Ten Years In: A Journey Through Photography, Presence, and Wonder

This is a personal story—shared by Eastlyn.
Together, Joshua and I have photographed weddings and elopements across the world. But before it became our livelihood, it was a quiet spark in me. Here’s what ten years of full-time photography has taught me.

When I was a little girl, I’d sit barefoot on the picnic table in our backyard, watching western storm clouds roll in across the Ohio hay fields. On humid July evenings, I’d tilt my face to the sky as rain began to fall—feeling more alive than I knew how to explain. The clouds would light up in orange and pink, and more times than I can count, a rainbow would appear in the east.

That awe—of weather, of wildness, of light moving across a landscape—eventually found its way into my journal. I started painting those skies with watercolors, trying to recreate what I saw and felt. Around the same time, my grandparents began giving me their old National Geographic magazines, and I’d cut out the images that caught my eye—faraway places, vast horizons, little moments of wonder—and glue them alongside my own pages. I’d make lists of all the places I dreamed of seeing one day. Torres del Paine was always at the top.

At some point in my early teens, I picked up a camera. At first, it was another way to chase that feeling I got from the sky—to try and capture the clouds, the light, the wonder of weather moving through a landscape. But during a long summer drought—when no storms came for months—I started turning my lens to other things: wildflowers, puddles, our pets, my little sisters. I filled photo albums and taped prints to my walls. It became a language I didn’t have words for yet—but I knew it mattered.

Eventually, through a slow unfolding of time and opportunity, I was able to start using that passion to earn a little income.

For five years, however, I worked full-time in an office job that taught me a lot about how a business functions—from workflow systems and communication to organization, professionalism, and follow-through. It gave me structure and taught me how to work with clients, plan ahead, and manage multiple moving parts. I’m genuinely grateful for that season—because alongside it, I was quietly building something else. I was taking classes at the local college, photographing on weekends, editing in the margins, and dreaming in every spare moment.

Photography wasn’t my job yet, but it was already my heartbeat. I never stopped feeling that pull toward light, story, and beauty. And over time, that small spark started gaining momentum.

The Road Trip That Changed Everything

Ten years ago this month (April), I got laid off from that job because the office moved out-of-state; and Joshua wanted to quit his job at the time. So we packed up my very first car—a little red Mitsubishi Eclipse that already had over 300,000 miles on it—and set off on a two-month road trip across the country. We camped the entire way, lived on a tight budget, and photographed everything we could—not knowing what would come of it, just needing to reset.

We didn’t have much of a plan. Just a camera, and the idea that maybe—just maybe—this was a way to reset.

Instagram screenshot of camping in the redwoods during our two-month cross-country road trip—a season of oatmeal breakfasts, no cell service, and more wonder than I knew what to do with.

A view from Alaska, during a week of spontaneous detours and ferry rides. It felt like the edge of the world—and the beginning of a new one.

It wasn’t all carefree adventure. There were moments that still make my stomach drop when I think about them—like being harassed and chased by a semi-truck driver in the desert, and having to lose him down a series of winding back roads. Or when the Eclipse—my very first car—finally gave out in Washington state, completely beyond repair. We had to leave it behind. From there, we booked a last-minute, extremely questionable cruise to Alaska and used that port-hopping week to figure out how to get home affordably. Eventually, we made it back to Ohio in a rental car.

Our final national park stop on the way home was Grand Teton National Park. We didn’t know then that we’d return again and again—this time with camera gear in hand, documenting love stories in the shadow of those same peaks year after year.

That trip became the foundation of my first travel portfolio, and—looking back now—the quiet beginning of everything that followed.

If I could show my past self the work I create now—the stories we’ve photographed, the places we’ve stood, the way this career has taken shape—I don’t think she would believe it. Back then, photography still felt like a dream I was dabbling in, not something that would eventually become my full-time work. But that road trip—chaotic, beautiful, and unpredictable—was the doorway into everything that followed.

Milestones I Never Saw Coming

Somewhere along the way, there were moments that made me pause and whisper, “Is this real?”

Like having an image featured by National Geographic as Photo of the Day—the same pages that sparked it all. Seeing my work on the cover of Rangefinder Magazine. Walking into the Niagara Parks visitor center and seeing one of my photos on display in their museum gallery.

And then there are the quieter milestones. Like the time we ended up driving a couple several hours after their Yosemite session so they could catch a train—and how, in that unexpected detour, we got to simply be with them. No camera, no timeline. Just good conversation, shared snacks, and a feeling like we were all old friends. Or the weekends we’ve spent with couples whose wedding days became more than an event—where we were welcomed into their circles and stories like we belonged there.

I never set out chasing recognition, but each of those moments felt like a quiet echo of that little girl with scissors and glue, piecing together a dream one page at a time.

The image that changed my career. This cover amplified my voice in the photo world and opened doors I didn’t even know to knock on. I’m still honored—and still a little in shock.

The desert storm photo that was featured by National Geographic and The Weather Channel. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since—a once-in-a-lifetime moment that reminded me why I fell in love with chasing light in the first place.

I never expected this image of Niagara Falls to travel so far. From a quiet moment behind the lens to National Geographic’s Photo of the Day… and eventually to a museum wall. It still humbles me.

