More than just photos

Photography will always be a part of my story, but there’s a whole lot of life happening outside the frame. There’s the accounting girl building a career, the student still chasing her goals, the woman growing in her faith, and the everyday me who loves the little things that make ordinary days worth remembering.

This blog is where all of those pieces get to exist together—the meaningful, the random, the creative, the funny, and everything in between. Because there’s a lot more to the girl behind the camera than the pictures she takes.

Drowning in Feelings I Can’t Name

Lately, I’ve been drowning in my own feelings.

Not in some dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. There’s no pouring rain or perfectly timed sad song playing in the background. Sometimes it looks exactly like this—a normal day, sitting in my car, going through the motions while my mind is carrying a hundred things at once.

I think that’s the strange thing about being overwhelmed emotionally. Nobody can always see it.

You can go to work.
You can laugh at something funny.
You can answer texts.
You can grab something to drink, run your errands, and talk to people like everything is completely normal.

And still feel like you’re barely keeping your head above water.

When Everything Hits at Once

I’ve realized that sometimes it isn’t one big thing that gets to me. It’s everything.

It’s the things that changed when I wasn’t ready for them to change. The people I miss. The people I had to let go of. The things I wish had turned out differently. The uncertainty of what comes next. The pressure I put on myself to keep growing while simultaneously wishing life would slow down long enough for me to catch up.

It’s being grateful for where I am while still grieving where I thought I would be.

It’s being proud of how far I’ve come while admitting that some days, I’m tired of having to be strong enough to keep coming.

And sometimes I don't even know exactly what I'm feeling. I just know it's a lot.

I Feel Things Deeply

For a long time, I think I believed I needed to get better at not feeling so much.

Maybe I needed thicker skin. Maybe I cared too much. Maybe I became too attached. Maybe I overthought things that everyone else could simply let go.

But I’m starting to understand that feeling deeply isn't something I necessarily need to fix. It means I love deeply, too.

I care. I remember little things. I notice changes. I hold onto moments. I take pictures because something inside me knows how quickly ordinary moments become memories.

Of course that means some things are going to hurt deeply, too.

I’m learning how to carry that part of myself without letting it consume me.

Some Days, Faith Looks Different

There are days when faith feels strong and beautiful.

And then there are days when faith is simply saying, “God, I don’t understand any of this, but I’m still here.”

I think I used to believe trusting God meant I wouldn't question where my life was going.

Now I think maybe trust is choosing Him while I have questions.

Maybe faith isn't always feeling peaceful. Maybe sometimes it's crying, being confused, wondering why something happened, and still believing there is more to the story than what I can see right now.

I don't have to understand this season for God to be present in it.

Learning to Float

Maybe I don't need to fight every feeling the second it shows up.

Maybe I can let myself be sad without deciding I'll always be sad.

I can miss someone without believing they belong in my life.

I can grieve an old version of myself while becoming someone new.

I can be scared of what comes next and still take the next step.

I can have a hard day without calling it a bad life.

And I can admit that sometimes I'm overwhelmed without believing I'm failing. Maybe that's what I'm learning right now.

When the feelings get deep, I don't always have to swim harder.

Sometimes I just need to breathe, look toward God, and let myself float for a while.

I’m still figuring things out. Still healing some things. Still letting go of others. Still learning who I am now.

And yes, sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in everything I feel.

But somewhere underneath all of those emotions, I know this too:

I’m still here. And for today, that’s enough.

Sometimes Makeup Feels Like a Disguise

I’ve always thought there was something special about makeup.

Some days, putting it on feels natural.
It’s fun. It’s creative. It’s part of getting ready and feeling a little more put together. I look in the mirror, add a little color, fix my hair, and somehow feel a little more like myself.

But other days? It feels like I’m putting on a disguise.

Foundation to cover more than imperfections.
Concealer for more than the tiredness under my eyes.
Mascara to make eyes look brighter when they’ve spent too much time holding back tears.
Blush to add color to a face that feels emotionally drained.
And a smile—the finishing touch that convinces everyone I’m doing just fine.

