Photography

In 2005, I landed my very first job at Dunvegan Provincial Park, serving ice cream in the Market Gardens. That summer, I earned $700 (and probably gained about 10 pounds...). Every dollar I made went toward my very first DSLR camera.

Looking back, that purchase wasn't the beginning of my love for photography. It was simply the first time I had the means to invest in something that had already become part of who I was.

Photography has always been woven into my story. I grew up borrowing my mom's camcorder to make movies with my sister, eagerly reaching for every new family camera that found its way into our home. Long before I understood aperture or shutter speed, I was captivated by the idea that a single frame could hold a feeling.

Over the years, I've invested a small fortune into cameras, lenses, lights, and every other shiny piece of gear a creative can convince themselves they "absolutely need." I appreciate the technical side of this craft, and I'm always learning. But somewhere along the way, I realized the camera was never the point.

It's the people and the world around them. The creatures moving quietly through the trees, the little plants tucked into the thicket, the way sunlight catches on water, the stillness of a field just before dusk. It’s the overlooked, ordinary, living things that so often go unnoticed until you pause long enough to really see them. People included.

Because I don't believe photographs exist to show us what happened.

I believe they exist to remind us how it felt.

Videography

But eventually, I realized there were stories a single photograph couldn't tell.

As much as I loved freezing a moment in time, I found myself drawn to motion.

The nervous laugh before someone answered a question. The crack in a voice as a story became difficult to tell. The way light softly touches a subject's face. The silence between words. And, of course, the bloopers.

So, I decided to expand my craft to include video.

My first attempts were...enthusiastic. Let's just say I discovered the purpose of a gimbal the hard way!

I filmed my first real project in 2018, and I've been chasing better stories ever since. Today, I shoot on a cinema camera, edit in professional software, and have taught myself every step of the process along the way.

But just like photography, the gear isn't what excites me. 

It's sitting across from someone as they share a story that matters. It's finding the thread that connects a collection of interviews, moments, and memories into something that makes people stop, feel, and remember.

That's the kind of storykeeping I'll never get tired of.

Writing

And somewhere between photographs and films, I discovered something.

Every story I wanted to tell always began in the same place.

Words.

I've been fortunate to learn from incredible people in industries I never expected to find myself in. From writing in radio to working as a business manager in the non-profit sector, every chapter has given me a different way of understanding people, and, in turn, myself.

Long before writing became part of my career, it was how I processed the world around me. A way to slow everything down long enough to hear my own thoughts.

In radio, I learned to take pages of information, stories, and ideas and distill them into thirty seconds that connected with people. I used to think of it like breathing: taking everything in, holding it for a moment, then releasing something thoughtful back into the world.

Years later, my work in the non-profit sector reinforced something I had always suspected: words carry weight. They can offer hope, create understanding, and remind people they aren't as alone as they think they are.

But the greatest gift writing has given me hasn't been the ability to communicate with others.

It's been the ability to understand myself.

Writing is where I untangle what I'm feeling, challenge my own perspectives, and give shape to thoughts that don't yet know how to speak.

It's where I return when life feels loud.

It's where I meet myself.

I've thought a lot about how I want to show up in this space, and I've decided I don't want to hold back anything that matters, even if it means being uncomfortably vulnerable.

Because vulnerability is where real connection begins.

If my words, my perspectives, my story, or my experiences can help someone feel less alone, more seen, or quietly validated in what they're carrying, then it's worth every uncomfortable sentence.

So...

Let's get vulnerable.