I’ve spent years behind the camera, capturing the smiles, the stolen glances, the laughter—the beautiful moments that tell the story of a family, a senior year, a brand new baby. But today, as I sat in church watching the youth I’ve watched grow, I had a realization that stopped me in my tracks: I’ve spent so much time telling other people’s stories, I’ve forgotten to tell mine.
Or maybe—I’ve been too ashamed to tell it.
Because it’s messy. It’s complicated. It doesn’t always photograph well.
I’m divorced. Not just once. I’m a single mom. I work full-time. I go to grad school. I run a photography business—even if I’ve intentionally stepped back from it these last few months. My life isn’t curated. It’s not filtered. There are no soft, glowing backlit fields in my day-to-day. Most days are held together with to-do lists, prayer, late-night homework sessions, and trying to remember if I made sure my daughter did her schoolwork.
And for a long time, I thought that made me less-than.
When I’ve been called to work with the youth in my church, I’ve often felt inadequate. So many of these girls come from what look like “picture perfect” families—married parents, siblings they’re close to, homes full of support and stability. I worried that my story didn’t belong in their world. That maybe my past would confuse them. Or worse—disqualify me from speaking into their lives.
So I stayed quiet. I taught the lessons. I smiled. I cheered them on. But I rarely let them see me.
Until today.
Today, something clicked. Maybe it’s because I’ve watched these kids grow from children into young adults. Maybe it’s because I recently saw one of the girls I used to teach, now grown and married, walk in carrying grief I recognized. Maybe it’s because I finally realized there’s power in not just showing up—but showing up as you are.
I’ve been through things these girls haven’t. But that doesn’t mean they won’t one day. And maybe—just maybe—if I stop hiding my story, they’ll know they’re not alone if (or when) life breaks a little.
My youngest daughter had a vanishing twin. It’s something I’ve never spoken about publicly. But I think about it often—what could’ve been. I think about how grief and silence can go hand in hand. I think about the young women I have known, one who recently lost her own baby. I wonder if sharing my pain could have helped ease hers, even just a little.
Photography has taught me that every image is more than what we see. Behind every smiling photo is a story. Sometimes it’s one of joy. Sometimes it’s one of survival. Sometimes—it’s both.
Our stories matter. Not just the pretty ones. Not just the ones with perfect lighting and happy endings. The hard ones. The unfinished ones. The ones we’re still living through.
And maybe this is the real value of documenting life—not just to preserve the moments that feel good, but to remember the ones that grew us. To look back and say, “I made it through that.” To offer someone else a glimpse of hope, even when the road feels impossible.
So today, I’m choosing to stop hiding. I’m choosing to see worth in my own story. I’m choosing to tell it—not for sympathy, but for solidarity. For the moms who are doing it all. For the teens who think life is supposed to look a certain way. For the women who have felt shame in the silence.
Your story is worth telling.
Mine is too.
Even if it’s not perfect.
Especially if it’s not.
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