• Playing by the Rules

    The countdown is on.

    Errands. Last minute dorm supplies. Taking care of house stuff. Packing. 

    I am still a mess. Something has shifted, some thing probably permanent. 

    But I got it together enough to get out of the house to do what must be done to get us to Grinnell. 

    Liam said on the way home from Walmart, “Just think about what it will be like when Oliver moves out.”

    Yeah.

    My house is my refuge; my dog is my therapy. My bed is my hiding place; my husband is my safe space. 

    My camera is my lifeline. 

    I am in laser focus; thank you to those of you who have reached out. I am pretty much in social hibernation mode through Sunday. Right now it is about getting done what has to be done, ignoring the rest.

    And a memory popped up: Porter going into third grade; Liam into first. 

    And now I get it: the days are gone. What’s done is done. I can hope we did our best. I don’t know. 

    The sand beneath my feet has shifted; my cheese has moved. 

    And while I’m out here looking for whatever I’m looking for,  first day photos are happening. Kids are being mean to Oliver at cross country. Everyone has their spots in life.

    While others seem to fall into something naturally, or by happenstance, or because they know somebody, or because they’re lucky: seems I’m to make my own. 

    I always knew motherhood was an add-on identity. It became a crutch for eighteen years once I left full-time work. An easy-to-fall-back-on label.

    I’ll always be a mom.

    But here’s the secret that isn’t so secret: my particular goal was never to be the stay-at-home mom, the room mom that is always present at every function, the runs-the-perfect-house mom, the always-put-together mom.

    Which is good, because that was and is not me.

    So this whole children leaving the nest thing is hitting me harder than planned.

    And it feels like a double-whammy, because I am forcing a professional identity reckoning, too.

    And maybe this was always coming: maybe I used my children as an emotional escape hatch to avoid the terror that came with an SSDI label.

    Maybe I used motherhood to feel some semblance of normalcy in this hometown that, if I’m honest, stopped feeling hospitable about 2010 or so. About the time I left work full-time, embracing a different sort of lifestyle not by choice.

    And stripping myself of that daily need two of the three children of ours don’t have anymore…. it forces me to understand that this being different, this drive to escape….it’s been there a long, long time.

    It was one of the driving forces that sent me away from Carrollton, Georgia in 1998 to begin with.

    You can’t ever go home. Ever.

    And so: I will write. I will take photos. If client work comes great, if not, fine.

    And I will bide my time and play by the rules.

    But, I’m done pretending.

  • I Am Not Okay

    To say I am not okay is an understatement.

    None of us went to bed until after 2 AM last night. The Saturday night before school starts. Jared says I couldn’t bear to go to bed without Porter in the house. He’s probably right. 

    I am having my favorite Dubai style chocolate from Aldi for the second night in a row tonight.

    Jared and I got in a massive fight about 6 PM tonight. After I started job-hunting, which is always a sign that I am not in a good headspace.

    I know I am unemployable in Carrollton; I know because I have applied for jobs at most major establishments over the years, that I am unemployable in my own hometown.

    I know that, despite having grown up here, more people know my husband than know me in this town at this point. More people like him than me, for sure, at this point. 

    The good that I am to Carrollton, Georgia is that I brought my husband here. That my children went to school here. I’ve known that for a really, really long time. 

    And it’s a natural “there’s no place for me now” stage to go through, as children age out of the house. 

    This is more of the same that I’ve dealt with since 2011. At least for fifteen years I was some good, needed, as a mother.

    Now, there is one child that is mostly self-sufficient and I am not needed except as chauffeur. 

    And I have plans for the Fall that don’t involve getting a job. Even if that’s what I really want. I know I’m unemployable.

    And the trip to Grinnell will be a highlight of the year: a trip to take our child to college, yes. But also: a reminder that once, I had guts that few people do— I met a man on the internet who lived in Grinnell, Iowa while living in McDonough, Georgia, and once a month between September of 2003 and April of 2005 one of us traveled once a month to visit, until I joined him to live in Grinnell for two full years when we got married. A time of high adventure and proof that once upon a time, I had a life that wasn’t boredom and isolation. A life that seems fifteen lifetimes ago.

