Here’s a little about me, what I love about both the portrait and documentary approaches to photography, and why I think both are critically important.
I got my start in photography in my junior high yearbook class in 8th grade. Five years of yearbook (one as the editor) and a few photography classes later, I started taking my first ever clients. That was more than 15 years ago now.
Though I’ve spent the last 10 of those years exclusively focused on portraits, I felt called back to my roots in photojournalism and have spent the last 2 years learning from top mentors in the industry (Kirsten Lewis Bethmann & Jenna Schouldice) to improve my family documentary art.
I frequently refer to myself as a photo nerd because I get way too intense and passionate about photos in casual conversations. But I really do think they’re that important.
For me, photography is about helping you to see your life—all of it—with no judgement or pressure, so you can see past the noise and feel the wonder, awe, and reverence it deserves.
If you want to know my whole life story… just keep scrolling. I have a whole timeline of photos and the stories they spark for me, literally from when I was 3 months old. You might get to know me a little better than you want to, maybe more than I want you to.
Anyways, in case you don’t want the long version, here are the highlights.
I’m married to Matt, my hubby of over a decade, who is a physical therapist. He’s the one from Arizona and the reason we live here (he likes the sun, while I could do with a bit more rain).
We have two daughters with a five-year age gap. Emi, the oldest, dances, and Adi is still too little to have a thing, but she’s having fun dancing because her sissy does.
We are a board game family, we play all. the. time. And if you’re a board gamer too, just know that we’re Azul, Love Letter, El Dorado, Fliptoons, Dice Throne, etc. board gamers. And if you thought I meant Monopoly, my friend… go look up those games and pick one to try.
We also have a dog and a pet Tarantula. Personally, I prefer the dog.
Over the 15+ years I’ve been doing photography, I’ve dabbled and flirted with documentary photography off and on.
I’ve always loved the raw, realness of a good documentary photo that holds a whole story in one frame. But it wasn’t until 2024 that I knew I had to pursue it in my art and my business.
It all started with a movie based on a true story. As the credits rolled, photos of the real-life people appeared on the screen.
And you know what photos they chose? Not a posed or even semi-posed portrait. It was a candid shot of the family camping.
That image did something—it made the story feel real, tangible, and true to the characters we’d just spent two hours getting to know.
Instantly, it took me back to a moment I’ll never forget.
When I was in college, a close friend of mine passed away in a motorcycle accident. A portrait I’d taken of him just a few months before featured prominently in the news story covering it. Seeing that image brought a wave of emotions I was NOT ready for.
Besides all the sadness and loss I felt personally, the story just felt incomplete.
That portrait didn’t capture him. It didn’t show his energy, his humor, or the vibrant, beautiful life he lived.
Those portraits meant so much to me, his family, and everyone mourning his loss. But when you want to sum up a life in pictures, a portrait just won’t cut it. We need the moments—the real, unposed, unscripted ones—that tell the story of who someone truly is.
That is what documentary photography is to me. Images that tell the full, vibrant, and complete story of life.
I don’t remember when it started, I look back at pictures of myself now and I don’t think I was a chubby kid. And yet I can’t remember a time when “fat” wasn’t part of my identity. I was the fat girl. The fat sister. The fat friend.
As a teenager… Well, it was obviously true then. I was overweight. And believe me, I knew it.
In my teenage brain “fat” and “ugly” were synonyms, and nobody wanted someone who was ugly. I felt worthless and desperate to feel desirable… something I doubted I would ever be to anyone.
I had mixed feelings about getting my senior pictures. But senior pictures were the thing to do, so I went along.
After my session, I remember checking my photographer’s blog over and over, too anxious to be hopeful. When they were finally published, I scrolled while silently criticizing myself in every picture… until one.
I stopped dead and just stared.
Was that me?
Couldn’t be… she was beautiful. And I was fat and therefore ugly… Wasn’t I?
But it was. That. Was. Me.
For the first time, size and beauty became two separate and unrelated concepts in my brain.
That picture allowed me to penetrate a lifetime of noise, comparison, prejudice, and lies to see the truth.
My life changed that day, that photographer, that picture, they gave me a gift and started me down a road of self-love and acceptance. They’re the reason I can look at myself today, wishing I was the size I was then, and still stand confident, knowing that I am beautiful.
And my dabbling interest in photography turned into a passion. A passion to make photographs that help you SEE yourself clearly and teach you about yourself.
You know that scene in cheesy Christmas rom-coms where the mom pulls out the photo album, flips through it with the love interest, and tells all the embarrassing stories?
I don’t love that it’s usually portrayed as a cringy, “roll your eyes at mom” moment because really, who doesn’t want to see all the haircuts, hobbies, Halloween costumes, and history that make up the person you’re falling in love with?
You could live whole lifetimes together and never hear some of those stories. What a beautiful way to get to know someone.
What are pictures but love notes written by those who cared enough to take them or have them taken?
Love notes that say “I’m proud of you, I love being with you, I see you, you matter.”
Welcome to my photo album.
