The skincare duo i keep coming back to

Soft skin. Quiet mornings. Tiny rituals. I swear these two products just make me slow down for a second and actually take care of myself instead of rushing through everything. The La Mer oil feels so calming and grounding on my skin. Like… not heavy, not greasy, just really nourishing in this soft, expensive way. And the smell? It literally feels like peace. And the La Prairie cream is one of those products where your skin just looks rested. Even when you’re not. It gives that super hydrated, healthy, “I drink water and sleep 8 hours” look… even if your life is chaos. I’m honestly not into complicated skincare anymore. I just want products that feel good, look beautiful, and make my skin happy. These two do exactly that.

Wanderlust

Film always ends up mattering, but especially when you travel. Digital catches what happened. Film keeps what it felt like. The light gets softer, the moments feel slower, and somehow even the imperfect shots end up carrying the most life in them. I’ve gotten photos back months later and suddenly remembered the exact heat in the air, the noise outside the window, the feeling of being somewhere unfamiliar and completely alive. That’s the thing about film. It doesn’t just document a place. It holds onto the atmosphere.

 

Frosting

There’s this kind of joy you only feel as a kid when suddenly someone gives you a ton of sweets, even the “good” kind, some little birthday cake, and you’re still ridiculously happy because you’re allowed to, because it’s fun, because honestly half the excitement is wanting to smash the cake apart instead of just eating it, and somehow that chaos is part of the joy too.

Abyssal rebirth

Before our first breath, we exist suspended in water, weightless, protected, untouched by the noise of the world. We begin in silence beneath a living surface, floating in darkness like a secret waiting to emerge. Maybe that is why the ocean still calls to us. Why even as adults, we return to the deep to feel the stillness again, to surrender gravity, to remember what it felt like before fear, before time, before becoming.Underwater, we are not escaping life. We are returning to its origin.

Silence that stays with you

Black and white photography strips away distraction and leaves only emotion, texture, and memory. These images feel quiet in the deepest way, like a moment suspended somewhere between tenderness and distance. The softness of the light and movement makes everything feel honest and untouched, almost like a memory you cannot fully explain but never forget. There is something timeless in the stillness, where love feels less performative and more like presence itself.

Baby's first weeks

The world feels calmer, softer, and warmer with this tiny baby in it. Three beautiful weeks of cuddles, love, and unforgettable little moments have already flown by. A lifetime of love has only just begun.

Golden hour magic

Tiny fingers wrapped around soft blankets, curious little eyes studying every blade of grass, and warm mama kisses at sunset. These quiet little moments feel almost unreal, filled with golden light, softness, and so much love. The sweetest memories are never perfect or posed. They live in tiny expressions, messy baby curls, sleepy cuddles, and the gentle warmth of being held close at the end of the day 🤍

Little moments, big memories

Sunshine, sidewalk chalk, little bubble chases, and the sweetest toddler cuddles 🤍

Just a big brother and his baby sister spending the day together, a little clumsy, a little messy, and completely adorable. The kind of tiny moments that turn into the biggest memories.

The quiet magic of being two

There’s something almost disarming about the age of two. It’s not the loud milestones people celebrate or the polished moments we tend to photograph, it’s the in-between. The unsteady steps. The fierce hugs. The way a child clings to a soft toy like it holds the entire weight of their tiny, expanding world.

At this age, children exist in a space that feels both fragile and wildly self-assured. They wobble, they insist, they laugh without restraint and then, just as suddenly, they retreat into something deeply tender. Watching them from a small distance, especially as a parent, is like witnessing a language you once knew but can no longer fully speak.

What makes it powerful is the contrast: they are completely dependent, yet already becoming someone unmistakably themselves. And you, standing just outside that moment, feel two things at once. A quiet ache because you know how quickly this version of them will disappear. And a strange kind of privilege because you get to see it unfold in real time. There’s no way to hold onto it. But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is just to notice.