I’ve had a camera in my hand for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I photographed people because I loved them and wanted to remember them. There wasn’t much thought beyond that. I would see something and think, I want to remember this. This feeling.
But even as a kid, I think I understood that there was more happening than what was right in front of me. I could look at something completely ordinary and feel how beautiful it was while I was still standing inside of it. Light moving through the trees. Rain against the glass. The energy of people I loved gathered in the same room. I wanted to stop and take it in, almost like some part of me already understood that it wouldn’t stay like this for long.
That these things would be gone if I waited too long.
I think I’ve always understood photographs this way.
I want to remember this.
Growing up, I had a really strong memory. I could remember things even my parents had forgotten. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized even the memories that once felt permanent can soften around the edges. Details disappear. Sometimes you remember the feeling but lose the specifics. And then you find a photograph.
Suddenly, something comes back.
That’s what photographs have always been to me. Not simply proof that something happened, but a way back into it.
Motherhood has made me want to hold onto that feeling even more. I’ve loved every version of my daughter. I love who she is now, and I know I’ll love every version still to come. But sometimes I would give anything to hold little her again one more time.
I can’t. But I can look at a photograph of her tiny hands and remember exactly how they felt in mine. I can see her little face and hear her voice again. Her laugh. Her giggle. Even remember the way she smelled. I can remember a version of our life that no longer exists anywhere except in us and in the photographs I made along the way.
There are also photographs I wish existed. I spent so much time behind the camera documenting her that I wish I had slowed down enough to make sure there were more photographs of me there too.
Because I was a part of her childhood.
That realization stays with me every time I photograph another family.
There is always more happening than you think.
When I photograph your children, I’m not waiting for the moment when everyone finally looks at me and smiles. I’m watching your toddler run away with that little wobble they’ll eventually grow out of. The way they wrap both arms around your neck and close their eyes when you pick them up because you are their home. The truck they carry everywhere because they’re obsessed. The way their entire face changes when you sing a song just to get a smile.
But it isn’t only the smile I see. It’s the light in their eyes behind it.
Those are the things I’m looking for because those are the things I know I would want to remember.
And weddings really aren’t that different. I can walk into a room filled with people getting ready and immediately start noticing everything happening underneath the obvious.
A mom looking at her daughter, and for a second, I can almost see every version of that little girl she raised in her face. A dad who spent years protecting his little girl, preparing to watch her begin a life with someone else. The friendships surrounding a bride. A hand reaching for another hand. A look across the room. The softness between two people when they think nobody is paying attention.
Of course I’ll photograph the big moments. But there is an entire story happening around them.
That’s the part I never want you to miss.
Maybe we’re allowed to go a little slower.
Life asks us to move so quickly. There is always somewhere else to be, something else to finish, another season coming before we’ve really had time to understand the one we’re in.
Photography gives us an excuse to stop.
For an hour with your babies. On your wedding day surrounded by everyone you love. Somewhere in the mountains with the person who feels like home. In your own kitchen on an ordinary evening.
You’re allowed to stay there for a while. Hold your child a little longer. Watch them explore instead of asking them to come back. Look at the person you love and really look at them.
Truly see them.
We don’t have to rush through any of it.
That’s what I want my photographs to show you. All the things that were already happening while you were busy living them.
And then there’s the wandering.
WanderingwithMJ has always felt like the right name because I want to see as much of this life as I can. MJ are my initials. The rest is an invitation.
Wander with me.
I want to see the way sunlight falls across mountains in places I’ve never been. The way water moves on the other side of the world. Old towns, hidden places and landscapes that make you stop for a second just to take them in.
More than anything, I want to see people. The way families love. The way two people find each other. The traditions people carry with them. The way love can look completely different from one story to another and somehow still feel familiar.
There is too much of the world I still want to see. Too much art in it. Too many stories.
I’m based in Coastal North Carolina, but I want to follow your story wherever it takes me.
For the moments you’ll want back.
Maybe that’s what all of this has been about from the beginning. Long before this was my work, before I knew anything about being a photographer, I was already trying to stop time for a second.
I want to remember this.
I still am.
I want you to have photographs that bring back more than what everyone looked like. I want you to remember how small your baby felt against you. How your person looked at you. How loud everyone laughed. How deeply you were loved.
And maybe, while we’re making them, I can help you notice some of it too.
Because tomorrow, these will be memories. Today, we still get to be inside them.
