Journal

Sometimes, you need to create for no other reason than the joy of seeing what might happen.

No long shot list. No expectation that every frame needs to be perfect. Just a beautiful setting, a talented group of people and the freedom to follow an idea as it begins to take shape.

That was the feeling behind this little bridal editorial at Mona Vale, created during the Better Together Wedding Fair in Christchurch on the 20th September 2026.

We had around 45 minutes in front of the camera. That was it.

In that short window, we moved through 3 completely different bridal looks, wandered between the gardens and Mona Vale’s glasshouse, played with movement, shadow and a few wonderfully unconventional poses, and created enough work for an entire editorial story.

It was fast, instinctive and so much fun.

Styled shoots offer something slightly different from photographing a real wedding day. There is still a story to tell, but there is also more room to experiment—to try the unexpected angle, lean into a blur, move a little faster or ask the bride to climb into a chair with her legs in the air with a martini simply because it feels playful and alive.

As photographers and creatives, it can be easy to become so focused on outcomes, timelines and creating work for other people that we forget to make something simply because it excites us. This shoot felt like a reminder to get out there, gather good people around you and create for the sheer joy of creating.

There was no time to overthink it. We had to trust one another, work with what was in front of us and let the energy of the day lead.

The first looks were romantic and timeless, with delicate lace, a full length train, a long veil and deeper, richer florals flowing into the elegance of white freesia florals. Inside Mona Vale’s glasshouse, the late-afternoon light fell through the windows and across the tables, glassware and layers of fabric. It gave us that soft, cinematic quality I am always drawn towards…. and oh my goodness the light. Dreamy AF.

The last look brought a playful, modern energy to the gardens at Mona Vale: an off-the-shoulder corseted mini, strands of pearls, a short veil and an all-white bouquet. It felt a little cheeky, a little fashion-forward and far removed from the idea that bridal portraits need to be formal or restrained.

Annabel absolutely rocked it. She brought movement, personality and ease to every frame, whether she was walking through the grounds, laughing back into the sunlight or reclining in a chair beside the water with her heels in the air, martini in hand.

The contrast between the two looks became one of my favourite parts of the final spread. One feels spirited and playful; the other, elegant and full of old-world romance. Together, they show that bridal style does not need to fit inside one narrow idea. It can hold all of it: confidence, softness, humour, beauty, movement and a little wildness.

There is something incredible about watching a team come together around a shared idea. Every person brings a different craft—the gown, the flowers, the hair and makeup, the styling, the venue—and for a brief window, all of those separate elements become one story.

Forty-five minutes sounds impossibly short, but it also created momentum. We did not have time to make the work too careful or overly controlled. We moved, responded, laughed, adjusted and kept going.

That is often where some of my favourite images live: in the moments between the planned photographs. A veil caught mid-movement. Hair sweeping across a face. A burst of laughter. A glass raised between frames. The slight blur that makes a photograph feel more like a movie then a staged scene.

That approach is also at the heart of how I photograph real weddings. The beautiful details matter, of course, but so does the life moving through them. I want the finished gallery to hold the elegance of the day without losing its pulse.

Stepping into the Canterbury wedding scene

Since moving from Dunedin to the West Coast, Canterbury has become a much closer part of my world. Christchurch is now within easy reach, and I have been looking forward to building new creative relationships and photographing more weddings throughout the region.

The Better Together Wedding Fair felt like a great way to get my toes wet.

Thank you to the Better Together team for having me, to Mona Vale for such a beautiful setting, and to every person who contributed their talent, time and vision to this shoot. There is no way we could have created this much in such a short space of time without everyone arriving ready to make something special together.

And Annabel—you were an absolute dream in front of the camera.

I left this shoot feeling deeply excited for the wedding season ahead and reminded of something simple: make time to play. Try the strange angle. Follow the light and play with the shadows. Create the work that makes you want to keep creating.

You never quite know what 45 minutes might become.