    Grinnell is not the same anymore but it will still be Dari Barn season when we arrive—some things don’t change— and we will stay one night in the building where we paid our city water bill, now a swanky hotel. 

    People have asked time and again how Liam knew to apply to Grinnell and it’s utterly incredulous to me to think back to remember that we have lived in Carrollton long enough that most people here don’t know that Jared worked for four years for Grinnell College. But it’s true: Jared would likely still be in Iowa or some other midwest state– he had never stepped foot in the state of Georgia, in fact– if we hadn’t met. We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t mistakenly thought that moving back to Carrollton, Georgia would somehow heal over some of the scars of college and early motherhood. I know better now– that was up to me to heal myself; familiarity breeds contempt.

    And when we get back: I will attempt to throw myself into my grand Fall plans, pretending to have a life. Pretending that all is okay. Pretending that it doesn’t matter that I am unemployable; pretending to be a photographer; pretending to care about housework.Pretending to feel okay that transitioning from one stage of motherhood to another is not one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

    And I will pretend that I don’t yearn to have an condo fifty miles away from our house because my husband has a good job here and because my youngest child wants to graduate from Carrollton, despite the fact that the community that loves on us most is in Atlanta, which is why I spend at least two or three days a week there and if I have my way, it will be at least four days a week this Fall. 

    There is no place for me in my hometown. I’ve known that since shortly after we moved back here in 2007. 

    But, I will pretend. I’m pretty good at it.

  • Abby, Therapy Dog

    Abby and I are settling into a routine. We are a pair, in 2026.

    And I guess, we have been a pair since 2013, and I’ve had phases where I tried to dissociate. I would beckon the boys to take her out; I would beg Jared to tend to her; I went through whole seasons where I let the rest of the household make sure she was fed and had water.

    Something snapped when we lost Trixie.

    And since July 14, 2026, with only a few exceptions, it has been me to take her outside.

    And we don’t go stand right outside the front door: we walk the entirety of our corner lot. Just about every time.

    And this pup that has lived most of her life on dry food now gets Kirkland Oven-Roasted Refrigerated Human-Grade chicken-based fresh food, with our vet’s approval, for three solid meals every day.

    And whether I am tired or not, whether I plan to sleep in or not, I get up and take her out at or before 7 AM. I might go back to sleep, but Abby is lifted off her perch at my feet on the bed (she doesn’t jump on the bed anymore), and carried to the front door to go outside. Most mornings when we come back in, she immediately gets her breakfast instead of having to wait until I am ready to eat.

    And her bowl goes into the dishwasher with our dishes every night.

    And she goes out probably seven times every day. 

    She has had one puppy pad use since July 14 and I am sure that is some time I forgot or was late taking her out. The two unused puppy pads currently sitting in their spot were put there on July 14, after I changed them after Trixie left the house the last time. 

    Abby is definitely still house trained. 

    And she has settled into an outside walking rhythm that is different than when we used to go outside with Trixie: often she wants to walk to the left at the front of the driveway, walking the entire length of our front yard to the other side of the circular driveway, instead of bolting for the stop sign at the corner of the yard, which was her regular haunt with Trixie.

    And we go out twice before bed; once just before it gets too dark to walk to the end of the street— I am afraid of wild animals because of our heavily wooded neighborhood— and then once again just to the bottom of the front steps in the front yard just before we head to the bedroom for the night. 

    And, I am clinging to Abby, because she will be one of the child-babies left in the house; she will still need me on a daily basis in a month.

    It is Abby who is carrying me through the transition to life without Trixie; this week it will also be Abby who carries me through the transition to life without our big boys living full-time at home with us as they go off to college. 

    Since she was a puppy, I have resisted making Abby be a go-everywhere kind of pup. I really got lazy in most of her years.