I didn’t even know this picture existed before I started collecting for this project. Honestly, there’s still a part of me that questions if this is me and not one of my two older sisters. But my mom says it’s me, and isn’t that cool? Brand spanking new to earth and there I am. Gives me goosebumps.
For the longest time, this picture hung above the stairs in my parents’ home, opposite the most recent portrait of me as I grew. When sibling #6 out of 7 was born, they had to switch things up to get us all to fit.
With my mom’s current attitude about pictures, I’m amazed and grateful that she took us to Kiddie Candids at least once a year, often more than once a year.
Whatever the reason, I’m so grateful for all the baby pictures that exist of me thanks to her.
This was taken at my grandma’s (dad’s mom) family ranch in Panguitch, UT. We’re in the “old” cabin, which still stands but has been added onto and updated over the years. We also don’t get to go there very much anymore as it’s owned by my great uncle. When we visit the ranch now, we stay at the cabin my grandparents built a little further onto the property. Looking at this picture makes me feel so safe and loved in my daddy’s arms. I love how my eyes are open, but my body is totally relaxed, happy just chilling with dad.
This trailer pulled behind my dad’s riding lawn mower must have been around for ages, because I do have memories of doing this many, many, many times. As a mom now, I bet my mom loved this thing. Dad mows the lawn, and she still gets some time alone; that’s a pretty sweet deal. I remember, when I got older, we’d lie down in the back on our stomachs, reach over the edge, and gather up the grass clippings as they came out of the lawn mower. After he was done, we’d take our gathered treasure and build nests on the lawn and pretend we were little baby birds.
When my little brother was about to be born, my parents had the idea to get my two older sisters and me two kittens so we could love the kitties to death instead of our new baby brother. And we did. Dutchess and O’Malley (yes, like the Aristocats), and they were brother and sister. They were strictly outdoor cats, so I have no idea how I managed to sneak Dutchess in on this night. Or how I kept her on my lap long enough to doze off.
When I look at this picture, I can hear my dad’s voice saying my favorite lines from our favorite books. Dr. Suess, when we were young, “You are Special” by Max Lucado, when we got a bit older, and “The Chronicles of Narnia” by C.S. Lewis, when we were older still.
It’s funny, though… if you asked me who read to us without a picture to prompt the conversation, I’d say my mom. Anytime we had a long car ride, my mom read to us. Nancy Drew and Harry Potter are the ones I can remember by name, but there were definitely more. When my family grew so large that we graduated from our suburban to a 15-passenger van (because if you need a 12-seater, you might as well go all the way) we even got a special mic that plugged into the sound system so those of us stuck in the back could still hear her. When Harry Potter 6 came out, we saved it for our drive to Disneyland. After our first morning in the park, we returned to the RV for lunch, and my parents asked what we wanted to do next… we voted on more Harry Potter. We even read it in Disneyland while saving our seats to watch Fantasia. Audiobooks were probably a thing back then… but I didn’t know they existed. I had mom.
Can I even read yet? No idea… I do know this isn’t the only picture of me asleep with a pile of books stacked on my chest. When I got older, I’d go to the library and check out a stack of 5 or 6 books, read them in a week, and go back to do it all over again.
This is probably when I started hating my hair. My mom had always kept it short, something to do with a famous person who had short hair; she thought it was just the cutest thing. I was over it the first time someone mistook me for a boy. I would try to grow it out, but I couldn’t handle it tickling my face; I’d never experienced that before! It took me 3 or 4 more years before I finally managed to do it. Even now, I can’t imagine cutting my hair short because of the “trauma”.
Growing up, wrestling with Dad when he got home from work was a nightly tradition. He’d let us think we were winning for a few minutes, then pin all three, four, or five of us and tickle us until we were screaming.
That credenza in the background, we had it most my life. I’ll never forget one night when my dad got home from work and discovered one of the panes of glass had been shattered. He asked all angry who was responsible… that anger quickly turned to laughter when mom sheepishly raised her hand.
From before I was two years old until my oldest sister could drive, we had one babysitter. She started when she was 11 and kept coming back until well into her college years. We joked that she’d bring guys she was dating around for the “kid test,” and she’d occasionally break dates to come babysit, and was the one who watched us when my last two or three brothers were born. Anyways… Orange Julius was her thing, she’d make it for us pretty much every time she watched us after plenty of begging on our part, I’m sure. It’s probably her holding the camera.
Back on Grandma’s ranch and I’m riding Little Wing, called that for the small patch of white on the side of her belly that you can’t even see in this picture. She belonged to another of Grandma’s brothers, whose sons still run cattle on the ranch to this day. She was the sweetest horse and so patient with kids. The best part of visiting the ranch was riding the horses.
See? I’m starting to grow my hair out. I think this is the time it sticks!
When I think about a classic 90’s childhood, I think about the Junkyard. Imagine the smallest of small towns in southern Utah, population: 600 in a good year. Lots of farmland and farmers including my grandpa (maternal) who lived there all his life. Behind his house sat the junkyard, a magical place with lots of old machinery, spare bit of scrap in a variety. of shapes and forms, and little to no supervision. And once or twice a year, all seven of their children returned home for various holidays, bringing all the cousins a kid could ask for. The Junkyard was our playground. We rode golf carts and 4-wheelers around in circles for hours, sometimes racing, occasionally crashing (thankfully never with any serious injury). And we built (not so) secret forts where we played mafia for hours. I’m not sure you can replicate the magic of the junkyard these days, but as a mom, I sometimes wish I could.
