I spent my professional life in the demanding world of office management, a field where so much is given without return, that by the time I retired, my heart was ready for something that nourished instead of drained. I turned first to activism, pouring myself into the work of healing our democracy and helping build the kind of community I want to live in and friendships made by shared goals. But even as that purpose-filled work unfolded, a part of me still longed for something more creative, a space that belonged wholly to me.

 

I come from a long line of artists and crafts persons: my grandfather shaped gemstones through his lapidary work, my mother breathed life into fine art, and my childhood unfolded among art shows and museum halls. My father, after a career in woodworking, began crafting award-winning turned bowls later in life, reminding me that creativity can begin at any age.

 

Photography became the place where my own bud finally took root. I believe I can safely say learning photography is not for the faint of heart. It’s a complicated, steep learning curve, and every time I sit down to work, whether in my little studio, at my desk, or outdoors in the cold and dark, I discover there’s still more to learn. That challenge thrills me. It keeps me growing. It’s the thread that ties my past, my activism, and my family’s legacy of artistry into something that feels totally, joyfully my own.

 

I believe the beauty all around us so deserves our attention. At this stage in my life, I’m letting go of needing anyone’s permission to love what I create. Photography gives me a way to slow down, notice the wonder that’s still here, and share it, from bold color to quiet lines to the delicate poetry of flowers. In a world that can feel sad and broken right now, I choose to focus my lens on what is vibrant, alive, and worth holding onto. These images are my reminder, and perhaps yours too, that even now, there is so much light.

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