It’s strange how easy it can be to make the outside look beautiful when everything inside feels messy.

There have been days when I’ve looked in the mirror after doing my makeup and barely recognized the emotions underneath it. I looked happy. Put together. Confident.

And maybe, from the outside, I was. But underneath the makeup were feelings no one could see.

Pain. Uncertainty. Heartache. Overthinking. Exhaustion.
Things I was still trying to understand myself.

I think that’s something we forget when we look at other people, too. We see the finished version. The pretty picture. The makeup. The outfit. The smile.

We don’t always see what it took for someone to get out of bed that morning.

We don’t see the tears they wiped away before applying mascara.

We don’t hear the thoughts running through their head while they’re smiling for the camera.

Sometimes makeup helps me feel beautiful. Sometimes it helps me feel confident.

And sometimes, if I’m being truthful, it helps me pretend for a little while that I’m okay. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with admitting that.

Because underneath every layer—under the makeup, the smile, the carefully chosen picture, and the version of myself I show the world—I’m still me.

Still healing. Still learning. Still feeling things deeply.
Still trying to find beauty in myself on the days when life doesn’t feel very beautiful.

And maybe real beauty isn’t always looking like you have it all together.

Maybe sometimes it’s having the courage to admit that you don’t. 🖤

A Full Mind, An Empty Stomach

There's food sitting in front of me. I know I need to eat it. But I'm not hungry.

Not because I've already eaten. Not because the food doesn't look good. Not because I'm trying to not eat. I just... don't have an appetite.

Stress and anxiety have a strange way of showing up physically. Sometimes they don't look like crying or panicking. Sometimes they look like sitting in front of your lunch, staring at food you normally wouldn't think twice about eating, and having absolutely no desire to take a bite.

My stomach feels like it's already full -- but not with food. It's full of thoughts.

Full of worry. Full of uncertainty. Full of things I can't control. Full of conversations I've replayed a hundred times. Full of questions I don't have answers to. And somehow, there just isn't much room left for hunger. But I eat anyway.

Not because I suddenly feel hungry. Not because the anxiety magically disappears halfway through my meal.

I eat because my body still deserves to be taken care of, even when my mind is having a hard time. So I take a bite. And then another.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I don't need to finish everything. I don't need to force myself to pretend and everything is normal. I just need to give my body sometime.

Because taking care of yourself doesn't always look like bubble baths, skincare, coffee dates, or peaceful mornings. Sometimes self-care looks like eating lunch when anxiety has stolen your appetite.

Sometimes it's drinking some water. Sometimes it's getting out of bed when you'd rather stay underneath the blankets. Sometimes it's doing the smallest, most ordinary thing because you know your body needs you -- even when your mind is somewhere else entirely.

There's something strangely difficult about eating when every part of you feels unsettled. Each bite can feel like an accomplishment nobody else would ever notice.

But maybe that's the thing about healing and taking care of ourselves. A lot of it happens in moments nobody applauds.

Nobody sees the internal conversation happening while you're starting at your lunch.

You need to eat. I know. Just try. So you do.

Today, this is what taking care of myself looks like. A plate of lunch. No appetite. A mind carrying more than it probably should.

And me, choosing to eat anyway. Not perfectly. Not because everything suddenly feels okay.

Simply because even on the days when stress and anxiety make it difficult to care for myself.... I am still worth taking care of.

When Will It Be My Turn?

I've been the wedding guest. I've been part of the bridal party.

I've watched people I love walk down the aisle toward the person they've chosen forever. I've smiled for pictures, celebrated engagements, helped with dresses, listened to vows, danced at receptions, and watched two people begin the rest of their lives together.

And I genuinely love being there for those moments. But somewhere between the  flowers, the rings, the beautiful dresses, and the I dos, there's always this quiet little ache inside of me that asks the question I try not to say out loud:
When will it be my turn?
When will I be the one wearing the dress instead of standing beside it? When will people be gathering to celebrate my love story?
When will I look across the room and know that the person standing there chose me-not temporarily, not until things got difficult, but completely?

I think weddings hit differently when you've had your heart broken.

