There is always another 10 pounds to lose

There are always dark circles under your eyes

There is always a more cooperative age for your children

There is always better weather

There is always a more flattering outfit

There is always something else to spend money on

There is always ‘later this year’

There is always a reason not to

There will never be another today.


In October 2012 I was invited into a families home on Thanksgiving weekend.  All the family had returned home for the holiday but the occasion was mixed with gratitude that everyone was together under the same roof and immense sorrow that it would likely be the last time.

A distinguished man walked out onto the porch with his wife and was tucked under a quilt on a bench in the sun.  Less than a month before he had been working and seemingly healthy and now his family watched as terminal cancer took hold of his body.

“We always meant to have this done” they told me.  There was always a reason not to: conflicting work schedules, a travelling family member, not enough time.  There is never enough time.

There was laughter.  Clutched hands.  Tear filled eyes.  Grand children playing underfoot.  The juxtaposition of the intense love and immense grief still brings me to tears every time I look at the photos.

A month later his family invited me to his funeral service.  I sat and listened to his amazing accomplishments.  His love of music.  His travels around the world.  The photos that documented his life danced across the screen in the darkened room.  What I will never forget is that woven through all of the stories and anecdotes of his accomplishments was the immense love he had for his family.  That love was the thread that connected all the different parts of his life.  That I was present to help tell the end of his story is something I will never forget.


This path that I have chosen comes with an immense sense of responsibility:  I capture moments in time that will never exist again.

I am a story teller.

I am a mother who has more than 10 pounds to lose.  I am a woman who has never been comfortable in her own body.  I am a woman who all to often am a human doing rather than a human being.  I struggle every day to be present in my own life.  I struggle to be part of my own story.

I understand that when you step in front of my camera you are vulnerable.  That being photographed can call into question your sense of self.  Your identity.  That it can bring to the surface painful memories, conflicts, should-haves, could-have-beens, and 327 reasons why you don’t want to be in that moment.

As a mother I ask that for today you embrace the fear that comes along with stepping in front of my camera.   As a former grief therapist who worked with survivors of unimaginable loss I ask that you recognize the gift of time.  That you, even for a moment, recognize that there will never be another today.

When I look at these photos of my family all I see is love.  I remember the heat of the setting sun.  I remember the feeling of my sons clutching my arm and clambering into my lap.  I am immersed in a sense of gratitude that I am surrounded by these people who I love so much.

I am able to quiet the painful memories, conflicts, should-haves, could-have-beens, and 372 reasons why I didn’t want to be in that moment.

I am a story teller who understands that there will never be another today.

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Photos taken by the incredibly talented Blue Dandelion Photography