A Personal Essay - Finding Solace and Inspiration at the Pitt Street Bridge
Standing on the Pitt Street Bridge, I watch the sun rise, its dramatic light breaking through the clouds. The sky slowly transforms from the deep blues of night to the warm golds of morning. A new day begins, reminding me of how life, like the marsh, is constantly changing.
The unexpected events in life often catch us off guard, showing us how little control we actually have. Losing my younger sister, Maureen, suddenly, was one of those times, bringing a grief that is hard to articulate. While overwhelmed with disbelief as we planned my sister's final arrangements, I received a message that, although anticipated, I was still unprepared for: my close friend Kristin was entering her last days as glioblastoma overcame her. It all felt unreal. In the aftermath of their passing, I found comfort with my camera, using it to process my emotions and explore the world around me.
Photography is a journey. At the time of Maureen and Kristin’s passing, I had been a professional photographer for two years, but I'd been enthralled with photography for over twenty. For me, it began with the simple desire to document my children's lives. There isn't much of a photographic record of my own childhood; my parents had a lot on their minds, and capturing their kids on film wasn’t one of them. The few pictures I do have of my childhood, I've turned to again and again. Understanding the value of a visual record of childhood, I set out to document as many moments and details of my children's lives as possible.
I've captured thousands of moments—from quiet afternoons at home to exhilarating soccer matches and sunny days at the beach. My camera has frozen in time the little details that make a family, a family: my son's dinosaur obsession, my daughter's daring preschool fashion statements, and my youngest's baking escapades. These photos are more than images; they're small treasures and time capsules of the past.
During the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, I turned my camera outward and volunteered for The Front Steps Project. From a safe distance, I captured family portraits in exchange for donations of diapers, spreading joy and capturing the love and bonds in each family during an isolating time. Inspired and energized by this experience, I was motivated to start my own family photography business.
As the world slowly embraced a new normal, my family and I moved from Long Island to Charleston, South Carolina, bringing us closer to my mom, who has lived here for over 25 years, and awakening my passion for bird and landscape photography. I was captivated by the tranquil world of shorebirds and wading birds. Sunrise and sunset quickly became my favorite times of the day as the landscape came alive, bathed in stunning golden light. I watched in awe as herons hunted in shallow waters, black skimmers glided over the surface, and flocks of ibises and wood storks filled the sky. These moments connected me deeply to the natural world, offering a meditative escape from life's demands.
In the summer of 2023, I turned to photography to cope with profound loss. Within two weeks, I lost both Maureen and Kristin, who had shared my life from childhood through motherhood. They were my bridesmaids, just as I was theirs. On the same July day, I saw them both for the last time: an afternoon visit with Kristin, knowing it might be our last, followed by dinner with my sister, unaware it would be our final time together.
Photography became my lifeline during those difficult days, pulling me out of the overwhelming loops of sad thoughts. Through my lens, I found the beauty that still existed in the world around me. Creating serene images became a form of therapy, allowing me to process my emotions and appreciate the beauty I created.
In my grief, being around people was difficult. I found comfort in nature and photography. The Pitt Street Bridge became my favorite retreat. Each visit, whether at dawn or dusk, offered a unique experience—an ever-changing scene that drew me back as wildlife and landscapes shifted with the tides. Surrounded by the marsh's beauty, my senses were attuned to every detail—the rustling palmetto leaves, my elongated shadow, and the lapping water. In those moments, the weight of their loss felt lighter.
Living with loss has reshaped me, and I carry its impact with me every day. Maureen and Kristin's absence is a constant reminder of the fragility of life, but also of the enduring power of love and memory.
When I first picked up a camera, I saw it as a way to preserve the past. Now, as I stand at the Pitt Street Bridge or other beautiful landscapes, I realize it's become a way of healing and connecting with nature in the present. Each photo I create, whether a landscape or a portrait, is an opportunity to capture something beautiful.
As my journey with photography has evolved, I've found myself drawn more to documentary-style imagery. I no longer seek the perfect photo where everyone looks flawless. Instead, I'm drawn to capturing real emotions and authentic moments. These images, raw and genuine—fully alive in the present moment—tell our stories in a way that perfectly staged and polished portraits can not.
My camera remains my constant companion. It helps me navigate the twisting paths of grief and joy, reminding me that even in the face of loss, there is always light to capture and always a reason to keep looking through my lens.
Maureen and I shared so much together, including the special experience of going through two pregnancies and raising our kids side by side. Kristin and I met in 2nd grade and were the best of friends for over 40 years.
“A photograph keeps a moment from running away.”
The Front Steps Project
Capturing Family Portraits from a distance during the COVID Quarantine.
