I didn’t set out to be a photographer.
I set out to walk.

To raise support for kids with cancer, and maybe make some sense of my life along the way. I hiked the Appalachian Trail, writing postcards to children—sending them scraps of beauty borrowed from the mountains, hoping it might lift their spirits.

Truth is, they lifted mine.
The words didn’t always come easy, but there was someone who helped me find them—someone I met on that trail who reminded me why I was out there when I forgot.
That someone is now my wife.

A few years later, when the dust settled but the questions hadn’t, I found myself sitting in a therapist’s office. They asked something simple, yet terrifying: “If you could do anything—money aside—what would it be?”

I said, “A photographer.”
I didn’t have a camera. I just knew something in me lit up at the idea of capturing the way life feels.

Not long after, burnt out in sales and fresh out of the pandemic, my wife and I moved into a van and lived on the road for nearly two years. That’s when I bought my first real camera—not to start a business, but to remember the moments we didn’t want to lose.

Now, I photograph others—people standing on the edge of something sacred: a wedding, an elopement, a graduation, or maybe a story they’ve kept hidden for too long. Because I know what it means to wish you had something to hold on to.

I know what it means to try and make sense of where you’ve been.

And I believe photography—at its best—isn’t about perfection.
It’s about presence, memory, and connection.

If that’s what you’re looking for, I’d be honored to help tell your story.