The Photos You’ll Wish You Had: Why I Photograph Newborns the Way I Do

When my oldest child left home, I searched through old boxes and hard drives, looking for something I could give her — something that would tell the story of who she was in those early years, surrounded by the people who loved her most.

I found snapshots. A few cute school pictures. Some family photos where we’re all smiling at the camera. But what I was really searching for — I didn’t have.

I couldn’t find the images that felt like her story. The ones that showed who she was in the context of our family, the quiet connections and unguarded expressions that revealed the depth of our bond. The photographs that hold not just a face or a moment, but a feeling — the tenderness, the belonging, the love that filled our days in ways words can’t fully capture.

What I was really searching for were the portraits that reflect a child’s place in the hearts of the people who love them most.

The kind of photographs created with intention — not to record what was happening, but to honor what it meant. Images that, years later, would instantly carry me back to the way it felt to be her mother in those early days.

That ache changed everything for me.

It’s why I became a newborn and family photographer. Not to take pretty pictures for holiday cards or social media profiles, not to document milestones because it’s what people do, but to create the photos you’ll wish you had when your baby is grown and packing up their life into boxes. The images that will matter in 20, 30, 50 years years because they hold pieces of your story you didn’t even realize you’d want to remember.

When I photograph your newborn, I’m not just thinking about what looks beautiful now. I’m thinking about what will be precious and priceless later. I’m thinking about the way your baby melts into you when you hold them close. The soft weight of their tiny body resting safely in your arms. The quiet glance between you and your partner that says, without words, look what we made.

I’m creating a record of how this season felt, not just how it looked. Because one day, someone in your family — maybe you, maybe your grown child — will come looking for those images. And when they do, I want them to find them.

This is not about freezing time. It’s about honoring it. About creating a tangible, beautiful, meaningful reflection of who you are as a family, right now, so that in the years ahead, when memories start to blur and stories fade, you have something that brings it all rushing back.

And not just for you — for them.

Because I know what it feels like to reach for those photos and come up empty.

 And I don’t want that for you.