Because I know what it feels like to picture a future with someone and then have that future disappear. I know what it feels like to love someone and still end up having to let them go. I know what it's like to wonder if maybe I was too much, not enough, or simply meant to be another chapter in someone else's story instead of their ending.

And after heartbreak, watching other people find their forever can bring two completely different emotions into your heart at the exact same time.

You can be genuinely happy for them while quietly grieving what you still don't have. That doesn't make the happiness fake. It just means there's an ache living beside it.

Sometimes I wonder how many more weddings I'll attend before it's mine. How many more engagement announcements I'll congratulate. How many more bouquets I'll watch get tossed. How many more times I'll sit at a reception and wonder what it would feel like to finally be the one who found her person.

I don't need the biggest ring. I don't need the perfect wedding. I don't need some fairytale version of love where nothing ever hurts and everything is effortless. I just want someone who stays.

Someone who chooses me on the ordinary Tuesdays just as much as the beautiful Saturdays. Someone who doesn't make me question whether I'm loved. Someone I can laugh with, pray with, build a life with, and come home to. Someone who looks at all the messy, complicated, imperfect pieces of me and still thinks, her. I choose her.

Maybe that's why waiting feels so hard. Because I know how deeply I'm capable of loving someone. I know how much love I have left to give, even after having my heart broken.

And sometimes I wish I knew when. When will I meet him? When will the heartbreak finally make sense?
When will I understand why the people who weren't meant to stay had to leave?

When will I stop being the girl watching everyone else find their forever and finally become the girl standing at the beginning of her own?
I don't have those answers. Maybe my love story is simply taking longer to arrive.

Maybe there are parts of me still growing and healing. Maybe there are things God is doing in my life-and in someone else's-that I cannot see yet.

So for now, I'll keep showing up. I'll put on the dress. I'll celebrate my friends. I'll smile in the pictures. I'll tear up during toe vows I'll dance at the reception.
And yes, sometimes I'll probably go home afterward with that familiar ache in my chest.

Because I'm still waiting. Still hoping. Still wondering.

But somewhere underneath all of that wondering, there's a small part of me that still believes there will come a day when I won't be asking, "When will it be my turn?"
Because it finally be.

The Pills Don't Tell the Whole Story

There are parts of mental health that don't photograph well.

The sleepless nights when my mind refuses to shut off. The nights when I'm exhausted beyond words, but my thoughts just keep going -- replaying conversations, worrying about things I can't control, and creating scenarios that may never even happen.

And then there are the days when I could sleep forever. When getting out of bed feels like it requires more energy than I have. When my body feels heavy, my motivation disappears, and even the simplest things feel harder than they should.

Anxiety and depression are strange like that. One can keep me awake all night while the other makes me want to sleep through the entire day. Sometimes anxiety is just a constant hum in the background. Other times, it takes over completely.

My chest gets tight. My heart races. Breathing suddenly doesn't feel as automatic as it should. My body goes into panic mode even when I'm trying to convince myself that I'm okay. The chest pain from a panic attack can feel terrifyingly real - because it is real. My mind may be sounding the alarm, but my body feels every bit of it.

And sometimes there isn't even an obvious reason. That's one of the hardest parts to explain.

I can have a good job, people who care about me, things I'm excited about, plans for my future, and still struggle with my mental health. Gratitude doesn't magically erase anxiety. Having good things in my life doesn't mean depression can't find me.

And this picture? It's part of the story too.

Medication isn't the whole story of mental health, and everyone's journey looks different. But for me, it's a reminder that sometimes taking care of yourself looks less like bubble baths and inspirational quotes and more like admitting, I need help carrying this.
There is no aesthetic version of mental health.

Sometimes it's crying in the shower. Sometimes it's canceling plans. Sometimes it's sitting in your car for a few extra minutes because you need to collect yourself before walking inside. Sometimes it's laughing with everyone around you while quietly fighting a battle no one in the room knows about.

Sometimes it's therapy. Sometimes it's medication. Sometimes it's prayer. Sometimes it's simply making it through today so you can try again tomorrow.

