There are moments when sharing beautiful work feels complicated.

Lately, the world has felt heavy. The kind of heavy that sits in your chest and makes even the simplest things feel loaded. In times like this, posting images of joy can feel strange, even wrong, as if beauty needs permission to exist alongside grief, fear, or anger.
I’ve been sitting with that tension. What is happening in cities around our country is wrong. I will always stand with the immigrant, always stand with families, children, our communities, our helpers. Our country used to be a place for dreamers. Now its filled with fear.

These images were made during a December newborn session. A quiet morning. Soft light filtering through windows. A brand new life, completely unaware of the noise of the world outside those walls. At the time, it felt like any other session – gentle, slow, full of small, sacred moments that pass too quickly.

Looking back now, they feel different.

They remind me that tenderness doesn’t disappear when things get hard. That care still exists in living rooms and nurseries and the spaces where families are simply trying their best. That there is value in documenting love not because it ignores the heaviness, but because it exists with it.

I don’t have a neat conclusion here. I don’t have the right words for everything I’m feeling, and I don’t think I need to. Today, I’m holding space for both; the weight of what’s happening, and the quiet beauty that continues anyway.

My work has always been about honoring real life. And real life, it turns out, is rarely just one thing at a time.