Planning a wedding in Christchurch, Canterbury or elsewhere across the top of the South Island? I photograph celebrations with a cinematic, emotive approach with a touch of editorial vibes—holding onto both the beauty you planned and the moments you never could have imagined where part of the story. 

[Enquire about your wedding photography here.]

Bridal Editorial Shoot - Christchurch Wedding Edition

There is a moment when the way we see ourselves begins to shift. Sometimes it arrives through a decision we have been circling for months. Sometimes through a conversation, an important milestone, or simply the realisation that we want to make more room for pleasure in our lives.

And sometimes it happens standing among the trees, feeling the air against our skin, allowing ourselves to be seen.

My first West Coast Rewild Portrait Experience® took place in a beautiful pocket of Hokitika, talk about dream location?! It has become one of my favourite shoots to date, both for the imagery we created and for the feeling running through it: a woman celebrating her life, her body, and the years that have brought her here.

There was joy in this session. Curiosity. Sensuality. The freedom to explore different expressions of herself in a place alive with its own textures, movement and light.

Looking back through these photographs, I keep returning to the white flower held above the water. An image of unfolding, and a beautiful starting point for talking about what this work means to me.

A white bloom opens above the dark water. Beneath it, roots reach into the earth. Around it, ripples move outwards from a hand.

For me, the symbolism lives in that relationship. Earth giving something a place to grow. Water holding it. Light encouraging it to open. Each part belonging to the whole.

I see something of our own lives there: the experiences that shape us, the relationships that sustain us, and the conditions that give us room to express ourselves more freely. We each have our own rhythm of opening. Our own seasons of growth.

The flower in an open hand feels like an offering of gratitude. For the body that carries us. For another year of life. For the ability to feel pleasure, make art, change direction, and meet ourselves with a little more tenderness.

That is my interpretation of these images. Yours might be different. I love that a photograph can hold enough space for both.

The surroundings might look familiar, yet we begin to move through them differently. I wonder how much can shift when we stay curious & open to possibility—when we give ourselves room to see the world, and ourselves, a little differently.

We might recognise how often we have held ourselves back from being photographed, from being seen. How quickly we dismiss an image of ourselves. How long we have postponed something we want to do until we feel more confident, more comfortable, more ready.

There is a mountain metaphor in this: the climb can be the work of getting to know ourselves. Learning where we brace, what we value, and which choices feel like our own. The landscape we are exploring is also within us.

A portrait experience can give that exploration a physical form. You choose to arrive. You take a breath. You feel the ground beneath you and follow a movement that feels good. You allow yourself to occupy the frame, to be the muse.

Later, a photograph may offer another way of seeing the woman you already know so well. Her playfulness. Her strength. Her sensuality. An expression you recognise, or one you had almost forgotten.

I am always interested in what becomes possible when we give those parts of ourselves some attention.

How the Rewild Portrait Experience expands on boudoir photography

If you have been exploring boudoir photography in New Zealand, you may already be drawn to the idea of celebrating your body and expressing your sensuality through photographs. Boudoir can be intimate, playful and deeply personal, and those qualities have a place in my work too.

The Rewild Portrait Experience® brings that exploration into a broader relationship with nature, creativity and embodiment. Indoor boudoir can be part of the experience; so can outdoor portraits shaped by the landscape and your own sense of adventure.

Some people might describe the outdoor element as adventure boudoir or wild boudoir. I understand the appeal of those words: the feeling of stepping beyond the everyday, exploring a beautiful location, and letting the experience awaken your senses.

For me, the adventure also lives in the choices you make within the session. Perhaps you want to move freely among the trees. Perhaps you are drawn to soft fabric, bare feet, or a moment of stillness. Your expression, clothing and comfort guide the work. There is room for tenderness, humour, boldness, ridiculousness and whatever feels natural on the day.

