We’re quite similar, you and I.
We are adventurers, seekers of meaning, beauty, and truth. Adventure is how I listen to life, how I find truth in motion, light, and love. My lifestyle and my work have both been driven by that same search for meaning for the kind of beauty that moves you, changes you, and reminds you that you’re alive.
Because purpose isn’t found, it’s felt in those fleeting moments that take your breath away and bring you home to yourself.
I love how the day begins before anyone expects anything of me. I pad barefoot to the kitchen, breathe in the first curl of coffee, and sit by the window just to watch the light move across the table. These small, quiet minutes are where I remember why I photograph love because it’s really light we’re all chasing. I write a few lines, stretch, and let that calm settle into my bones. It’s my way of choosing presence, so I can show up later with a steady heart.
The ocean is my reset button. I wade past the chatter of shore break, dive under one cool wave, and feel everything unnecessary fall away. Surfing isn’t about conquering; it’s about listening waiting for the right rhythm, meeting it with respect. That patience spills into my work, teaching me to anticipate tender moments without forcing them. I try to give myself at least one ocean morning every week, even if it’s just a quick paddle and a salty smile.
Some afternoons, I clear the living room and put on a song I can’t sit still through. Dancing brings me back into my body hips, breath, laughter reminding me that joy doesn’t need an audience. When I shoot, I guide couples the same way I dance: light cues, lots of freedom, always reaching for something honest. About three songs in, the stress lifts and movement becomes its own prayer. I finish flushed and happy, ready to make images that feel alive.
Editing nights are their own kind of meditation. I dim the lamps, queue soft music, and relive a day through color and breath and tiny choices. It’s where the story tightens—where a glance becomes a promise and the wind in a veil turns into a secret. I keep tea by my hand and patience in my posture; good work never arrives in a hurry. These late hours are when I feel closest to the people I’ve photographed, keeping their magic safe until morning.
When the mountains call, I answer with a board and a goofy grin. Snowboarding makes me small in the best way—just a speck on a white canvas, carving lines that disappear by lunchtime. That humility keeps my ego out of the frame and my attention on the truth of a moment. I chase at least one winter weekend each season, cheeks numb, heart wide. The cold reminds me: love looks incredible against any backdrop when you’re really present.
And then there’s the travel airports, window seats, and that soft hum that turns strangers into stories. I watch couples share headphones, parents pass snacks, friends fall asleep on each other’s shoulders, and I feel lucky to do what I do. The world is a collage of small tendernesses if you’re willing to see them. I jot notes between takeoff and landing so I don’t forget the feeling. Moving keeps me grateful, and grateful is how I make my best work.
