There was never a map for this.

I came to Arizona from Maryland with a lacrosse stick, a coaching job, and no real understanding of what the desert was about to do to my life. I thought I was moving west for a sport. Arizona, apparently, had reviewed my plans and decided they lacked imagination.

For most of my life, lacrosse had been the clearest answer to the question, “Who are you?” I played at a high collegiate level, competed on exceptional teams, and eventually coached the sport that had shaped me. Then I stepped away—not because I stopped loving it, but because I wanted to know who I was when I was not standing beside a field with a whistle.

The answer did not arrive all at once. It showed up in camera bags, long drives, red-rock trails, client galleries, late-night edits, and a growing obsession with putting real people beneath enormous Arizona skies. I became a photographer and filmmaker, built Arizona Photo and Video and Sedona Wedding Films, worked with couples, families, brands, and tourism organizations, and learned that reinvention usually looks less like a lightning bolt and more like doing the next brave, slightly inconvenient thing.

All the while, I was raising three children, building community, and exploring Arizona one trail, small town, storm, and questionable dirt road at a time. The work kept expanding because I kept following what interested me. Eventually, those pieces became a career—and a life—that felt unmistakably mine.

Then lacrosse returned through my daughter, who wanted to play with her friends and discovered there was no youth program in our community. Her solution was simple: start one. Naturally, this meant I once again had a stick in my hand, a field full of kids, and a rapidly expanding list of responsibilities. Together, we co-founded Northern Arizona Youth Lacrosse, and I later returned to collegiate coaching with the women’s club at Northern Arizona University.

The thread running through all of it is community. Whether I am behind a camera, beside a lacrosse field, sharing a trail, or building something that did not exist before, I love creating the reason people come together. The photograph matters. The team matters. The place matters. But what stays with me is the moment someone feels seen, included, or brave enough to join in.

This space grew from that same instinct. Think of it as a table with more chairs: a place to exchange honest stories, useful discoveries, unexpected ideas, and the occasional reminder that nobody actually has the whole map.

I used to think a meaningful life would eventually resolve into one tidy title. It has not—and, honestly, I am relieved. What I have instead is a life built by paying attention to people, places, possibility, and the quiet instinct that says there may be another way forward.