Each session begins with a collaborative process. A questionnaire and pre-session conversation help us explore what has brought you here and what you would love to create. From there, we shape the experience together, allowing space for it to evolve as we go.

The portraits grow out of that connection.

The West Coast offers so much that I love as a photographer: textured forest, changing light, water, and a sense of being immersed in a truly dramatic landscape. The weather has it’s part to play too, and embracing that is part of the thrill.

During a session, those surroundings give us something to engage with. You can notice the temperature of the air, the movement of a leaf, the feel of earth underfoot. Attention has somewhere to land beyond the camera.

This is part of what I mean by embodiment: noticing your body through lived sensation. How you breathe. How you move. What feels comfortable. What sparks curiosity or pleasure.

Sensuality belongs here too. The enjoyment of texture, warmth, movement and touch. The pleasure of inhabiting your body and allowing that feeling to find expression.

In this woman’s portraits, the forest and waters of Hokitika are part of the conversation. They influence the gestures, the light, and the mood of the images. Woman and landscape meet, and together we create something that belongs to that particular day and that chapter of her life.

There are many reasons a woman might choose to do this. A birthday. A new season. A desire to make something beautiful and test your edges. A growing curiosity about a part of herself she wants to explore.

Celebration is reason enough. Just because is too.

You can feel good about your life and still want to deepen your relationship with yourself. You can love your body and want photographs that honour it. You can come simply because the idea excites you.

For other women, being photographed might feel more vulnerable. We can talk about that too, and shape the session around your comfort and choices. You have a say in how you are represented throughout the experience.

What I offer is time, holding of an intentional space, creative collaboration, and an invitation to explore being seen on your own terms. The photographs become something tangible to keep: a record of your life and expression at this moment.

Years from now, I hope you can look at them and remember how it felt to be there. The air. The laughter. The moment you allowed yourself to enjoy it. To truly find pleasure in being in your body.

Women's portrait photography across New Zealand

Now based in Reefton, I create Rewild Portrait Experiences and women's portrait photography on the West Coast, including Hokitika and Greymouth, and travel for sessions across Canterbury, Nelson and Tasman, Otago and Southland.

Every region brings its own possibilities and secret gems of locations 

(all of which I’ve put a lot of time and endless scouting hours into)

. If you are considering outdoor boudoir photography or a Rewild session, we can explore a location that suits your vision, comfort and the season. The place matters because it helps shape the experience we create together.

This first West Coast session felt like a beautiful beginning for this chapter of my work. It held so much of what draws me to photography: connection, self-expression, and the pleasure of creating something meaningful with another woman in and amongst awe inspiring landscapes.

The white bloom. The ripples on the water. A woman standing among the trees, in the river, under the canopy…. celebrating her life.

If you feel drawn to your own Rewild Portrait Experience®, I would love to hear what is calling you. You can explore the experience and current packages on my website, or get in touch and we can begin a conversation about what you would love to create.

Rewilding as a Love Letter to Ourselves

The older I get, the richer I want to be.

I want to be rich in mornings I don’t have to rush through, in time outside, in long dinners and conversations full of depth and meaning, wonder and laughter. I want days spent making things with my hands or refining new skills, afternoons in the garden, time to read without feeling like I should be doing something more productive, and the freedom to disappear into the hills or go diving in the sea when the weather is too good to waste.

I want to travel slowly. I want to make photographs simply because something moved me.

I actually can’t tell you the last time I created a photograph just for me.

I want to swim in all the rivers, grow a ridiculous bounty of food, sit around a table with people I love and not constantly be thinking about the next thing I need to do.

More than anything, I think I want a life with space in it.

Maybe one of the greatest forms of wealth is simply having enough of your own time to actually live your life.

Don’t get me wrong, the bills still need to be paid and I still want financial stability. We’ve bought a house and we want to build equity in it, improve it over time and make good decisions for our future. I want my career to create substantial wealth. The kind of abundance that gives us freedom, choice, generosity and the ability to build a beautiful life without being owned by the pursuit of it. 