Look at my hair! I did it! Hasn’t been shorter than that since.
From first to sixth grade, I was in a Spanish immersion program at my elementary school. Before you get too excited… I’m not fluent enough to conduct your session in Spanish… but if you speak it, I’ll probably understand.
Besides the language, we also learned about Spanish cultures from around the world, culminating in a dance festival at the end of the year. Each grade wore the same costumes every year, and I remember being so excited to wear this one. My mom even helped make some of them as my sister was in the inaugural Spanish immersion class.
The dance festival always ended with both students and audience having a big dance party to the Macarena.
When I was 8, my family got an RV and took it to the Redwoods for a family reunion. On our way back, we noticed my grandparents’ and great aunt & uncles’ RV parked on the side of the road, none of them were in sight. Curious and a bit concerned, we followed a trail that was barely there down to a gentle river where we found them picnicking on a huge rock. We begged my parents, and a short time later we were back from the RV in our swimsuits with our own picnic lunch. The water was freezing and most of us could only tolerate putting our feet in for a few seconds. But it was beautiful… and a tradition was born. Everywhere we went, we looked for swimming holes.
This spot is in Zion National Park. When we first went there, it was just us, maybe one other family. Now you’re lucky if you find parking. You can slide down the last tier of the waterfall into a cute shallow pool, but a few steps downstream, it deepens enough that you can “cliff” jump (these are small cliffs). We’d go to Zions just to visit this small, unnamed place.
That picture of the waterfall, it marks the moment I stop showing up in pictures.
I got my start in photography because of the junior high yearbook team. By this point, I had been on it for a few years and was learning more about not just taking good pictures but gaining an appreciation for the history aspect of it. My grandma loved this picture so much she decided to paint it, and I found my calling.
From that moment on, I became the family photographer, and I stopped showing up candidly in photos. It was my choice, but I don’t think I fully understood what that meant for me… and my story.
This is one of the pictures that changed everything—my entire perception of myself. For so long I’d thought of myself as fat and ugly. My senior pictures showed me that I was beautiful. This session kindled a passion for showing others their own beauty and truth. And even now, bigger than I’ve ever been, photography continues to help me see myself as more than my size.
This is David. This photo was taken not long after we met, about a year before the motorcycle accident that took his life.
We met through his mom, who I worked with at my college campus job. When I realized he hadn’t had photos taken since his senior session years earlier, I convinced him to do one—“for his mom.”
When the news picked up the story of his accident, one of those images was used to accompany it.
I didn’t like that.
I didn’t like it because David was vibrant—full of energy and light. He spoke Portuguese, danced ballroom and Polynesian (including fire dancing), and left a lasting impression on everyone he met. You could see it in the hundreds of people who came to his funeral.
But the portrait I made didn’t tell any of that. It didn’t tell the story of who he was.
And I didn’t like that it became the image so many people—people who never knew him—would associate with his life.
That’s where this part of my journey began: with a yearning to create photographs that hold more than just how someone looks… but who they are.
Not long after that loss, I felt the Lord nudge me toward serving a mission for my church. It caught me off guard—this wasn’t part of the plan I had for myself. But I chose to listen, and less than six months later, I found myself in New York.
My mission became something I didn’t quite expect. It was, in many ways, a season of healing—learning how to carry loss and open my heart again—alongside sharing the gospel.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, there was this one Elder I kept ending up assigned to the same area with… for 11 of the 18 months I served.
(Spoiler: I married him.)
This is Matt. That Elder I mentioned. By the end of my mission, I knew I at least wanted to date him. He went home about 3 months before I did and came to my homecoming. We went on a date the next day, where he was the smoothest he’s ever been in his whole life (before or since). While we were sitting at the shark tank at the aquarium, he said “So… ever since I’ve been home, people have been trying to set me up on dates, and the whole time I’ve been wishing I could just tell them I have a girlfriend… so can I?”
I, of course, said yes, and not long after, we knew we were going to marry each other.
Home in July.
Engaged in November.
Married in…
January.
Matt kept talking about a hole in his heart and asking if we could have a baby. I wasn’t on board so he asked for a dog instead. The idea was having a dog to love would help us hold off on having kids. Ask me if it worked…
Nope! Barely 5 months later, I got baby hungry. 😀
This is the very first picture of me, taken when I was around 3 months old. If there were any earlier, they didn’t survive the transition from analog to digital.
This was taken at my grandma’s (dad’s mom) family ranch in Panguitch, UT. We’re in the “old” cabin, which still stands but has been added onto and updated over the years. We also don’t get to go there very much anymore as it’s owned by my great uncle. When we visit the ranch now, we stay at the cabin my grandparents built a little further onto the property. Looking at this picture makes me feel so safe and loved in my daddy’s arms. I love how my eyes are open, but my body is totally relaxed, happy just chilling with dad.
