What I See Behind the Lens—And Why I Stay
I don’t photograph events from the sidelines. I move with them. I stand close—not for better angles, but because I know what’s at stake. I understand that presence isn’t just about being in the room. It’s about how you're in it. The weight you carry when you enter. The silence you hold when others speak. The gaze you return when the moment asks, Are you really seeing this?
What I do isn’t just documentation. It’s witness.
And bearing witness—especially as a Black woman photographer—carries layers. History. Tension. Clarity. Care.
POWER
Power doesn’t always arrive in applause or titles.
Sometimes it’s in the way someone steadies their breath before speaking.
In a quiet nod exchanged between colleagues who understand the full cost of being there.
In a hand placed gently on someone’s back—not for show, but for support.
I’ve photographed powerful people at podiums. But I’ve also photographed them at their most unguarded—head bowed, shoes off, exhaling behind a curtain. Those are the images that stay with me. The ones where I could feel their humanity first, their power second.
This work has taught me that you don’t have to shout to be seen. You just need someone in the room who knows how to look.
PROXIMITY
There’s a difference between being near the action and being allowed into the heartbeat of it.
I’m often the only photographer who stays after the big moment. While others pack up, I remain. I listen. I let people breathe. And in that pause, something shifts. That’s when I get the images that no one else does—the ones that show who people really are when the stage lights go dim.
That kind of access isn’t just logistics. It’s relational.
It’s built on presence, energy, and the quiet trust that I will see you—not just capture you.
Proximity isn’t just physical. It’s emotional. Cultural. Spiritual.
It’s what allows me to photograph not just what’s happening—but what it means.
PRESENCE
There is a specific kind of presence I bring into every room. It’s layered—formed by lived experience, sharpened by silence, and softened by intention.
I know what it feels like to be overlooked. I know what it feels like to carry excellence without applause. That’s part of why I see others the way I do—especially those who have had to fight to take up space with grace.
As a woman of color, I don’t take this role lightly. I understand the difference between being in the room and being received by it. I’ve had to work for both. So when I stand behind my lens, I bring all of me: the artist, the strategist, the witness, the survivor.
And I hold the moment like it matters—because it does.
The Clarity Comes Quietly
There came a moment this past year where I stopped waiting to be seen.
I stopped asking for permission to own the truth of what I bring.
Not because I suddenly felt bold. But because something clicked inside me. A knowing. A quiet, internal shift that said:
You don’t have to prove yourself in rooms you’ve already outgrown.
Just keep showing up like you belong. Because you do.
That’s when things started moving. That’s when I started moving differently.
What I Bring
✔️ Presence that doesn’t disappear when the spotlight shifts
✔️ Proximity that holds trust, not just access
✔️ Power that lives in what I notice—and what I choose to show
This is more than photography.
It’s visual strategy. It’s emotional intelligence. It’s record-keeping for moments that matter.
Power, Proximity, and Presence.
Every frame. Every time.
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Still curious where this clarity came from?
Read the backstory that shaped this shift →
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