I want to adventure, create, invest, contribute and live well.

I’m not interested in pretending money doesn’t matter, because it absolutely does.

But what I’m questioning more and more is what all that work is actually 

If I’m working harder and harder, building more and more, creating more offers, more projects, more responsibilities and more things that need maintaining, but the end result is that I have less time to enjoy my actual life, then at some point I have to ask whether I’m moving in the right direction.

What am I actually buying with all of this work?

Because if the answer isn’t eventually more freedom, more choice and more of my own life, then I’m not entirely sure what the point is.

Lately, I’ve found myself taking a bit of an inventory. Not so much of the things I own — although I’m definitely becoming less interested in accumulating things too, unless we’re talking home renovations, apparently 😂 — but more an inventory of my time and energy.

What am I giving myself to? What am I maintaining simply because I started it? What still feels genuinely meaningful to me? What is taking up space in my life because at one point I said yes to it, even though I might not make the same decision today?

And then, probably the most important question of all:

This kind of reflection has always been at the heart of what rewilding means to me.

Rewilding is a nonlinear process. It is equal parts healing, unearthing, evolving, remembering and, occasionally, burning the whole bloody framework down and starting over again.

It’s taking stock of what deserves a seat at the table of your life.

At the same time, I don’t think rewilding is a destination you arrive at where suddenly you know yourself completely, your values become some perfectly fixed north star and you never get lost again.

If anything, I think it’s the opposite.

Sometimes getting lost in it all is the point.

It’s an ongoing process of noticing. Checking back in with yourself. Being willing to admit when something that once felt right no longer does. Pulling yourself out of the trees for long enough to see the forest again.

The life you consciously created can still become a life you unconsciously maintain.

It’s incredibly easy to get caught up, even when you’ve worked hard to create a life that feels like your own.

Autopilot has a sneaky way of finding its way back in.

You start a project because you care deeply about it. An opportunity comes along and you say yes. Then another one comes along. Something grows, which is wonderful, but growth brings more responsibility. You take on another client, another idea, another business, another commitment.

Then you buy a house and suddenly there are approximately nine thousand things you want to do to that too.

None of those things are necessarily bad. In fact, many of them can be beautiful things you actively chose and perhaps continue to choose.

We accumulate responsibilities, expectations, projects, subscriptions, goals, identities and ideas about who we are supposed to become.

Before long, you can find yourself incredibly busy maintaining a life you haven’t actually stopped to question for a while.

That doesn’t mean you built the wrong life.

One of the things I’m recognising in myself is just how easy it is to continually move the finish line.

I’ll have more freedom when I earn this much.

I’ll slow down once this project is finished.

I’ll take more time off when the business is more established.

I’ll enjoy the house once we’ve finished this part, and then this part, and then this other part.

I’ll rest when I get through this busy period.

Except there is always another busy period.

There is always another project you could start, another income target you could reach, another bill to pay, another room you could renovate, another level your business could grow to.

And if you’re not paying attention, the life you keep promising yourself becomes something permanently waiting in the future.

At some point, we have to stop moving the finish line and allow ourselves to live inside what we have already created.

I don’t want to spend the next twenty years telling myself that freedom is just on the other side of one more thing.

That doesn’t mean I stop dreaming or building or wanting to grow. I don’t think ambition is the problem.

More without ever asking whether more is actually what we want.

I want to become much more intentional about what growth is 

Maybe success isn’t reaching some mythical point where there is finally nothing left to do.

Maybe success is knowing when there is enough.

I’m beginning to realise that I still want more.

I just want more of very different things.

I want freedom. I want afternoons where I can work in the garden because the sun is out. I want long stretches of creative concentration where I’m not watching the clock. I want road trips, ocean swims, hikes, photography and little adventures that don’t necessarily need to become content or make me money.

