A quiet letter about what I do, who I work best with, and the kind of beauty I believe deserves to be held onto.

A Letter from Sam

I’ve been photographing families, newborns, and portraits for over a decade now. And in that time, I’ve come to realise what I’m doing isn’t just taking pictures — it’s noticing, reflecting back emotional truth so it doesn’t get lost to time.

I don’t show up with a big performance. I’m not the loudest in the room — unless your toddler or children need me to be. I can go there if I need to, but mostly, I’m calm, observant, and gently attuned to what’s happening around me.

You might see it in the way I capture your child’s particular way of reaching for your hand, or the soft look you share when no one’s performing for the camera. It’s the details that matter to me — the quiet in-between moments that often go unseen.

And here’s the truth:

I don’t always know if the world has space for the kind of work I do.

Sometimes it feels like I’m swimming against the tide — of trends, of algorithms, of perfectly polished everything.

But this is what I know: the people who find me tend to really find me.

And when we connect, the work is easy — honest, collaborative, and full of heart.

I’m someone who spans generations. Connected to many, not quite defined by any.

I exist in that in-between space — and I’m okay with that.

I’m sensitive. I overthink. I care deeply and I don’t always fit the algorithm.

And that shapes everything about how I work.

I’ve been through burnout. Chronic stress. A long stretch of just surviving. Then came an early-stage breast cancer diagnosis — not as a wake-up call, but as something that landed in an already difficult season. It hit hard. But its gift — if there is one — was clarity: time is fragile, peace is essential, and every choice from here counts.

These days I’m drawn to simplicity. Flowers in bloom. Good food with bold flavours.

Work that doesn’t shout but lingers. Moments that feel like home.

I’ve also had to learn what to do when the support I hoped for never arrived.

I spent years trying to hold the door open — to keep inviting connection, even through the hurt. I held on longer than maybe I should have. Hoping, reaching, trying again.

But over time, I’ve come to understand that some things don’t land. Some people can’t meet you where you are — even if they want to. And while that realisation has been painful, it’s also shaped me.

There’s strength in seeing what’s real.

In staying soft and open, even when it would be easier to shut down.

That kind of presence — steady, quiet, deeply human — is what I bring into the work.

So if you’re here because something in my work made you feel something…

Maybe this is the right place for you, too.

With warmth,

Sam

Thanks for reading. I don’t share a lot - but this felt worth saying.

If you’re curious, have a look at my work, drop me a note, or read 20 things you probably don’t know about me.

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