This Little Peanut

A lot has changed since Chase came into our lives. Learning to care for and love this little peanut, knowing that Alexa and I are responsible for keeping this tiny human alive and helping him grow, is a weight that only parents can truly understand.

At the same time, a lot hasn't changed. My alarm or Chase still wakes me up around 4:45 every morning. I still wander around the apartment in the dark. I still make time for myself before the day begins, putting in an hour of work that I know will make me a better husband, father, and person.

The difference now is that the work isn't just for me anymore. Every choice, every early morning, every effort feels connected to Chase and Alexa in a way it never did before.

And every morning for the past seven years, this road has been there waiting for me before I get into my car.

It's haunting.

It's quiet. The darkness seems to reach beyond the trees and streetlights, creating a space where there's nothing to focus on except your own thoughts. Before the world wakes up, before the responsibilities of the day begin, there's just this road and the stillness surrounding it.

Looking at this photo, what comes through to me isn't loneliness it's stillness. The kind that makes you aware of yourself. A reminder of where you've been, where you're going, and the person you're trying to become.

Five Years and Seven Months - Iraq

I still want to create a book, and these are the images that made the final cut.

A few of them deserve to be printed large and hung on a wall not because they’re perfect, but because they’re reminders. Reminders of where I was, what I saw, and what I managed to preserve in a fraction of a second.

It took years to revisit, edit, and make sense of these photographs. There may still be a few forgotten gems hiding on old hard drives, but for now, after 17 years, I think this is my final collection from my first tour in Iraq.

Looking through them, I’m proud of what I captured. Proud that I carried a camera. Proud that I paid attention.

Sometimes I wish I had taken more photographs. But then again, maybe that’s why these matter so much.

Twelve Years of Fitness

Napa

Alexa and I, along with a few close friends, spent a weekend in Napa for a little getaway. Surrounded by vineyards, winding roads, and quiet mornings, it was a nice change of pace from our normal routine in Santa Barbara.

I didn’t set out to photograph everything we did or everywhere we went. Most of these images came from moments, scenes, or details that caught my attention along the way things that felt worth remembering. Looking back, they remind me less of a specific place and more of how the weekend felt.

Between good food, wine, and time spent with friends, it was a chance to slow down for a few days and enjoy being present.

Fragments

The older I get, the more I realize memory rarely holds onto the major events as clearly as we expect it to. Instead, it preserves fragments, the texture of a sweater, the dim glow of a lamp, the feeling of exhaustion after a long day, the way a room felt at a certain hour of the night. Small details quietly outlive the larger moments they belonged to.

Photography has slowly changed the way I move through the world because of that. I pay attention to atmosphere now. To subtle emotions. To the quiet psychological weight, a space can carry. A photograph doesn’t always need action to feel alive. Sometimes stillness says more. Sometimes silence leaves a deeper impression than movement ever could.

Maybe that’s why I continue carrying a camera everywhere. Not because every day contains something extraordinary, but because even the most ordinary moments eventually disappear. Photography, at least for me, has become a way of resisting that disappearance. A way of holding onto fragments before they dissolve into memory.

Permanence

I love that a camera gives ordinary life a sense of permanence. It turns routine drives, late nights, and in-between moments into something worth remembering. Photography isn’t just about creating images; it’s about staying connected to curiosity, observation, and the feeling that even the smallest moments matter.

Ventura Fair 2018.

A single frame freezes a passing moment and gives it permanence, allowing something temporary to continue existing long after the moment has passed. The astronaut becomes a symbol of observation, solitude, and the quiet human desire to hold onto something before it disappears.

Santa Barbara in the Morning

The quiet mornings I love are therapy to me. They’re part of why I keep going out. But they’re not the only version of the city worth paying attention to. Sometimes the story is in the shift. In the subtle difference. In the way something familiar feels just slightly off.

And maybe that’s the point.

To keep showing up, even when it’s not what you expected. To stay open enough to see something new, even in a place you think you already understand.

Because even when Santa Barbara isn’t quiet… it still has something to say.

American Stillness in Modesto

There’s a certain kind of quiet you don’t notice until you’re standing in the middle of it.

Modesto isn’t loud about what it is. The neighborhoods don’t try to impress you. The houses sit low and steady, spaced just enough apart to breathe. Lawns trimmed, driveways empty, curtains drawn halfway like the day hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be. It’s not dramatic it’s consistent. And that consistency is where the stillness lives.

Walking with a camera through these streets, I started to notice how everything felt paused. Not abandoned, not forgotten just… held. Like time here moves, but slower, softer. The kind of place where a passing car feels like an event, where the hum of distant traffic barely reaches the edges of the block.

The light plays into it too. Central Valley light doesn’t rush. It stretches across rooftops, settles into the siding, lingers on garage doors and sidewalks. It flattens things just enough to simplify them. Lines become clearer. Shadows feel intentional. You’re not chasing moments you’re observing them.