I'm learning that taking care of my mental health doesn't mean I'm going to feel good every single day. It means I'm learning to recognize when I'm struggling instead of pretending I'm not.

I'm learning that I don't always have to have a reason for feeling heavy. I don't have to earn rest.

And I don't have to hide the parts of my life that aren't pretty just because they're uncomfortable to talk about.

So here's a picture of something most people probably wouldn't think twice about. But to me, it represents something much bigger.

It represents the nights I couldn't sleep. The days I slept too much. The racing thoughts.The heavy chest. The panic attacks. The tears nobody saw. The times I said "I'm fine" because explaining everything felt impossible.

But it also represents me continuing to show up. Mental health isn't a straight line from struggling to healed.

Some days are lighter. Some days are heavy. And some days, simply making it through is enough.

I'm still here. I'm still trying. And right now, that's something worth being proud of.

If Leaving Me Is Easy, Let me Go!

Goodbye.

It's such a small word for something that has always felt so heavy to me. I think one of the hardest things I've had to accept is that people leave.

Friends who once knew every detail of your life eventually become strangers. Grandparents die, and suddenly you're left with memories where a person used to be. Relationships end. People grow apart. People change their minds. And sometimes the people who looked you in the eyes and promised, "I'm not going anywhere," are the exact people who eventually do.

Maybe that's why I hold on so damn tight. I fight for people long after they've stopped fighting for me. I make excuses for distance. I forgive things that hurt me. I give another chance, and then another, because somehow losing someone has always felt more painful than losing pieces of myself trying to keep them.

I've begged for conversations that other people were perfectly comfortable never having. I've stared at my phone wondering what I did wrong.

I've replayed words, moments, arguments and silences until I could convince myself that maybe if I had been different -- less emotional, less sensitive, less needy, less me -- they would have stayed. And I think that's the part I'm finally tired of.

Why am I fighting so hard to keep someone who doesn't have to fight with themselves to leave me?

If walking away from me doesn't make you hesitate, why am I destroying myself trying to convince you to turn around?
If losing me doesn't scare you, why should losing you continue to terrify me? That doesn't mean I suddenly stopped caring. God, I wish it were that easy.

I'll probably still miss people who weren't good for me. I'll probably still remember the good parts and wonder if things could have been different. There will still be names that make my chest tighten and memories that hurt when they show up unexpectedly.

Because when I love someone, I don't know how to love halfway. But maybe healing isn't learning how to care less. Maybe it's learning that loving someone deeply does not require abandoning myself to keep them. So this is me learning a different kind of goodbye.

Not the angry kind. Not the please come back kind. Not the kind where I leave the door cracked open just in case someone decides I'm worth choosing again. The kind where I finally stop chasing. If you want to leave, I won't stand in the doorway anymore.

I won't beg you to remember why you loved me. I won't keep proving my worth to someone who has already decided they can live without me. I won't keep ripping open the same wound just because I'm afraid of what life looks like without you in it.

People leave. Maybe they always will. But for once, I'm going to stop leaving myself just to make them stay.

And if you can walk away without thinking twice.... maybe its finally time I learn how to let you.

Maybe I Was the Storm All Along

There's something about rain that feels a little too familiar.

Maybe it's the way it can start so quietly. A few drops here and there. Nothing anyone really notices. Nothing worth stopping for. Until suddenly, it's pouring. And lately, I think that's what my life feels like.

I pour. I pour myself into the people I love. Into my work. Into friendships. Into responsibilities. Into making sure everyone else is okay. Into being the person people can depend on. Into checking on people who rarely think to check on me.

I pour and pour and pour until sometimes I wonder how there is anything left inside of me. And somehow, I still find more to give.

I think that's the hardest part about having a heart like mine. I don't really know how to love halfway. When I care about someone, I care deeply. I notice the change in their voice. I remember the little things they told me months ago. I worry when they're quiet. I carry pieces of their sadness home with me without even realizing I've picked them up.

I will stand in someone else's storm holding an umbrella over them while I'm getting absolutely soaked. And then I wonder why I'm exhausted. Why my chest feels heavy.

