The Day That Changed Everything
I never thought I’d end up a wedding photographer.
For years, I’d been deep in the world of documentary photography — drawn to realness, rawness, the unscripted stories of people’s lives. But in August of 2021, I found myself in one of the most emotional, powerful moments of my life: photographing my brother’s wedding… at our father’s bedside in a hospital room.
It was nothing like the weddings I’d seen splashed across magazines or Instagram. There were no sweeping landscapes, no floral arches or grand entrances. Just a grey hospital room, the hum & beeping of machines, and a family holding each other together as tightly as we could.
But thanks to the incredible Courtney Gugucheff — who stepped in as celebrant with heart, grace, and so much kindness — we were able to create something truly meaningful. A moment in time that our family will cherish forever. It wasn’t just a ceremony; it was a goodbye, a celebration, and a deeply human expression of love — all at once.
As I stood there with my camera, documenting my brother saying “I do” while holding our Dad’s hand, I felt something shift in me. I could literally see the weight and meaning of every frame I was capturing. These weren’t just photos — they were memory-keepers, love-holders, grief-sharers. They were everything.
We brought Dad a bowtie to wear. It was all he could manage — his chest needing to be uncovered due to his condition — but in true Dad fashion, he chuckled & wore that bowtie with pride. Even in such a difficult time, he found a way to be part of the celebration with his defining sense of humour.
My children were there too. Watching, witnessing, soaking in the presence of their Pa, knowing even at their young ages that something important was happening. One day, they’ll look back at these photos and remember: Pa was there. He was part of it. He saw their Uncle and Aunty get married, and he smiled with so much love in his eyes.
But maybe the part that still sits the heaviest — and yet the most beautifully — in my heart, is knowing that one day, my brother and his wife will share the memory of this day with children of their own. And those children will grow up with these photos. They’ll see their Grandfather — who they never got to meet — looking on with such palpable pride as his youngest son got married.
That day rewired me. It made me realize that this — capturing love, emotion, connection — is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Five days later my Dad passed away from cancer.
I had never truly considered wedding photography before that moment. But now, I approach every wedding with a deep respect for what it really is: not just a party, not just pretty things — but a sacred moment between people, families, histories, and futures. Whether it’s in a grand cathedral, a sunny winery, or a sterile hospital ward — if it’s real, then it’s beautiful. And that’s what I aim to preserve.
That experience with my family taught me something profound: when you photograph with heart, the setting doesn’t matter. It's the emotion that shines. And that’s what I now chase — the honest, human moments. The quiet tears, the nervous laughs, the deep-breaths-before-vows. The stuff that lasts long after the cake is gone and the flowers fade.
This work means everything to me now. And I carry that hospital room wedding, and the memory of my Father, with me into every shoot — a constant reminder of what really matters.