Why We’re Doing Family Photos (and Why I Think It Will Become a Tradition)

Capturing Us As We Are

Next week, we’re heading to a nature preserve for something that feels both exciting and a little vulnerable: family photos. Not the rushed kind with forced smiles and snack bribes, and not the school portraits with stiff poses and laser backgrounds (though I do love those too). These will be intentional, gentle, real-life photos—of all of us, together.

We’ll be surrounded by trees and wildflowers, chasing light and laughter. I want the photos to feel like us—soft, playful, a little chaotic, and full of love. Not just the polished moments, but the in-between magic. The way my daughter’s blonde curls catch the light when she turns her head and smiles at me. The way the twins still reach for my hand out of habit. The way I look at them when they’re not looking at me.

I want to remember this season—not just how we looked, but how we felt. How we moved through the world together. How we showed up for each other.

Why I Want to Be in the Frame

As moms, we’re so often behind the camera. We document everything—first steps, messy faces, birthday candles—but we rarely show up in the frame. And when we do, it’s usually a selfie with someone half-blinking or a blurry shot taken in haste. I’ve started to realize that my kids might grow up with thousands of photos of their childhood, but only a handful of me in them. And that doesn’t sit right with me.

Part of this comes from my own childhood. My own mother was beautiful, warm, and present—but she deliberately left herself out of photos. She’d say things like “I’ll take it,” or “I don’t need to be in this one.” And at the time, I didn’t think much of it. But now, as a mother myself, I wish I had more pictures of us together. I wish I could see her holding me, laughing with me, just being with me. I wish I had more visual proof of how she loved me.

That’s part of why these photos matter.

The Beauty of Individual Moments

We’re not posing in a studio or trying to look perfect. We’ll be walking through the preserve trails, maybe sitting in a patch of wildflowers, with the golden hour light filtering through the trees. I want the photos to feel like us—soft, playful, a little chaotic, and full of love.

Each child will have their own moment too. I’ve asked our photographer to capture individual shots of them—laughing, twirling, exploring. Because while I treasure the group photos, I also love seeing who they are becoming, one by one.

Memory Boxes and Photo Books

I keep a memory box for each of them. Inside are birthday cards, artwork, hand prints and foot prints, and photos like these. It’s not fancy—just a simple tote with their name on it—but it holds so much. I imagine them opening it one day and seeing the story of their childhood unfold in layers. And I want these photos to be part of that story.

I also make each of them a photo book every year. It’s one of my favorite rituals. I go through all the pictures I’ve taken—vacation snapshots, silly moments, quiet mornings, and yes—even the selfies—and choose the ones that feel most like them. The ones that show their spirit. Their quirks. Their growth. I add little captions, sometimes a poem or a quote, and order them to archive for when the children are older. It’s my way of saying: I see you. I love you. You matter.

These family photos will be woven into those books. Not just because they’re beautiful, but because they’re intentional. They’re a pause in the rush of everyday life—a chance to say, “This is us. Right now. And it’s worth remembering.”

Why This Will Become a Tradition

I think part of why this feels so important to me now is because of what we’ve walked through. Recovering from cancer changes you. It rearranges your sense of time, of presence, of what really matters. I’ve learned to take things day by day—not in a cliché way, but in a deeply lived, fiercely grateful way. I don’t take the ordinary for granted anymore.

And I’ve thought, more than once, about what my children would have if I weren’t here.

That’s not easy to say out loud. But it’s the truth. And it’s part of why I value photographs so much. Not just the posed ones, but the ones that show us living and loving and being together. I want them to have images of me holding them, laughing with them, walking beside them. I want them to see how much I adored them—not just in my words, but in my face, my posture, my presence.

These photos are a way of pausing time. Of saying, “This moment mattered.” Of creating something they can hold onto, years from now, when their memories get fuzzy and the details start to blur. I want them to have proof that we were here, together, in all our messy, beautiful, ordinary glory.

So yes, I think this will become a tradition.

I want to give my children the gift of memories—not just through my words, but through images that say, “You were loved. You were seen. You belonged.”