The Mother Missing from Her Own Family Story
I waited a long time to become a mother.
Before I became a mother, I spent years caring for other people’s children. I came to the United States at nineteen years old and worked as a babysitter while earning my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. Children naturally gravitated toward me, and I loved being part of their world.
As the years passed, I built a successful career in marketing, continued my education, and focused on creating a life I was proud of. But while my career was growing, another dream felt increasingly uncertain. I found myself in my mid-thirties, still single, wondering if motherhood would happen for me.
When I finally became a mother in my late thirties, I didn’t take a single moment for granted.
Every stretch, every yawn, every sleepy snuggle felt worth remembering. After waiting so long for my son, I wanted to hold onto every stage, every expression, and every tiny detail that I knew would change far too quickly.
Like many mothers, I became the family historian.
I photographed everything.
I photographed my husband holding our son. I photographed milestone moments, quiet moments, and ordinary moments. My camera roll quickly filled with thousands of images documenting our growing family.
But when I looked back through them, I noticed something.
I wasn’t there.
There were a few photographs that I had asked my husband to take. But they were often crooked, taken from unflattering angles, shot from too far away, or captured in a way that never reflected what those moments actually felt like.
I had hundreds of beautiful photographs of my son.
Hundreds more of my husband and son.
Almost none that captured the relationship between my son and me.
The person feeding him, comforting him, rocking him to sleep, and spending countless hours caring for him was largely missing from the visual story of his first year.
Today, when I speak with prospective clients, I hear versions of that same story over and over again.
Before I can even explain my process, mothers tell me, “I don’t have any photos with my children.”
I know exactly what they mean.
They aren’t saying they have no photographs at all. They are saying they don’t have photographs that tell their story. They don’t have images that show the way their baby settles into their chest, the way tiny fingers wrap around theirs, or the way their child looks at them when they are the center of their world.
They want proof that they were there.
Because one day their children will look for those photographs.
And one day, those mothers will too.
This is why motherhood is at the heart of my work.
Yes, fathers matter. Their relationships deserve to be documented and celebrated.
But I understand mothers in a deeply personal way because I have been the mother searching through thousands of photographs and realizing she is missing from the memories she worked so hard to preserve.
I know what it feels like to be behind the camera, behind the scenes, and absent from your own family story.
