There's a little pineapple tattoo on my arm.

Most people don't ask about it. But if you've spent any time in fertility clinic waiting rooms -- or scrolling IVF hashtags at midnight while you wait for a phone call that could go either way -- you already know what it means.

The pineapple is a symbol for the infertility community. It stands for hope, and solidarity, and the kind of stubborn optimism you have to manufacture from scratch when the waiting gets really hard. Kevin gave me a card once, in the middle of all of it, that said: Let's be belligerently hopeful. I think about that phrase all the time. It's the most honest thing anyone said to me in those two years.

I got the tattoo not for my kids, but for everything it took to get to them. Two years of trying. Multiple IUIs. A blocked tube. One embryo. One transfer. Nine days of waiting. And then a phone call where Kevin and I just stared at each other in complete, disbelieving shock that it had actually worked.

I'm telling you this because it's the most important thing to know about me as a photographer.

What the Waiting Teaches You

Infertility is a very specific kind of hard. It's the kind where you're grieving something you've never had yet. Where hope starts to feel dangerous because you've had it before and it didn't work out. Where you learn to hold two things at once -- wanting this so badly and not knowing if it's coming -- and you just keep going anyway.

I got really good at waiting during those two years. And really good at paying attention to the small things, because the big thing I was waiting for wasn't guaranteed.

I also got good at sitting with other people in hard seasons. At not trying to fix it or fast-forward past the difficult parts. At just being present in the middle of something uncertain and hard and hopeful, all at the same time.

Those are not skills you learn in photography school. Those are skills you learn by living something difficult and choosing to let it shape you rather than shut you down.

When I walk into a newborn session now, I carry all of that with me. And I think it shows.

Having Your Baby Doesn't Undo the Journey

Here's something nobody tells you about finally getting to the other side of infertility: having your baby doesn't erase what it cost to get there.

When Fitz arrived, I genuinely could not believe he was real. I remember staring at him thinking: this is the embryo. This is the one. And I was completely, overwhelmingly in love. And also, quietly, I was still processing everything that came before. The appointments and the negative tests and the grief and the waiting and the version of myself who wasn't sure this was going to happen.

Both things were true at the same time. The joy and the weight of the journey. And both were allowed.

I see this in my clients constantly. The ones who fought hard to get here -- through IVF, through loss, through years of trying, through medical complications that made their path longer and harder than it should have been. They hold their babies with a specific kind of intensity. A specific kind of disbelief. A specific kind of I can't believe we're finally here.

I know that look. I've worn it myself. And I know how to be in the room for it.

What This Means for How I Show Up

I am not just there to take pictures of your baby.

I know that sounds like a big claim. But I mean it practically, not just philosophically. Here's what it looks like in the room.

I understand what it means when you look at your baby like you still can't quite believe they're real -- because I've looked at my own kids that way. I understand the complicated feelings that can come up postpartum when you've been through something hard to get here, because the journey doesn't just disappear the moment the baby arrives. I understand why documenting this matters so urgently, why you want these photos to exist in a way that goes beyond a nice gallery -- because you know better than most people that this moment is precious and finite and not guaranteed.

I also understand that being photographed in those early postpartum days can feel vulnerable in a specific way when your body has been through so much. When you've been poked and monitored and measured for two years and now you're tired and healing and not sure how you feel about being in front of a camera. I see that. I am never going to rush past it or make you feel like it doesn't matter.

My job, when I walk into your home in those first weeks, is to witness you. The strength and the persistence and the courage it took to get to this specific moment. The appointments and the waiting and the hoping and the finally. This baby was fought for. That story belongs in the room.

Whether Your Journey Was Hard or Easy

I want to say this clearly, because I don't want anyone to feel like this post is only for people who went through infertility

If your pregnancy came easily and you simply wanted this baby with your whole heart -- I'm there for that too. Every pregnancy is its own journey. Every transition into parenthood carries its own weight. You don't have to have struggled to deserve a photographer who pays attention and shows up with care.

But if you did go through something hard to get here -- IVF, loss, years of trying, a path that looked nothing like you imagined -- I want you to know: I get it. In my bones. Not in a "I've read about this" way. In a "I sat in those waiting rooms and held my breath through those phone calls" way.

You are not going to have to explain yourself to me. You're not going to have to manage my emotions while you navigate your own. I already understand what this moment means. I'm just there to document it.

The Pineapple Stays

Both of my kids are here because of IVF. Two embryos, two babies, two transfers that worked after a lot that didn't.

I didn't want a tattoo to mark that they arrived. I wanted one to mark everything it took to get there. The person I became through it. What Kevin and I found out we were made of. The belligerent hope we had to choose, over and over, when it would have been easier to give up.

The pineapple is right there on my arm in every session photo, every behind-the-scenes shot, every time I'm holding someone's baby and they can't see my face because I'm looking through the viewfinder at something I don't want to miss.

If you're in the waiting right now, I see you. I really see you.

And when you get to the other side -- whenever and however that happens -- I would be honored to be the person who documents it.

Ready to book your maternity or newborn session in Seattle? I'd love to be your photographer. Book here.