How My Father’s Legacy Guides My Photography

When my dad was 18, my mom gave him a camera. They were high school sweethearts, married at 18, and that camera stayed with him for the next 65 years.

Recently, my mother gave me that very same camera. Holding it did not feel like receiving an object. It felt like being handed a piece of my history, and a reminder that my love for photography started long before I ever called myself a photographer.

Dad passed away a little over four years ago at the age of 83. Since then, every time I photograph someone or spend hours editing, I feel him right there with me. When I get frustrated, I can almost hear him telling me to slow down. When I start doubting myself, I feel that steady nudge to keep going. It is like his finger is on the shutter button with mine, and in a strange way, it makes me feel less alone in the work.

The Darkroom Lessons That Never Left

When I was growing up, there was always a darkroom in the house. That is one of my clearest childhood memories, and it is where I learned lessons that still guide me today. Dad taught me how to process and develop black and white film when I was young, and even then I could see how much he respected the craft.

He was meticulous and careful. He researched everything before he did it, and he never rushed. I do not remember him getting frustrated, even when something did not go the way he hoped. He would simply adjust and try again, like that was the most normal thing in the world.

One of the things that amazed me most was watching him roll film in complete darkness, using only his sense of touch. As a kid, it felt impossible. Later, when I learned to do it myself, I realized it was not magic…it was patience, repetition, and experience built over time.

That darkroom taught me that you can’t rush photography. You follow the steps. You stay precise. And when it doesn’t work the first time, you try again. Second time, third time, however many times it takes. That is the craft.

The Photograph That Proved It

When I was in my twenties, I made a black and white photograph that is still one of my favorites. It is a young girl looking straight into the eyes of a peacock with his tail feathers opened in full display. It is one of those moments that feels rare even as it is happening.

What makes it even more meaningful is what is written on the border of the print. I left myself notes from the darkroom, the kind of notes Dad taught me to make. “Increase exposure.” “F16 at 21 seconds.” “Top shelf paper.”

That print is proof of the work behind the image. It reminds me that photography is not only the moment you press the shutter…it’s the follow through. It’s the patience to do it again if it is not right. It’s the willingness to care about the details when nobody else would even notice.

Black and white photograph of a young girl facing a peacock with its tail fully fanned, with handwritten darkroom notes along the print border.

What I Inherited From Him

Dad was a hobbyist photographer his entire life, and he never wanted to go professional. He was too humble for that. Photography was his private joy, and his proudest photos were always of his family.

What I carried forward from him goes deeper than photography skills. It is the way he approached learning. He studied, he practiced, and when something did not work, he didn’t quit. He kept going until he figured it out. Even when photography went digital, he adapted. He learned, he stayed curious, he stayed committed.

Finding My Place in Photography

Like my dad, I always have a camera nearby, taking pictures whenever I have the chance. A little over a year ago, something shifted, and I decided it was time to go professional. Not because photography was new to me, but because I was finally ready to build something with it.

That is when I discovered Peter Hurley and headshot photography. I was drawn to the precision and the simplicity of it, and the way it is really about light, connection, and confidence. Headshots are not about complicated setups. They are about creating the conditions where someone can relax, feel comfortable, and show up as themselves, and then capturing that with technical excellence.

I joined Peter Hurley’s Headshot Crew and am learning from the best photographers in the world. The more I learn, the more I realize this is exactly where I belong, because it feels like the intersection of everything my father taught me about patience and precision, and everything I want to give people through photography.

His Humbleness, My Choice

Dad never tried to sell his work, and he never chased recognition. I am doing something different. I am building a business around what I love, and I am learning to show my work proudly, talk about what I offer, and charge what it is worth. Sometimes that still feels uncomfortable, because I carry his humbleness in me, and I do not always give myself enough credit.

But I also know he would be proud. I can feel it in the moments when I am tempted to play small. And I can feel it when I am deep in an edit, trying to get the color just right and refusing to rush the process.

His Finger on the Shutter Button

That camera from 1959 now sits in my home studio where every client can see it. It is a reminder of where photography began for me and why it matters so much.

When I am editing and I get frustrated, I pause and say out loud, “Dad, help me out here.” And somehow, I settle down. I feel more patient. I feel more grounded. I keep going.

He spent his life doing photography because he loved it. He never stopped learning, never stopped practicing, and never stopped trying to improve.

Now, I understand what he was teaching me all along. It was not only about f stops and shutter speeds. It was about commitment. It was about respect for the craft. It was about showing up again and again, doing the work, and caring enough to try one more time.

And every time I press that shutter, I feel his finger there with mine.

It feels right to end this by sharing a few of my dad’s photographs. These images show how he saw the world, and they carry his spirit in a way words cannot fully capture. The way he framed a scene. The way he waited for the right moment. The way he noticed the little things that most people walk right past.

These photographs remind me that photography is not only about technique. It is about attention. It is about love. And it is about being present enough to see what is worth saving. I hope you enjoy looking through them as much as I do.