    But I am the one who feeds her now. Most of the time I am the one seeing to her and the cats’ water. I am the one who takes her out 99 percent of the time now; I am the one who lifts her onto the bed at night; I am the one who lifts her off the bed in the morning.

    I splurged at her last grooming, a few days after we lost Trixie, and got her a bougie matching Furlou padded harness and leash. 

    But, she doesn’t wear it 24/7. The harness only comes on and off when we are going outside. She doesn’t love the on or off process, but she tolerates it: I think going harness-free most of the time is a great tradeoff that she happily accepts. 

    And yes, somewhere in the back of my mind, despite our vet assuring me that dogs in her condition and breed can live to be up to 20 years old: somewhere in my mind I know I am overcompensating right now since we lost Trixie.

    I am still grieving. And I am grieving the half-empty house that is soon to come.

    But, Abby is my therapy dog. She has seen me through my last pregnancy; through the baby and toddler years with Oliver; through the aftermath of bankruptcy; through the loss of my grandmother.

    It is Abby that insisted on sleeping with me through the hard years at Holmes Drive, when I would do my best to edge her closer to Jared, away from me, in the bed, even when she knew I desperately needed her in my depression. She has seen me through the years of trying to essentially buy myself into a photography business; she is seeing me through my angst of not knowing what to do even though I have writing goals now.

    Abby is the one here sitting at my feet as I know that the photography is likely not an actual career path: she is the one who is here as I realize that mediocre talent is not going to make people want to hire me; that I am generally only good for the free photography I have offered friends over the years. She is the one who is here while I swallow my pride and realize that success in my particular life does not equal how high a salary I have brought in; it does not equal a professional life that people envy.

    Abby is the one who is here as I sit with and try to internalize that the playing field was never equal: I have battled physical, mental, and social demons that most people never encounter in their lifetimes. 

    And now, Abby is 13 years old. And I am determined to see that her senior years: whether there are a few months or whether we do indeed have six-plus years left with her: She is going to be treated like the princess she always was. 

  • A Last time

    There’s always a last time. Sometimes you don’t know when it is.

    Sometimes you do.

    Tonight, I asked for a last time: a last family night dinner, where Jared makes his grilled cheese sandwiches and we just chat.

    It’s no secret to most people we know that we don’t sit down for dinner as a family every night. It’s an event in our household; it’s a thing we do only every few weeks.

    And: I’ve come to like it that way. Nobody feels obligated, it’s not a thing any of us take for granted. When we eat together, we actually enjoy our time together.

    At the end of dinner, Liam asked to play Slapzi. We were all in, except Porter. There was lamenting and guilt-tripping and Porter wasn’t budging. But he didn’t walk away from the table in-progress of game.

    We pivoted, and 7 Wonders came out.

    And three rounds later, nobody really wanted to be done even though it was time.

    And there were obligatory mom hugs, complete with me having to chase Oliver down the hall to get one.

    I didn’t have to chase either of the big boys for their hugs.

    Because: we all knew we were having a last moment.

    Because: two of the three of them go off to their respective colleges within the next week and a half, and the home base part of the family shrinks to a party of three.

    The next time I ask Jared to make a grilled cheese night, it will be for me and Oliver and him, that’s all.

    Tonight was the last family night dinner, and tonight was the last family night game night for a while. Until the after: until after both big boys have experienced life on their own, out in the big yonder.

    And there won’t be Liam to scorekeep if we sit down in a month to play something, and there won’t be Porter strategizing to win, and there won’t be jokes at Mom’s expense because she doesn’t try hard to win because she doesn’t understand the rules and just mostly wants to spend time with her boys.

    For over twelve years now, it’s been the five of us.

    For over eighteen years, it’s been at least the four of us.

    Eighteen years is a long, long time.

    And all of a sudden I am a mom to adults, and they are far more competent than either Jared or myself can take credit for preparing them to be.

