I’m Not Just a Photographer
I’m not just a photographer.
It is much deeper and more complex than that.
My eye did not come from simply picking up a camera one day, although technically, I did have a camera in my hand by age five.
It was a Walmart steal — a green disposable Fujifilm camera — and I loved it.
But even before I had a camera, I was already being trained to see and listen. Before I could fully understand the world, I was sitting around campfires listening to complete strangers tell their stories. So many stories. They would return the following year and tell the same ones again, and I was a polite little girl, so I nodded and listened on.
That was hospitality before I had language for it.
My eye came from suiting up for service most of my life. It came from being born and raised in hospitality, in an industry where complete strangers could show up at your door at all hours of the night looking for a place to pitch a tent.
Back then, a campsite would run you about ten whole dollars.
I still dream about asking guests if they need electricity and hot water, or if they’re just dumping. I can still feel the rhythm of it. Nan had the fryer on. Her famous egg McMuffins were warming. The doors were open. People were arriving. Someone always needed something.
That kind of life trains you before you even realize you are being trained.
It teaches you to see.
It teaches you to notice what is missing before anyone says it out loud. It teaches you to read a room, solve a problem, anticipate a need, and keep things moving when the pressure is high and the day refuses to slow down.
For a while, I thought maybe I would venture off and do something else. Maybe get a college degree. Maybe become a psychologist or a nurse.
But hospitality kept calling me back.
And for good reason.
I never fully understood how fast my brain could work until I was under pressure in the middle of service. I was built for it. I understood it. It became part of the way I moved through the world.
I married a chef. Together, we opened our own restaurant. I ran a bed and breakfast 24/7 with twenty rooms, a relentless ghost, and a 120-seat restaurant with the loving support of a small but mighty staff.
Innkeepers are their own animal.
I have no problem closing a restaurant and leaving it untouched for seven hours. But having a stranger bang on your door because they don’t know if they’re too hot or too cold? That is something else entirely.
That life builds character.
Honestly, I think everyone should do six months of that work at least once.
Because hospitality is not just service. It is endurance. It is intuition. It is timing. It is emotional intelligence. It is standards. It is the ability to create comfort while quietly carrying the weight of the entire operation behind the scenes.
And that is why I say I am not just a photographer.
I have a trained eye because I understand the whole operation.
I understand the details that make a guest feel cared for. I understand the pressure behind a beautiful plate of food. I understand the way a room should feel when someone walks in. I understand the quiet work behind a brand, a restaurant, an event, a love story, a table, a moment.
Photography is the tool.
But the eye behind it was built long before I ever picked up a camera.
It was built around campfires, in campgrounds, inns, restaurants, kitchens, dining rooms, and long days of showing up for people.
That is why visual storytelling matters to me.
Because I know what it takes to create something people remember.