Why sometimes I get into my car, close the door, and suddenly everything I've been holding back comes rushing out. The tears don't always come politely. Sometimes they pour.

The kind where you can't catch your breath. The kind where wiping them away feels pointless because another one is already falling. The kind where you don't even know which thing you're crying about anymore.

Maybe it's not one thing. Maybe it's everything. Every disappointment I said was fine. Every person I gave another chance to. Every goodbye I wasn't ready for. Every time I felt unwanted and pretended it didn't hurt. Every time I swallowed my feelings because somebody else's seemed more important. Every time I smiled while something inside me was quietly falling apart.

Maybe tears are just what happens when a heart has been full for too long. That's what this picture feels like to me.

The world is still there on the other side of the glass. The road is still there. The lights are still glowing. Life hasn't stopped.

But everything looks different through the rain. Blurred. Heavy. Harder to see. And maybe that's where I am right now. Still moving forward, even when I can't see very far ahead. Still showing up. Still loving people. Still giving pieces of myself away.

But I'm starting to realize that I cannot keep pouring myself into everyone else and then act surprised when I feel empty.

I can't keep being everyone's safe place while abandoning myself. I can't keep catching everyone else's tears while pretending mine aren't falling.

Maybe I need to learn that I deserve some of the love I give away so freely. Maybe I need to stop apologizing for the days when I don't have anything left to give. Maybe I need to let it rain.

Let myself cry until there aren't any tears left to fight. Let myself admit that some things hurt more than I've allowed myself to say. Because rain doesn't mean the world is ending.

Sometimes the sky simply gets too heavy to keep holding everything in. And maybe I do, too.

Maybe I'm the Train Wreck

Maybe it wasn't everyone else. Maybe some of it has been me.

I've spent a lot of time looking out the window at the wreckage of my life, wondering how so many people could hurt me. I could name them. I could tell you what they did.

I could tell you about the people who left. The friendships that disappeared. The promises that were broken. The people I begged to stay long after they had already shown me they wanted to go.

I could point to every scar and probably tell you exactly who put it there. For a long time, that made the story pretty simple:
They hurt me. I was the one who loved too much. Stayed too long. Forgave too easily. Gave one more chance, and then another, and another. I was always the one left picking up the pieces. At least, that's how I saw it.

But somewhere along the way, I finally stopped looking out the window at everyone else and started looking inward.

And a thought crossed my mind that I really didn't want to admit. What if I'm the Train wreck? What if it hasn't been everyone else this whole time? What if some of it... has been me?
That question hurts more than blaming someone else ever did. Because what if I've spent years telling myself that people always leave without every asking myself what happens inside of me when I think someone might leave

Maybe I hold on too tightly. Maybe I notice the smallest change in someone's tone and convince myself something is wrong. Maybe I start preparing for abandonment before anyone has actually abandoned me. Maybe I overthink silence. Maybe I read between the lines that were never written. Maybe I need reassurance, but instead of asking for it, I go quiet and secretly hope someone notices.

Maybe I say, "I'm fine," when what I really mean is, please care enough to know that I'm not. And then I get hurt when they believe me.

Maybe I've expected people to understand feelings I never actually explained. Maybe I shut down when I should communicate. Maybe I distance myself when life gets heavy and then wonder why nobody came looking for me Maybe sometimes I push people away just to see if they'll fight their way back.

And maybe I've called that protecting my heart when really, I was testing theirs.

That one is hard to admit. So is this:
Maybe sometimes what I called "loving hard" was actually me being terrified of losing someone. Maybe I gave people chance after chance because losing them felt scarier than losing pieces of myself. Maybe I stayed where I wasn't wanted because rejection felt like proof of every ugly thing I've ever believed about myself.

Maybe I confused chasing someone with fighting for them. Maybe I confused attachment with love. Maybe I confused anxiety with intuition. Maybe I became so convinced that everyone eventually leaves that I started looking for evidence that they would.

And maybe sometimes I found it because it was really there. But maybe sometimes I found it because I was looking so damn hard. That doesn't mean the people who hurt me didn't hurt me.

