Winter Wonderland

There’s something about winter that makes kids forget everything except the moment. On this particular day, that moment was a snow-covered hill, a pair of sleds, and my three kids laughing so hard they could barely stay upright.

Photographing your own children is always a strange mix of instinct and restraint. I know their faces better than anyone, which means I can anticipate the grin right before the sled tips over, or the dramatic wipeout that ends in giggles instead of tears. But it also means I’m torn between being behind the camera and right there in the snow with them. On this day, I tried to do both.

The light was doing that perfect winter thing—soft, bright, and forgiving—so I kept my settings simple and stayed mobile. I shot from the bottom of the hill, then the side, then flat on my stomach while they flew past me like tiny, puffy astronauts. I wasn’t chasing technically perfect frames. I was chasing their energy: red cheeks, snow-dusted eyelashes, and the way siblings look at each other when they’re sharing a secret joke.

Some of my favorite images came between the action—boots being kicked free of packed snow, processing the thrill at the end of a run, a quiet pause at the top of the hill before the next run. Those in-between moments are where the story lives.

By the time we packed up, our gloves were soaked, legs frozen, and hearts buzzing with new core memories. Totally worth it. These are the photos I know I’ll come back to—not because they’re flawless, but because they feel exactly like being there.

New year, new love

January has a way of slowing everything down, and that’s exactly what makes it such a beautiful time for an in-home newborn session.

Outside, the world is quiet and cold. Inside, the house is warm, dim, and hushed—perfect for photographing a brand-new human. Winter light filters softly through the windows, lower and gentler than in other seasons, wrapping the room in calm, even tones. I rarely need much more than a window, a neutral wall, and the patience to move at a newborn’s pace.

In-home newborn sessions in January are less about posing and more about presence. There’s a natural intimacy to them: parents curled up on the couch, hands instinctively cradling tiny fingers, the slow rhythm of feeding and soothing. I work quietly, letting moments unfold rather than directing them—yawns, stretches, sleepy blinks, and those fleeting expressions that change almost daily.

The cold outside gives us permission to linger. No rushing out the door, no pressure to perform. Just a family settling into their new normal while I document the beginning of it. These images aren’t about perfection—they’re about memory, warmth, and the feeling of those first winter days together.

Autumn memories

Turkey Hill in Hingham is one of those places that feels made for pictures. Rolling paths, tall grasses, and just enough open space for kids to roam—on this day, it was glowing with late-afternoon light and peak autumn color.

This session was all about letting a young, loving family be exactly who they are together. No stiff posing, no forced smiles. We walked, talked, and let the kids lead the way, stopping when something caught their attention or when the light wrapped just right around a moment. Fall has a way of doing that—slowing things down while making everything feel alive at the same time.

The leaves were just starting to turn, the air was crisp without being cold, and the sun dipped low enough to give us that warm, golden backlight that photographers dream about. Some of my favorite images came from the in-between moments: a parent scooping up a child mid-laugh, small hands brushing against tall grass, quiet pauses that felt completely unplanned.

Sessions like this are a reminder that beautiful photos don’t come from perfect behavior or perfect conditions—they come from connection, good light, and letting a family simply enjoy being together. Fall at Turkey Hill gave us all three.