A reflection on Christmas, presence, and why I photograph the moments that matter

My first memory of Christmas, I’m probably three years old. It’s Christmas Eve in our Boston apartment. I walk into the living room and the tree is lit. There are presents everywhere—piled high, spilling out from under the tree. Teddy Ruxpin is talking. There’s a beautiful dollhouse. I don’t know how much of this I actually remember and how much comes from the photos, but it doesn’t really matter. The feeling is real.

That was my parents. They made Christmas magic.

Waking up Christmas morning, no matter what age, was always magical. Even as an adult, my parents made sure the wonder lingered. I know they stayed up late wrapping presents to put under the tree, long after I had gone to bed. And my dad—he lived for the surprise. The bait and switch. He used to tell me how his father did the same thing to him.

I remember the year they got me my first professional-level flute. They handed me a check—a contribution to start saving for the upgrade I’d been wanting. I was so grateful. Then Dad told me to go get something from the other room. And there it was. The actual flute, already bought, waiting for me.

I can still see his face. The delight in watching mine change.

The thing about Christmas was that it was always with the full family—my grandparents, my aunt and uncle, my cousin Sadie, my parents, and me. Most of the time we were at my grandparents’ house. We had lasagna on Christmas Eve, usually frozen because it was easy and everyone was driving in from out of town. Then Christmas Day was Thanksgiving 2.0: turkey, ham, my favorite soup, leftover lasagna, all the sides. At my grandparents’ house it was always in the formal dining room, with the good china and crystal.

The smell of onions and garlic simmering on the stovetop will always bring me back to that house—holidays or not. I recognize it now when my husband David cooks. I love it. It stops me in my tracks every time.

When someone wasn’t able to join us, or we had to shift our celebration by a day because of jobs and adult schedules, it didn’t feel like the Christmas I grew up loving. The magic was in everyone being there.

Most of them are gone now. My grandparents. My aunt. My parents. The last time I saw my uncle and cousin was at my grandmother and aunt’s memorial service in May. There is no table we gather around anymore—just the memory of one.

Family Christmas looks a lot different now. My family is in the Northeast, and I’m not with them for the holiday anymore. I spend it with David’s family, and I’m so grateful to have them—to be folded into their traditions, to belong somewhere on Christmas morning.

What I Want to Carry Forward

I’m expecting my son Matthew in a few months. And I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want him to feel on Christmas morning someday.

I want to recreate that moment from when I was three—walking into a room and feeling like the whole world is lit up and waiting for you. I want him to know the bait and switch, the way my dad learned it from his dad. I want the smell of something simmering on the stove to stop him in his tracks forty years from now and bring him right back to our kitchen.

The magic was presence.

Why I Do What I Do

This is why I do what I do.

I’m a wedding photographer, but really, it’s all the same thing: I photograph families. Families beginning. Families growing. Families showing up for each other on the days that matter.

When I’m behind my camera, I’m not looking for the perfect pose or everyone looking at the lens at exactly the right moment. I’m looking for the feeling of being together—the way my parents made me feel on Christmas morning.

I’m looking for: the glance between you and your partner that says we built this. The way your mom looks at you when she sees you in your dress for the first time. Your dad’s face—the delight in watching yours change. The chaos and the calm. The real stuff.

Because someday, you’re going to look back at these photos the way I look back at Christmas mornings at my grandparents’ house. And what you’ll remember isn’t whether everyone’s outfit matched. It’s whether you felt loved. Whether you felt like the whole world was lit up and waiting for you.

Someday, the people in these photos won’t all be here anymore. But the feeling will live on—in your body, in a smell, in a song, in the images.

That’s what I want to give you.

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Whatever your table looks like this year — full or quiet, old traditions or new —
I hope the room feels lit up. I hope the feeling stays with you.
Merry Christmas.