16/05/2026
I know I haven't been very active on this page lately and to be honest, my camera has been sitting a little quieter over the last three months. Iβve been entirely immersed in my work as a carer, standing right on the frontline of life's most fragile moments.
For me, photography and care have always come from the exact same place: a desire to stop time, to look deeply at the world, and to capture the profound beauty in the quiet, fleeting transitions of life.
I sat down during one of my final night shifts this weekend and wrote some reflections on what these past few months have taught me about vulnerability, presence and what it really means to look after one another.
I wanted to share it here with you, too...
Itβs been almost three months since I last posted here, and to be honest, I havenβt had much time or space for writing. Instead, Iβve been entirely immersed in my work as a carer, and these past few months have been a profound reflection on what it really means to look after people.
All of my clients are at a very vulnerable stage of life, and some are very poorly. In the short time since I last shared an update, I lost one of my lovely ladies, I was the one who found her when she passed away. And now, this weekend marks my final weekend of night shifts with another wonderful lady before she moves into a care home next week.
Holding the space for these huge shifts brings up a lot of grief. Itβs a heavy thing to carry, and it takes an emotional toll. But it also reminds me that grief is just the receipt for caring deeply. Sitting here in the quiet of these final night shifts, the stillness makes you think. It makes you look at how we, as a modern society, approach the most vulnerable chapters of our lives.
Weβve managed to push aging, vulnerability, and the end of life right behind closed doors. Itβs become so clinicalised, neatly packaged and kept at a distance. Because we donβt see these moments as a natural, integrated part of daily life anymore, they can feel abstract and terrifying, rather than what they truly are: a profound, inevitable transition.
When care gets treated like a race against the clock or a clinical checklist of chores, we lose the ritual of it. We lose the raw honesty, the quiet dignity and the deep, communal healing that comes from simply facing lifeβs transitions openly and together.
But when you step into these spaces every day and choose to be entirely present, seeing the full spectrum of a person's life, history, and fragility, that illusion of distance completely evaporates. You realise that the challenges of aging or facing death aren't medical failures or taboos to hide. They are intimate, quiet realities that actually give meaning to the care, connection, and time we share while we are here.
It takes a lot of emotional groundedness to look past the sanitised version of the world and just sit with the truth of it. But that is exactly where real care lives.
Closing these chapters has made me realise, more than ever, that my path forward has to completely align with my core values. My heart is entirely in independent, person centred companion care. I want to dedicate my time and energy to supporting vulnerable people in our community, not by rushing through a list of tasks, but by building real, meaningful rapport, sharing quality of life outings, and offering an unhurried, dedicated presence to the people I work with.
Every single chapter of a person's journey deserves to be honoured with respect, trust and absolute transparency.
It is a true honour to walk alongside people and their families through these chapters of life. π€
