Why Every Woman Deserves to Be in Photographs — A Mother's Day Reflection on Legacy and Being Seen
4 generations of the women on my mother’s side. My mother Isabel, c. 1958. My grandmother Mary, c. 1939. My great grandmother Rosalia, c. 1919, and my great-great grandmother Theresa, c. 1890.
Lately, I’ve been surrounded by photographs in a very different way than usual.
As I’ve been working on our family genealogy and creating an ancestor photo wall, I’ve had my hands on images of the women who came before me, my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. Some of these photos are beautiful formal portraits, carefully taken and preserved. Others are candids. Some are more fragile, the kind you handle gently because they may be the only copy that exists.
What has struck me most is not just who these women were, but how little visual history exists for some of them. There are women in my family line who lived full, complex lives, raised families, and shaped generations… and I have only one photograph of them. One.
That realization feels different when you are holding that photo in your hands.
In many cases, the images I do have are formal portraits, and I find myself deeply grateful for them. They are clear, intentional, and dignified. These were not rushed snapshots. Someone made the decision to step into a studio, to be seen, and to be documented in a meaningful way. Because of that, I can see them now, not just as names on a family tree, but as women who existed and mattered.
Snapshots absolutely have their place. They tell the story of everyday life in a way nothing else can. But as a photographer, and now as someone piecing together generations of family history, I see how important it is to have both. The casual, in-between moments and the intentional portraits that stand the test of time.
This has felt especially meaningful in this season of my life.
My daughter is getting married soon. She is stepping into a new chapter, building a home, and beginning her own branch of our family story. As I look back over the years, I realize how grateful I am that I documented her life, not just in quick snapshots, but in thoughtful, professional portraits at different stages along the way.
There is a richness to those images. A sense of occasion. A way of marking time that feels lasting.
And if I am being honest, there is also a quiet sadness that comes with this reflection.
While I have these kinds of images of my daughter, I do not have the same of myself, or my mother, or my grandmother, or my great-grandmothers. There are gaps. Entire seasons that were never intentionally documented. Moments that existed, but were never preserved in a way that allows me to revisit them now.
That absence is something you only fully understand when you go looking for it and realize it is not there.
I think many women assume there will always be more time. More opportunities. Another family gathering, another milestone, another chance to step into the frame. But life moves quickly, and those opportunities pass more quietly than we expect.
My grandmother Mary, c. 1930. My great grandmother Mary, c. 1907. My greatgrandmother Agnes, c. 1890. My great grandmother Caroline, c. 1900.
At the same time, I also understand why so many women hesitate.
We are often our own harshest critics. We notice every change, every perceived flaw, and every way we do not quite match the image we think we should present to the world. It becomes easy to step back, to stay behind the camera, and to wait for a version of ourselves that feels more worthy of being photographed.
But looking at these generations of women in my family, I can say with certainty that none of that is what matters in the end.
What matters is that they were here.
That I can see their faces. That I can look into their eyes and feel some connection to who they were. That they left behind something tangible for me to hold onto.
Professional portraits, in particular, carry a kind of weight that is hard to explain until you have experienced it. They are not just images. They are markers of a life at a specific moment in time. They say, this mattered. This season was worth remembering.
As I continue building this photo wall and placing each woman into her place in our family story, I am reminded that photographs are not really for us in the moment we take them. They are for the people who come after us.
They are for the daughter who will one day look back.
For the granddaughter who will want to know where she came from.
For the generations who will never meet us, but will still be able to see us.
And maybe that is the quiet invitation in all of this.
Not to wait. Not to disappear. Not to believe that you need to change before you can be part of your own story.
But to allow yourself to be seen, exactly as you are, in the life you are living now, so that one day, someone else will not be left wishing they had more than just a single photograph to remember you by.
Me and my daughter Hannah, 2021. Portrait aken by my friend, Alexis McKeown.
If this resonated with you...
I would love to help you create portraits that will matter to the people who come after you. When my studio reopens for sessions, the women on my list will be the first to know. Join my email list here and I will reach out personally when I am ready to welcome clients again.
And if a studio session isn't possible right now, that's okay too. You can still show up and be seen. Start here: How to Take Your Own Headshots at Home
Don't wait to be part of your own story.
