Still in the Mirror Still Developing: A Photographer's Blog on Motherhood

Wanting, Getting, and What It Actually Feels Like

You spend time wanting all the things, then you get them and let's just say it's never quite what it seemed.

I'm a photographer, I have my own photos up in my studio. I had them taken on my birthday, in Italy, by a photographer I admired. I guess you could say it was supposed to be one of those dream trips, with photos being the proof. Yet they're haunting. I look at them and I remember it wasn't the best time of my life, and if I am being honest I am still in a similar space. Even as a photographer, someone who spends her life photographing other people's wanting, I was offered my own mirror. And what came back — not just in the photos but from that experience — was deep, and dark, and mysterious. I didn't know it then, but that photoshoot was the whole shape of things I was and am still moving through: want it, get it, and watch it turn into something you didn't expect to be carrying, and then get back up and keep exploring who the hell you even are.

The Reality of Wanting to Be a Mother

I always wanted children. I am one of those people who is naturally great with kids, maybe because I am still a big kid inside. I wanted to be a mother. The miscarriages made the wanting more intense. It consumed me like I never knew would be possible. And then it happened.

I couldn't breastfeed. I was basically the Sahara desert, as I always say. That was deeply upsetting for me, as I'd always thought I'd be that earth-mama type breastfeeding wherever the heck I wanted to, but it didn't work out that way.

Then my son didn't sleep. Awake upwards of fifteen times a night until he was three and a half. He's twelve now. He still doesn't sleep alone. We still co-sleep.

Joy plus devastation, both being carried at the same time. The idea of becoming a parent doesn't always hold the truth of what it ends up being, and I am certain many can relate to that. You're left with the grief of that gap between what you envisioned and what the reality in front of you is.

Fighting for a Neurodivergent Child

My son struggled at school the way a lot of kids do, quietly, without us fully knowing how deep it went. He's neurodivergent, with learning disabilities we hadn't named yet either. We fought the school board, all the way up to the superintendent. No one listened. Of course we were already asking: how do I keep my business, one that was thriving, alive while I'm in and out of school meetings, in and out of crisis?

The darkness came into the house alongside it. You want your kid to thrive, to be social, to have friends. Watching that not happen, watching this little human I created go into deep, dark despair — another devastation that has come along with this parenting gig.

Choosing to Unschool

All of what we witnessed happening to him then sank into us as a family, into me as a mother, into me as a human. We pulled him from school and chose to unschool, the most radical venture of my life so far, and one I am still figuring out.

Losing Community, Finding Myself

I came to realize all I could do was show up as who I was at that moment. But it changed me. I wasn't the happy-go-lucky one at networking events anymore. I was withdrawn. Unable to be in community.

And at a time I needed community so desperately, I realized the community I had wasn't one that was there for me, other than a small handful of amazing humans I couldn't have made it through without. Like many stories, when the going gets tough, people tend to fall away. I tried to blame covid for making us all so disconnected — that at least made it less hurtful. Loneliness took over. But inside that was also a strange gift, one wrapped in confusion, yes, but also the beginning of rediscovering my own identity.

Managing Instead of Being

Because my truth, like many parents, is that I haven't had my own identity in a long time, even though I thought I did. I've been managing. Not being.

You want to give your child the care they so desperately need. But you need care too. You're not just navigating their needs and your own, you're also unpacking your own identity as it evolves, because you're evolving with everything life keeps handing you. For years, you give yourself to whoever needs it. Your child. Your clients. And somewhere in that giving, you forget to ask what you need back.

From a 9-to-5 to Becoming an Artist

I never thought I'd be an artist. Never thought I'd own a business. I had a good 9-to-5, the kind with golden handcuffs, municipal government, you know the stuff most people aspire to have. Until my child arrived, and multiple sclerosis meant I couldn't go back. So I tried something else.

The irony is not lost on me that running a business as an artist is more than full-time. But it was mine. I didn't know I'd enjoy that, or that I even could.

Chasing Validation, Then Chasing Meaning

At first I was just taking other people's photos. Then I wanted to be seen as an artist, to make something that was mine, not a copy of anyone else's. I didn't think I was seeking validation. I required it, to believe I was on the right path.

The confusing part is staying inside capitalism. I needed to get hired, but I also felt this strong pull to make work I actually want to make. Mine is minimalist, evocative, black and white, editorial, fashion as feeling. I work with everyday people and those that want anything but what is expected, and that is hard to do in a sea of conformity.

Discovering I'm Autistic and ADHD

Somewhere in all of it, I found out I'm autistic and ADHD. Raising a child in this, building a business, being an artist, having multiple disabilities, holding an identity that kept shifting — it's exhausting just writing it out, let alone living through it all. The overwhelm finally made me drill down. My capacity is limited. Not just from my child. From my own burnout too.

Working Toward Acceptance

Right now I'm still working on acceptance. That this is my life. That this is my child. That I won't have the family, the experiences, the memories I thought I would. I'm still working on accepting who I am as an artist too.

I don't want to make what's expected of me. I don't want to take time from my family to create more of the same that's already out there. I want my work to move people, whether it's a client's brand or my own fine art. I want it to have meaning, depth, and difference.

As for ambition, it's not that I don't want to work much. It's that I can't. When I do, I want it to count.

Finding Depth in the Small Things

There's a thread running through all of it: I notice the small things people miss. I do it photographing humans. I do it photographing still life. My fine art practice is built on that same intention, to escape the noise. The noise online. The noise at home. The noise inside me, that constant buzz, almost like anxiety. To sit instead with depth and meaning and purpose. To make work that's raw instead of polished. Honest instead of impressive.

The darkness can be debilitating. That's true, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

But my choices have never aligned with the Joneses. They're radical, most of them, and I've always been proud of the desire to divest from what's expected and honor what's actually needed instead. And what I hope for feels simple but I know it's not. I keep the dream in my heart that one day I will get to sit with my child, looking back, knowing I showed him we can do it our way. In alignment. In care. As an artist.

I'm not there yet. I'm still in the mirror, still developing.