It doesn't erase the lies, the broken promises, the abandonment, or the nights I cried because someone made me feel like I was too much and somehow never enough at the same time.

Their choices are still theirs. But mine are mine, too. And maybe healing means finally being brave enough to hold both truths at once.

People have hurt me. And...

I have things I need to work on, too. I'm not innocent in every story just because I was hurting. There are probably people who remember a version of me that I wouldn't recognize. Maybe in someone else's story, I'm the person who shut down. I'm the person who became distant. I'm the person who overreacted. I'm the person who expected too much. I'm the person who hurt them.

And God, there's something incredibly humbling about realizing our can have a good heart and still hurt people.

You can love deeply and still love imperfectly. You can have wounds that explain your behavior without those wounds excusing everything you do.

Maybe that's the part of healing nobody talks about. Eventually, you have to stop examining everyone else's fingerprints on your broken pieces and look at your own hands.

Not so you can hate yourself. Not so you can take responsibility for things that were never yours to carry. But so you can finally recognize the patterns that keep following you from relationship to relationship, friendship to friendship, heartbreak to heartbreak.

Because if every chapter keeps ending with the same pain, eventually you have to ask yourself what you're bringing with you onto the next page.

And lately, I’ve been asking. Maybe I am a little bit of a train wreck. Maybe there are parts of me that are still scared. Parts of me that cling. Parts of me that run. Parts of me that shut down. Parts of me that desperately want to be chosen while simultaneously waiting for the moment someone decides I’m not worth choosing anymore.

Maybe there’s a version of me that learned to expect goodbye before she ever learned how to trust hello. And for the first time, I don't want to hate her for that.

I want to understand her.

Because maybe realizing that some of it has been me isn't the devastating ending I thought it would be. Maybe it's actually the beginning. Because I can't change the people who left.

I can't rewrite the conversations. I can't undo the things that broke me. I can't go backward and make someone love me differently. But I can look at myself differently. I can communicate instead of shutting down. I can stop chasing people who have already chosen to walk away. I can ask for reassurance instead of creating tests someone doesn't even know they're taking. I can learn that someone's bad mood doesn't automatically mean they're mad at me. I can stop treating every little distance like the beginning of another goodbye. I can learn that love shouldn't require me to abandon myself just to keep someone else.

And maybe someday, I can stop being so afraid of people leaving that I forget how to enjoy them while they're here.

So maybe I was wrong. Maybe I haven't just been standing beside the wreckage all these years. Maybe some of the broken pieces belong to me. Maybe some of the damage does too.

But here's what I'm finally starting to understand:

Being part of the wreck doesn't mean I have to spend the rest of my life living in it.

I can own my pieces. I can learn from them. I can forgive myself for the things I did when I was scared, hurting, desperate to be loved, or terrified of being left. And I can become someone who doesn't keep repeating them.

So, yeah. Maybe I’m the train wreck. Or maybe I'm just finally standing still long enough to see the wreckage clearly. And for the first time...

I’m not looking out the window trying to figure out who to blame. I’m looking inward, trying to figure out what I can heal.

A Smile That Feels Different

There's something beautiful about meeting someone who starts healing parts of you they never broke.

They weren't the reason you learned to overthink. They weren't the one who made you question whether you were enough. They didn't create the walls, the fear, or the part of you that's always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But somehow, they make those things a little quieter.

Not because they came into your life to save you, but because their patience reminds you that you don't have to be afraid of being loved. Their reassurance teaches you that not everyone is going to leave. Their consistency slowly reaches places in you that have been guarded for a long time.

And suddenly, you catch yourself smiling like this.

Not because someone told you to smile. Not because there was a camera pointed at you. Not because you were trying to convince the world you were okay.

Just genuinely, undeniably happy.

Maybe healing isn't always something out notice happening. Maybe sometimes it looks like laughing a little louder, overthinking a little less, and realizing you feel safe with someone.

They didn't break those pieces of me, but somehow, they're helping me heal them.

And I think this is what happiness looks like on me ❤️