I want meaningful work, absolutely. I love what I do. I still have big creative ambitions and visions I want to bring to fruition.

But I also want enough space around that work to have a life outside of it.

And that balance is beginning to feel far more important than endlessly expanding for the sake of expansion.

There is such a strong societal message that growth must always mean more.

More revenue. More clients. More followers. More offers. More reach. More possessions.

Because strangely, the more I pull back, simplify and put a premium on my time, the more I seem to get back of the thing I was chasing in the first place.

We’re constantly encouraged to scale up, add another thing and keep moving towards whatever the next level is supposed to be.

We can literally be standing in the middle of bringing a dream to fruition and already be talking about the next thing on the bucket list.

We barely give our dreams room to breathe.

 credit for how far we’ve come, or for all the work that has already happened to bring us right here; which is exactly somewhere a past version of us once desperately hoped we might be.

What if I already have enough of certain things?

And what if what I actually want more of isn’t stuff, status or productivity at all?

Maybe I want more time. More presence. More experiences. More creativity. More freedom. More connection.

More room to actually enjoy what I’ve already built.

What if wealth isn’t about having more things, but having more freedom to decide how your days are spent?

There’s an interesting contradiction in the way we often think about success.

We work incredibly hard so that one day we can have more freedom. We build bigger businesses so that hopefully, eventually, we can work less. We accumulate things that require more money and more maintenance, which means we need to keep earning more in order to sustain them.

Somewhere along the way, time becomes the thing we have the least of.

And yet time is probably our most finite resource.

We can make more money. We can replace possessions. We can change jobs, build new businesses and reinvent ourselves many times over.

We can only decide, as best we can, what we do with the time we have.

I think part of why this feels so poignant for me now is that I grew up in a culture where working relentlessly was completely normal.

My dad worked seven days a week selling real estate and seemed to believe the only worthwhile career options for me were becoming a lawyer, a doctor or a rockstar.

The Older I Get, the Richer I Want to Be

“Trauma-informed” has become one of those phrases we see everywhere now.

Trauma-informed yoga. Trauma-informed coaching. Trauma-informed workplaces. Trauma-informed photography.

But also… what the hell does that actually mean?

Because putting the words in your bio doesn’t automatically change the way somebody experiences being in a room with you.

For me, trauma-informed photography starts with something much bigger than photography itself.

It starts with understanding that trauma, rupture, grief, overwhelm, fear, loss, change and disappointment are part and parcel of being alive. We are human. We are part of the natural world. We love things we will eventually lose. Our bodies change. Relationships change. Birth happens. Death happens. Life, at times, becomes bigger than our capacity to hold everything that is happening in that particular moment.

None of us gets through a lifetime untouched by that.

And so much of what matters is not simply what happens to us, but how those experiences are processed, how they are held, whether we have support around us, whether we have agency and choice, whether somebody listens, whether our emotions are allowed to move, and whether our bodies are given enough safety and space to come out of that state of protection rather than having to keep holding it.

Sometimes that might quite literally look like shaking, trembling, crying, moving, breathing, making sound or in other words, the body finding its way back towards regulation and expressing something that, in the moment, it may not have had the safety or capacity to express.

It’s not only about making sense of an experience with our minds. It’s also about what our bodies are able to do with it.

That understanding has profoundly shaped how I work with people.

Not because I’m trying to uncover anybody’s trauma.

A photoshoot isn’t therapy, and I’m certainly not there to diagnose somebody, analyse them or encourage them to disclose parts of their story they don’t want to share.

I don’t need to know what has happened to you to understand that things have happened to you.

You arrive in front of my camera with a history. A relationship with your body. A relationship with being seen. With vulnerability. Control. Identity. Self-expression. Belonging. Touch. Choice.

Some of those relationships might feel incredibly easy.

And I probably know very little about most of your lived experience.

But I can still work in a way that respects it.

