Another month, another round up of photos documenting where I was over the last month. It honestly felt as dreary as it looks. I kind of love the muted tones of these photos because that is exactly how the month felt. Looking forward to a more springy selection in March.
• Callahan’s Tiny Things – I never want to forget Callahan’s little treasures, carefully collected and handled with love. A panda, a heart, a tiny dog—among many other things tucked safely in his drawer.
• Sick at Home – Too many days in February spent in pajamas, snuggled up in bed next to two cuddly pups. This month has been full of tissues, electrolytes, and naps.
• Golf – A winter escape to the indoor putting green (even if it’s just at Dick’s Sporting Goods), boots on artificial grass, trying to shake off the cold-weather blues. Our boy loves the sport and let’s be honest, I do too.
• Playing Outside – Sneakers on concrete, basketball in hand, soaking up every tolerable moment of fresh air before the next cold front rolls in.
• Ice Skating – Standing on the ice, watching tiny skates glide forward, slow and unsteady. Holding my toddler’s hand, feeling the wobbles and the determination.
• Family Exercise – A workout for three squeezed into the living room, weights on the rug, trying to get our pump on.
• Toys in the Living Room – A floor covered in stuffed animals and basketballs, proof of a day well played. My feet among the chaos, embracing the mess of childhood.
• Soda and Shopping Vibes – A weekend with my folks always includes a fountain soda grabbed by dad and a trip to target with mom always makes my day. Sidewalk slush, white sneakers, a small but familiar joy.
• Soaking up the Sun – Face tilted upward, spring finally in the air, melting the last bits of snow. Always thankful for glimpses that remind us that winter won’t last forever.
Life is made up of small, ordinary moments—ones we often overlook but that quietly shape our days. In January, I decided to capture some of those moments through a simple perspective: from where I stood. Each photo tells a story, a glimpse into the rhythm of my life.
• Letting the dogs outside – The familiar shuffle to the door, the burst of cold air, the wagging tails. A tiny act of love repeated every day.
• On the treadmill – The hum of movement, the steady rhythm of steps. A commitment to myself, even when it feels like a chore.
• In the car with a book – A stolen moment of stillness, words filling the space before the next thing begins.
• On the stairs at home – A pause between floors, a transition between moments. The in-between places of life.
• At the stove, making soup – Warmth rising, the smell of simmering broth filling the kitchen. A moment of care, both for myself and the people I love.
• Beside my toddler’s bed – The soft rise and fall of breath, the quiet weight of love. A moment I want to hold onto forever.
• At my new desk at work – A fresh start, an unfamiliar space slowly becoming mine. The promise of new routines.
• In the snow with my toddler – Laughter, footprints, and cold fingers. Seeing winter through their eyes makes it magic.
• Watching my toddler play – The sun on my face, the sounds of childhood filling the air. A reminder to slow down and just be.
These photos aren’t grand or extraordinary—they’re just the little moments that make up my days. But looking back at them, I see the quiet beauty in the ordinary, and from where I stand, that’s more than enough.
I have a habit of looking down. Not in a metaphorical way, but literally—at my own feet, at the ground beneath me, at the space I occupy in a given moment. “From where I stand” started as a simple photography prompt in college, a way to capture the passing of time through the smallest, most mundane details. The shoes I wore, the floors I walked on, the places that felt like mine for a season.
It became more than just a creative exercise. It was a way to mark time, to recognize the routines and moments that seemed permanent until, one day, they weren’t. The things I did every day—walking a certain path, eating lunch at the same table, unlocking the same door—eventually slipped away, replaced by something new.
In college, “from where I stand” was often a sidewalk cutting across campus, a library floor worn smooth by late-night studying, the entrance to my first real job where I felt equal parts eager and unqualified. My world was small but full of possibility, shaped by new friendships, the weight of books in my bag, and the feeling that everything was just beginning.
Then came the days of being newly married, of standing in new places and doing everything together, just because we could. The world opened up in a different way—road trips, a tiny apartment, the quiet joy of figuring out how to share a life. I took photos of our front porch, of the trails we explored with our new pup, of the kitchen where we played house before we really knew what that meant.
As I stepped into leadership at work, I found myself in meetings, in offices where decisions had consequences, in the spaces where people looked to me for guidance. It was a different kind of adventure, one that required more confidence than I sometimes had. But I captured it anyway—the conference room tables, the leaves on the ground on my way into a meeting, the moments in between where I caught my breath and reminded myself that I could do this.
And now, motherhood. The ground beneath me is softer—nursery rugs, playground mulch, the carpet where I sit cross-legged with a toddler on my lap. My world became both smaller and infinite, measured in first steps, bedtime stories, and the quiet hush of a sleeping house. I take fewer of these photos now, but when I do, they mean more. These are the days I know I’ll look back on and wonder how they slipped away so fast.
From where I stand, life keeps changing. The routines that feel permanent will fade, replaced by new ones I haven’t even imagined yet. But for now, I capture what I can, hold onto the moments, and keep my feet firmly planted in the present.