    It’s appropriate that Liam asked to play a game after dinner. Liam is ALWAYS the one to ask for a game. Too often, in various stages of life, I’ve said no, sitting out for whatever reason or another. I’m grateful that Porter hung around until we pivoted to something he was interested in playing

    I am grateful I said yes tonight; I am grateful we all said yes; I am grateful that family night dinner and family game night stretched into three full hours of quality time that we remember; that we can hold onto.

    Who am I kidding: tonight was three hours of some of the best time of my life, with the people I love most in this world.

    My heart is about to be stretched across a thousand mile triangle. I’m hopeful that it isn’t stretched to the point of breaking.

    They’re ready. In some ways, I am, too. In other ways, I am so not ready.

    But, they’re ready. So, it happens.

    And, here we are and Jared and I did a thing: we raised two full grown adults who are ready to take care of themselves, out on their own. We did it with a village, but we did it.

    But those boys are the ones that did the thing that gets them to Athens, Georgia and Grinnell, Iowa. And they did it with a village, too.

    Villages I am ever-so-grateful for.

    There will be breaks: Christmas; visits back and forth. Holidays and summers might look different. It’s possible this has been the last summer we all spend under the same roof. I don’t know.

    But I sure am glad that I can remember tonight, forever. ❤

  • The Balance

    The last year, I have reinvested in the personal.

    And even now, I am in the midst of a DIY creative writing nonfiction certificate reading list, to the ends of telling my stories on this blog more effectively.

    I take more photos around the house; I take my camera with me everywhere. I actually pull it out most days.

    I am going on another writer’s retreat while Jared is on a work trip to Austin, Texas in September, in fact. Savannah only whet my palette for sequestering myself with my books and my brain and my notebook and laptop. 

    And yet…. the camera, and specifically weddings, call. But, the professional photography call is different this go-round. 

    This time I yearn, I ache, to do true documentary photography professionally. Kevin Mullins’ style, where the candid rules. Where the posing is little to none.

    That’s where I shine best, and it’s time to heed that call, 2026 is the perfect time for it. 

    It’s a beautiful style, as you can see in some of these photos from previous weddings.

    I will be giving a dedicated around 35 minutes total to both family formals and couples’ portraits combined of any given wedding day, maximum. We will work organically with family-led groupings. Family formals will kept to around fifteen minutes to allow for a smooth timeline. Couples’ photography in my weddings moving forward will look more like candids taken during a private, walk, in which you interact as a couple, not taking direction from me.

    I am craving the organic unfolding of a gorgeous wedding day. I want couples who have the vision for their day that unfolds naturally.

    I am seeking out clients who appreciate that I have 48 weddings’ worth of experience, and trust my judgment that they will adore the reportage approach of documentary photography. The tiny, stolen, sacred moments that get lost when wedding days are overengineered to match a posed photographic aesthetic. 

    In 2012, the first formal photography class I took was in documentary photography.

    And I tried, I really did. I tried to be the does-it-all wedding photographer. 

    The candids feed me, and I have a gift to share with my photography. 

    And granted, it’s actually a higher-end style than a lot of couples think of at first: the trusting the artist at all costs; the letting go of the expected, stereotypical wedding photography. I am looking for couples who are not looking to perform for a camera. 

    I crave to give my clients the intimacy in their wedding photography that I bring to my personal photography; that I bring to my writing. 

    And so, it is booking season. I am being extremely selective as to the jobs I am going to take on in 2026 and 2027. I am offering an astounding deal in return. 

    Admittedly, documentary wedding photography is not to everyone’s taste. It’s against the grain particularly in the wedding segments I have historically serviced. 

    I’m pushing for a higher-end art to wedding photography. And a much less stressful, more sacred day for my clients. 

    My website does not look like the typical wedding photographer’s website. I write about extremely personal topics; I display personal work.

    I am also passionate about customer service. I settle for nothing less than the best in my personal and professional lives. 

    If you’re getting married in the west Georgia or Atlanta areas, let’s talk.