I recently learned the German word Sehnsucht. Apparently there is an actual word for that strange ache of longing that follows you around. Which honestly felt a little rude because I thought I was just being dramatic all these years.

Maybe that's why I photograph everything.

On this day the light in my house was doing that thing where it becomes soft and overcast and lovely and effortless. The kind of light photographers dream about and normal people probably walk past without thinking twice. And Eliana was standing in it, looking beautiful in the way my kids somehow do when they are quietly becoming themselves.

And there it was again.

That strange feeling of loving this version of her while missing little-girl Eliana at the exact same time.

I keep thinking that maybe I photograph things because I want to keep them. To bottle the feeling and place it on a shelf somewhere for later.

But maybe the hard part is that the beauty is in the brevity itself.

Maybe moments catch in our chest because somewhere, even while we're living them, we know they are passing. We know they are vapor. We know they cannot stay.

And maybe if they could stay forever, they would not feel quite so luminous.

I don't think photographs stop time.

But maybe they let us stand in the doorway of a moment for a few extra seconds before we have to let it go.

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