I woke to an overcast, heavy fall morning—the kind where the sky hangs low and winter whispers at the edges of every cloud. Normally I love days like this for photography, but today my mind wasn’t my friend. Grief and depression wrapped around me before I even got out of bed. Some days, sadness feels like a full-body weight. But photography has become my sanctuary—my moving meditation—something I’ve learned and leaned on over the past three years. So I grabbed my gear, kissed

The morning did not start the way anyone hopes a wildlife photography day will begin. Let’s just say: hotel challenges. Enough said. Before my brain was fully awake, we were up, packed, and out the door into a sky that had opened into a full-on downpour. Not a gentle drizzle. Not a romantic mist. A showerhead on max pressure kind of rain. And instantly, the doubt crept in: What if I don’t get any more photos? Was this whole trip a waste if I didn’t capture what I came for? Bu

I had high hopes for this Mainland trip. The plan was simple: head to Harrison Mills and photograph thousands  of bald eagles — the biggest gathering of eagles in North America. I had visions of soaring raptors, dramatic shots, National Geographic vibes. I had no idea the universe had a very different plan for me… one that involved unexpected teachers, spiritual nudges, and one very brave adventure cat named Finnegan. Finnegan and I walked down a forested path that cuts right