What is a memory?
Is it the snuggles? The facial expressions? The season? The rest and the exhaustion? What is it, and why do we treasure it?
I could go in so many directions with this. But let’s start young. When I was three, I remember mouthing off to my dad, and I remember the taste of soap he used to wash out my mouth. Do I feel trauma from this? Haha, nope. What triggers this memory? A bar of soap in a hotel room. But what I remember, and what makes me chuckle, is the spirit I had. I see it now in my own kids, who aren’t much older than I was then. He washed my mouth with soap, filled a giant gas station cup with water, and told me to rinse it out before going back to watch TV. I remember taking one sip, swishing it around, spitting it out, and dumping the rest of the cup so he’d have to refill it. Was it because I wanted his attention? That’s not what I remember. I was mad at him and wanted to trick him into not watching his show—back in the days before replays, DVDs, and streaming.
Now, I don’t see that memory as good or bad—it’s just a memory, one that brings humor to my heart. If my dad were still alive, I bet he’d be laughing about it now. And I love that.
I remember being newly married, in our first home together. It was hot, so Kirk and I were lying shirtless on the vinyl floor in the living room. He got up, and his back suctioned to the ground, making a farting sound. Oh, we laughed. For the next hour or so, we took turns seeing who could do it the loudest. I remember trying to imagine other “normal” adults doing this because it felt so childish, but it was dramatically fun.
Then there are memories detached from the emotions of the moments.
My daughter—oh, how I adore her. But that first year, I had postpartum depression and anxiety. It affected us in ways I couldn’t understand at the time. I didn’t feel like she was mine—she was just another child I was caring for. I remember intentionally doing all the loving things with her that I did with my son, thinking, “It’s not her fault my feelings are broken.” So I kissed her constantly and took tons of photos, knowing I’d want them later. But I couldn’t look at her newborn photos without feeling robbed of that experience of love and bonding.
But now, five years later, I look back at them and see love and adoration. I cherish those years in ways I couldn’t at the time. I marvel at the miracle she was and still is. I smell the oils I used to help foster bonding and contentment, and I remember the beautiful moments more than the hard ones.
This understanding of memory
is what has shaped my passion and career as a family photographer in Iowa. Memories are always being formed—the good, the bad, the mundane. And to be honest, when you’re in the middle of a photo session, it can feel hectic and crazy because you can’t see what the photographer sees. Even my family feels this way when we’re getting our own photos done. It’s not just about making a memory in that moment; it’s about capturing those beautiful, authentic glimpses into the bond you have with your family, your spouse, or yourself. These emotive portraits hold so much meaning. Because when we are at our strongest, we don’t feel it. We feel weak, insignificant, and inferior. But these pictures? They show you what you’ve forgotten exists in your day-to-day.
Like the little girl dancing enthusiastically, showing off her moves. Or the little boy, grinning wide, showing off his lost tooth. Or the playful energy shared with your significant other. It’s not about making a memory (though you will); it’s about collecting your favorite parts of this season in your life. So when you’re no longer in the exhaustion and busyness, you can look back fondly at how your kids snuggled or how their personalities shined. When you’re going through tough times in your relationship, you can see the love you once had and rekindle the hope of becoming stronger again.
Memories are powerful.
The oil I used on my son while nursing him—seven years later, when he’s struggling with fear, it still calms him. His brain might not remember that connection, but his body does. It’s a way to help him feel love when irrational anger and frustration prevent him from seeing the truth.
That’s the power of memories. They remind us of who we are when life feels overwhelming. They give us the chance to look back, not just to relive the past, but to find hope, strength, and love for the future. They’re not just moments from our lives—they’re the pieces that hold us together, connecting us to our truest selves.
This is why I’m passionate about creating beautiful albums and wall art for my clients—tangible reminders of these moments. Over the years, I’ve seen how much joy and peace come from capturing these authentic connections in emotive portraits. These memories, preserved in the form of printed images, become cherished treasures, allowing you to hold onto the love, laughter, and strength that make life so beautiful. They give us something to look back on, a way to hold onto the fleeting moments that might otherwise pass us by.
In the end, memories are what anchor us in this whirlwind of life. They’re not just snapshots of the past but windows into our hearts—showing us love, laughter, strength, and growth we may have forgotten in the chaos of the present. Whether they bring a chuckle or a tear, they remind us of the beauty in our stories, of how far we’ve come, and the love that carries us through. Memories, in all their forms, are a testament to the lives we’ve lived and the people we’ve become. They are powerful, profound, and forever ours—and as a photographer here in Iowa, I’m here to help you hold them close.
