Photography at an event like this is a thrilling challenge. The lighting is hard, the action moves fast, and the atmosphere pulses with excitement. Shooting handheld, I focused on freezing those split seconds where movement and emotion merge—a glance, a leap, a stance.

Today marks 24 years since the world stood still.

On September 11, 2001, nearly 3,000 lives were lost in a single morning. It was a moment that reshaped history — not just for America, but for individuals, families, and communities around the world. For many of us, that day is not a chapter in a textbook — it’s a memory. A feeling. A silence. A tear.

It’s not often that I step away from the barn and into the world of weddings. As an equine photographer, my usual subjects are four-legged, hay-loving, and prone to sticking their noses in my lens. But every so often, the right opportunity comes along—and I say yes.

As professional photographers, we're trained to chase perfection. We obsess over light, composition, lenses, and gear. We spend hours editing, curating, and delivering images that reflect our technical skills and artistic voice. But sometimes, the most important photographs we will ever take are not the ones shot with a $5,000 camera or under golden-hour skies — they are the ones captured in a fleeting, ordinary moment when all we have is our phone or a pocket camera.

Golden Silence was photographed in a quiet dahlia garden in Hilliard, Ohio, in late summer 2023. The air was warm, the world hushed. This single orange bloom—lit by the slant of afternoon sun—seemed to radiate from within. Flame-toned petals opened in perfect rhythm, unfurling like a breath held and released.

The Gaze was taken at Grizzle Ridge Arena in June 2025, during a brief pause at a cattle sort. Amid the dust and movement, in a place built for action and noise, this cow found stillness—and so did I. For just a moment, there were no flanks to pressure, no pens to shift between. Just breath, space, and a look that cut through everything.

Labor Day often gets summed up as a long weekend or a change of season—a goodbye to summer and a hello to fall routines. But beneath the barbeques and sales, there’s a deeper truth: Labor Day is about honoring work—the real, soul-filled kind that builds communities, tells stories, and sustains lives.

If you know me, you know weddings aren’t really my niche. I don’t chase them. I don’t build packages around them. And truthfully? They’re a lot. A lot of hours. A lot of images. A lot of pressure. They come with high emotions, unpredictable light, tight timelines, and a whole new level of responsibility. And for someone like me—who values quiet observation and slow storytelling—they can also be stressful.

It was around 3:30 or 4:00 AM as our ship slowly moved through the stillness of Glacier Bay, Alaska. The world was hushed, wrapped in soft blue and violet light. The waters were perfectly still, mirroring the towering, snow-capped mountains and low-hung mist like glass. It was the kind of beauty that feels sacred—unseen and unfelt in the rolling hills of Ohio where I live and work.