At its foundation, trauma-informed practice is built around things like physical and psychological safety, trust, collaboration, empowerment, voice and choice. Those principles have traditionally been talked about within health and social services, but I think they have enormous relevance anywhere humans are asked to become vulnerable.

And being photographed can be incredibly vulnerable.

There is a strange little power dynamic in photography that we don’t talk about enough. If you’ve ever had an unpleasant or uncomfortable experience with a photographer, that dynamic becomes wildly relevant.

One person is holding the camera and the other is being looked at. Directed. Recorded. Interpreted. Intimately represented through somebody else’s eyes.

I decide where the frame begins and ends. I decide when to press the shutter. I decide which fraction of a second gets made permanent.

That is a considerable amount of power when you really think about it.

And unless you consciously create something more collaborative, photography can very easily become:

I photograph. You become what you think I want to see.

I want the making of a photograph to feel like something we are creating together.

And that is where consent becomes so much bigger than signing a model release.

Of course contracts matter. Permission to photograph someone matters. Permission to share images matters.

But there’s another layer of consent happening throughout a shoot.

Are you comfortable here? Do you want to try this? Do you want more direction or less? Would you like to see what I’m seeing? Do you want that photograph shared publicly or would you rather keep it for yourself? Do you need a minute? Does this actually feel like you? Do you want to explore something new?

And perhaps most importantly: do you know you can change your mind?

I want someone to know they can tell me no. They can make a suggestion. They can stop. They can put something back on. Take something off. Move differently. Laugh at an idea. Tell me something feels strange. Ask if we can try the thing they’ve secretly been thinking about for three weeks.

They don’t have to override themselves because they think the photographer knows best.

Because once somebody truly understands that they have choice, something changes.

They stop trying so hard to get it right.

And very often, that’s when I begin to see them.

This probably becomes most obvious in the work I create with women.

So many women arrive in front of a camera carrying an extraordinary number of ideas about how they’re supposed to look.

Stand like this. Hide that. Turn your body this way. Don’t show your stomach. Smile. I hate my smile. Look natural. Be feminine. Be sexy, but not too sexy. Be confident. Not that way.

And now somehow remember all of that while somebody points a giant lens at you.

So I’m much less interested in immediately putting someone into a series of shapes than I am in creating enough space for them to begin inhabiting themselves.

We move. We talk. We breathe. We wander. We get distracted. We laugh. Sometimes we sit in silence for a while.

Sometimes I direct heavily. Sometimes I barely direct at all.

Sometimes something deeply emotional happens.

Sometimes the whole experience is light and funny and playful.

Nobody needs to cry for the experience to have meant something. Nobody needs to reveal their deepest wound. Nobody needs to have some enormous life-changing breakthrough because they booked a portrait session.

Don’t get me wrong, photography can definitely be healing. I’ve seen that happen more times than I can count.

Seeing yourself differently can be healing.

Taking ownership of the way you are seen can be healing.

Creating something purely for yourself can be healing.

But I never want healing itself to become another expectation somebody feels they need to meet for me.

Trauma-informed does not have to mean trauma-centred.

There is room for joy here. Pleasure. Play. Adventure. Sensuality. Pride. Grief. Nervousness. Curiosity. Tenderness. Ridiculousness.

Journal

Bridal Editorial Shoot - Christchurch Wedding Edition

Rewilding as a Love Letter to Ourselves

The Older I Get, the Richer I Want to Be

So, You’re Trauma-Informed? What the Hell Does That Actually Mean in Photography?

The Copland Track in Winter: 36km, Torrential Rain & Hot Pools Beneath the Milky Way

The Courage to Slow Down

Echoes of the Wild

The Beauty of Slow Travel

Rewild Women's Retreat 2.0: Exploring Lake Hawea & Makarora

Coming to Your Senses - A Sensory Journey of Connecting to the Soul

Rustic Luxury & Landscapes in The Catlins

The Ego is Not Your Amigo... or is it?