I started this business as a step into the unknown — I now find myself romanticising the ordinary; to find poetry in the fleeting, to hold love in its impermanence. What began as curiosity became a calling. In three short wedding seasons, I’ve found my voice — one that seeks to frame the beauty that lives within transience. Like Rilke wrote, “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going.” That’s what I want to do — to let everything happen, and to make art from it.

I’m drawn to the thinkers who stared into the abyss and still chose beauty — Nietzsche’s wild embrace of becoming, Kierkegaard’s leap of faith, Keats’ tender worship of transience, Rilke’s quiet devotion to the unseen. Their philosophies live in my work — in the shadows, the silence, the fleeting glances that say we were here, and it was real.

Outside my work, I’m obsessed with the arts —  with film, literature, and the kind of weather that feels atmospheric and alive — fog that softens the world, rain that writes on glass, light that flickers between dark and dawn. That melancholy, that tension between dark and light, teaches how to capture love not as a performance, but as something raw, honest and defiant in its impermanence.

What frustrates me about this industry is how often weddings are treated as transactions — as a service to be checked off. Too many are content to produce “pretty.” But pretty doesn’t move you. Pretty doesn’t live and breath and shout and whisper. I want to create something intentional, visceral — something that feels like it is alive.

I’ve come to believe that life is made of almost’s — half-lit rooms, gentle reaching hands, fleeting light on familiar faces.

Nothing here lasts, and maybe that’s the point. I want to romanticise the everyday — not to glorify it, but to see it.
The way morning light stretches and yawns through a window.
The way someone aches and yearns for another.
The way golden light on a cold landscape and turns it into something soft, tender and dark.

The truth I wish couples knew is this: your love is only as visible as your courage. Your insecurities, your inhibitions — they’ll whisper to you to play it safe. But real beauty, real connection, lives beyond comfort. You have to step into the raw, the honest, the unguarded. That’s where love breathes. There is poetry in the ordinary, if we choose to notice.

Because love, as Keats said, “is truth, truth beauty.” It doesn’t need to last forever to mean something. It just needs to be felt — deeply, honestly, unapologetically — and remembered as proof that for one brief moment, it was all real. A way to insist quietly and defiantly that we were here and it mattered to us.