There’s something deeply American about it. Not in a loud, flag waving sense, but in the quiet structure of it all. Repetition. Order. Space. A rhythm that feels familiar even if you’ve never been there before.

Photographing these places didn’t feel like documenting architecture. It felt like documenting a mood a kind of stillness that doesn’t ask to be noticed, but stays with you once it is.

Conversations

I don’t remember exactly why I wasn’t in the gun that day. I was sitting behind the driver’s seat, camera in hand, when this moment passed by just a few kids in a car looking back at me through the glass. Revisiting the image now, I’m drawn less to what I captured and more to what I didn’t understand at the time. Their expressions sit somewhere between curiosity and caution, and I can’t help but wonder what we looked like to them—not as soldiers to each other, but as something unfamiliar moving through their day.

What stayed with me most isn’t the photograph itself, but what came after. The conversations they might have had at home. The questions they asked. Whether anyone had answers. We saw each other for only a moment, but it felt like there was a distance far greater than the glass between us. Looking back, this image doesn’t give me clarity it just leaves me with the same question I’ve carried since: what did we look like through their eyes?

Held for a Moment

Now that some time has passed since the shoots, I’ve had a chance to reflect on the experience not just creatively, but also as someone who’s been part of this community for the past six years.

Shooting content for CorePower ended up being one of the more fun sessions I’ve done recently. The concept itself was straightforward headshots, light posing, and content for their teacher training materials but the pace and environment gave it a different kind of energy. Everyone was so excited to be there and a part of it.

There’s a unique challenge in asking someone you’ve just met moments before to relax and feel comfortable in front of the camera. Each person approached it a little differently. Some settled in immediately, while others took a moment to find their footing. But across the board, there was a strong sense of openness and trust that made the process work but everyone was so wonderful and polite to work with.

What stood out most were the transitions. The brief in-between moments where someone shifts from being slightly unsure to fully present. A quick breath, a small adjustment, a subtle change in expression and suddenly everything aligns. Those were the moments that felt the most honest. I felt that I got a little snippet of their life.

The pace of the shoot didn’t leave much room for overthinking. Direction stayed minimal and direct. With 15–20 yogis cycling through for portraits and poses, everything moved quickly.

That simplicity is what kept it grounded. Nothing felt forced. There wasn’t any pressure to perform just an opportunity for each person to show up as they are.

By the end, it felt less like a structured shoot and more like a series of short, focused interactions. Each one different, but all connected by the same sense of presence and authenticity.

ASRX // Jad

I captured these during the CrossFit Open while shooting for ASRX. No staging. No direction. Just Jade’s moments in between effort. The reset. The breath. The quiet focus before going again. That’s what stood out to me most. Not the lifts. Not the scores. But the in-between. There’s a different kind of intensity during a CrossFit workout. It’s not loud it’s internal. You’re competing with everyone, but also completely alone in it.

In Space

There’s a kind of silence that only shows up when everything unnecessary is stripped away. A man walking across a bridge, reduced to a silhouette no identity, no destination, just movement. A single figure suspended in the sky, small against something endless. A window alone on a blank wall, holding whatever story exists behind it but offering nothing more. Even in the busier frame the grid, the people, the movement there’s still distance. Everyone occupies their own corner, their own moment, never quite touching. I think that’s what pulls me in. Not the subjects themselves, but the space around them. The negative space does more talking than anything else. It creates tension but also calm. It reminds me how small we are in the frame, how often we move through the world unnoticed, existing somewhere between presence and absence. There’s simplicity here, but it isn’t empty. It’s intentional. It leaves room for interpretation, for emotion, for the viewer to step in and sit with it. Loneliness isn’t always heavy. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s clean. Sometimes it just is. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Stillness and Edge // Sydney

There’s something about quiet spaces that pull more out of a frame than noise ever could. These images came together in that in-between moment where nothing is happening, but everything feels like it could. She isn’t performing. She isn’t reaching. She’s just there. And that’s where the tension lives.

The setting does a lot of the talking. Wood, concrete, metal textures that feel grounded, almost heavy. They don’t compete; they anchor. The lines of the stairs, the repetition of the railings, the emptiness of the floor they all frame her without forcing it. I didn’t want to overcomplicate anything here. Black on black. Minimal distractions. Let the shape, posture, and expression carry the weight.

What stood out to me most was how still everything felt. Even in the seated frames, there’s no urgency. No need to move. The posture is relaxed but intentional like she’s settled into the space instead of just passing through it. There’s a confidence in that. Not loud. Not forced. Just present. The light plays a big role in that feeling. Soft, directional, a little moody but not dramatic for the sake of it. It wraps instead of cuts. It gives just enough separation to pull her off the background while keeping everything cohesive. Nothing feels isolated. Everything belongs. This set wasn’t about telling a big story. It was about restraint. About letting the image breathe long enough for you to notice the subtle things the tilt of the head, the way her hand rests, the way the space holds her.

Sometimes the strongest frames are the ones that don’t try too hard. If anything, this shoot reminded me: You don’t always need more. Sometimes you just need less and the patience to let it work.