m a runner. I run every day, until recently, when injury forced me to stop, and that has been a complete emotional journey on its own, let alone a physical healing one.

If you know anything about running, you might be aware of these training structures: intervals, speed sessions on the track, long runs, and strength training sessions, each designed to complement your training. And for years, I believed the only sessions that counted were the ones that left me exhausted, wiped out, totally breathless. Only when it hurt, when it cost me, did I believe I’d earned something…that I earned the session or the run. I craved the effort, the challenge, and I trusted it. I even equated it with worth.

Believe it or not, I really only shoot with one lens. I know many photographers have bags full of gear, switching between lenses depending on the scene, but for me, and the style of photography I love most (lifestyle, travel, and landscape), one lens is almost always enough.

Of course, this depends on your genre of photography. A wildlife or wedding photographer might need a broader kit with a range of focal lengths. But for my work, mostly lifestyle, travel, and everyday storytelling, I really only need three lenses: a 24–70mm, a 50mm, and a 35mm. I’ve considered getting an 85mm, but since I don’t do a lot of portrait work, it would likely just gather dust.

The easiest way to improve your photography is not flashy or thrilling. In fact, it’s rather boring, at least on the surface. It’s certainly not glamorous. It’s not about finding the perfect preset, mastering a secret setting, trying a new hack, or purchasing a new lens that promises to change everything. It’s far simpler than that and harder to do.

The answer is time and practice.

I know that might be a disappointing thing to hear, especially when we’re often searching for a shortcut, a single shift that makes it all click. We live in a world now where answers are always at our fingertips, just a quick Google search, a question to AI, or a scroll through TikTok away from instant solutions.

Growth comes in waves, one season you are riding high on a wave in total exhilaration, and then the next you are in the tumble, white water wash, just trying to find which way is up or down, pulled in every direction.

If I’m being honest, the hardest part of my photography journey hasn’t been learning shutter speeds or mastering the technical side of my camera. The most challenging part has been internal. Quiet, persistent questions that rise up from a deeper place: Am I doing enough? Shouldn’t I be further along by now? Why does it look so much easier for others?

It’s that aching stretch between where you are and where you want to be, and the sinking feeling that what you're doing, all the hard work, might not be enough to get you there. That all the hypothetical blood, sweat, and tears won’t pay off, or that what you dream of isn’t for you.

Is this too cliché?

It’s a question I’ve asked myself more times than I can count, often right after taking what feels like a photograph that has “been done before.” Especially when traveling, I find myself drawn to those emblematic scenes, the iconic ones etched into our collective mind. A well-dressed old Italian gentleman walking on the cobblestone streets, the Colosseum golden in the morning sun, the way light spills across a flower stall in Paris. More times than not, I just take the photo if something catches my eye for any reason, and think about it later. But sometimes I hesitate and wonder if the photograph is too obvious, too expected, too cliché. I’ll look at that cliché shot, thinking, what’s even the point? Is it this too contrived? Will I even share it in my portfolio or social feed because it’s so cliché? Gosh, isn’t there something about your photo or your work being called cliché that hits like a dull thud in your chest?

Is this a good photo?

It’s a question we’ve all asked ourselves while looking through the viewfinder. Maybe it’s just a fleeting thought in your mind as you review it on the backscreen, or perhaps you share it with a friend. There’s something you’re drawn to about the photo, but you can’t quite put your finger on why. You start to second-guess yourself.“I think this composition works, but I’m not sure? I think this might be a keeper?” Have you had those thoughts before? And in that unsure headspace, you’re hoping someone else will reassure you that, “yes, it’s good,” or give you that validation you may crave.

Let me ask you this: Does it really matter? I’ve come to realize that the real question isn’t “Is this a good photo?” but rather “Why do I feel the need for that answer?”

Summer has arrived! At least in the northern hemisphere… These beautiful, leisurely, idyllic days stretch longer and are golden than the rest of the year. With school out and the sun calling everyone outdoors, I’m right there too, just having tipped out a beach bag full of sand, grateful and a little sun-dazed after an ocean dip with Winslow at our favorite spot.

There’s a carefree and loose energy to this time of year, with schedules easing and meals lingering long into the night. And maybe, like me, you usually have a few travel plans on the calendar, some adventure to look forward to, some new place you’re excited to explore.

I’m not really into labels, especially when they don’t feel relevant. If you don’t naturally fit into a specific box or genre, let that be. For a long time, I struggled to define myself as just a photographer shooting one thing. Was I a food photographer? A nature photographer? I loved all of it, and trying to choose just one never felt quite right or true to myself.

What I know to be true is this: I love beauty, natural light, and soulful moments that move something inside me, and that transcends any single genre. What is true for you? What do you know to be true about your photography and what you enjoy shooting?

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.