Me, standing beside that same photo years later—now printed and hanging in the Niagara Parks visitor center. One of those quiet full-circle moments I’ll never forget.

From Passion to Profession

“Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.” — Mary Oliver

Since then, this work has taken us across the country and around the world. We've stood in backyard gardens and national parks, in venues and on mountaintops—photographing love and light in so many forms. We’ve documented weddings and elopements across the U.S., and abroad in places like Normandy and the French Alps, Italy, England, Iceland, and Chile.

And years after I first glued its picture into a journal as a child, we actually found ourselves standing in Torres del Paine, Patagonia—photographing a real wedding beneath those same jagged peaks I used to dream about.

That experience felt like the peak—literally and figuratively. Everything about it was surreal: the golden light, the wind carving through the valleys, the silence between shutter clicks. I kept pinching myself in the middle of it all. It was everything I dreamed of, and somehow even more.

The couple we photographed there were unbelievably kind, down-to-earth, and cool in every sense of the word. It didn’t feel like a client relationship—it felt like a friendship. They entrusted us with something deeply meaningful—the honor of documenting their story in a place that had lived in our dreams for years. Their trust brought us to Patagonia—not just as travelers, but with intention and purpose.

The entire trip felt layered in something sacred. Unreal moments in a landscape that felt almost mythic. It was beyond what I ever imagined could be real—not just because of where we were, but because of why we were there. This work brought us there. And Joshua and I brought one another to this point in the story—together.

Standing in that kind of beauty—with someone who sees the world like you do, who has believed in your vision from the beginning—changes how you remember it. And it made me think of how much this journey has shaped not just my work, but us.

And yet—I don’t believe it was all just luck or timing. I know I’ve had free will, and this path could’ve led in so many different directions. But I also believe God has sustained me through it all. I see His grace in the doors that opened, in the strength to keep going, in the quiet provision along the way. There’s no part of this story I take credit for alone.

One of the greatest examples of that grace has been Joshua. His presence, support, and partnership have shaped every part of this life we’ve built together. I may have taught him the power of creativity and the art of noticing—and how to do both well, we must learn to be fully present. But he’s taught me so much more about what that actually could be.

He’s steady. He meets people with gentleness, stays open even when things feel uncertain, and reminds me how powerful it is to keep showing up with heart.

Once, we took a wheel pottery class at our local art center. One of the hardest parts for me was centering the clay on the wheel—it takes more physical strength than you’d imagine. If ten minutes passed and I still didn’t have it centered, my hands and arms would ache, and I’d have to ask for help. Over and over again, Joshua would come over and center my uneven lump on the spinning wheel. And only then—only once it was grounded—could I shape it into something meaningful.

It felt like a metaphor for this journey together. For how often I need him to help ground me, bring calm to my doubts, remind me of who I am. With him—steadying me—I’m able to create something beautiful. He supports all my ambitions and dreams, and selflessly works to help bring them to life.

Joshua has been part of this from the beginning. We shoot every wedding, elopement, and story together. While I carry the weight of the day-to-day—running the business, managing timelines, communicating with clients, making the big decisions—photographing itself is something we do side by side. Even while juggling another full-time career, he’s continued to pour himself into this work. Photography has remained a shared thread in our life—and a huge part of our livelihood. The way we see, feel, and document together has become its own rhythm—something we’ve built brick by brick, year by year, and something I deeply value and don’t take for granted.

I’ve carried the business full-time for the past decade, and I still feel a little awe every time I think about that. A decade of building this work within our life—not around it, but through it, beside it, and with it. A decade of saying yes, over and over again, to the thing that lit that first spark.

What You Don’t Always See

Sometimes people see the highlights—the travel, the flexibility, the “dream job” aspect—and assume this life must be glamorous. And while I’m so grateful for what I get to do, being self-employed full-time for ten years hasn’t been easy.

This work is deeply fulfilling—but it’s also incredibly demanding. What you see from the outside—the images, the locations, the weddings—is just one layer. Behind the scenes, it’s often a juggling act. There’s the quiet anxiety of wondering whether the bookings will come in for the next season, the impostor syndrome, the pressure of staying on top of evolving technology, software, algorithms, and camera gear. Even shooting 15–20 events a year—which might not sound like much to some—is full-time when you’re handling everything on your own.

Because it’s not just the photography.

It’s communication and planning with couples, timelines, logistics, contracts, marketing, writing, posting, editing, backing up files, researching, location scouting, travel planning, tax prep, SEO updates, business forecasting, and more. It's knowing your creative work and livelihood depend on you showing up with focus and intention—even when the inbox is full and your energy is low.

Yes, the schedule is flexible. And yes, I’m the boss. But that also means if I let something slide, it can all slide fast. There’s no one else to pick up the slack.

I’ve had people ask, “So, you don’t have any weddings this month—what do you do all day?”
And honestly, that’s the question that reveals how invisible this work can be.

But the longer I’ve done this, the more I realize—it has become glamorous to me. Not in the flashy, effortless kind of way. But in the steady, soul-filled kind of way. Because even after ten years of doing this full-time, I still love it.

Photography is something I’ve grown with—and it’s grown with me. It moves with both the stillness and the momentum of my life. It’s never felt stagnant, or small, or like a job I’ve outgrown. I’ve never seen myself doing anything else in these ten years.

And honestly? For me, I think it’s the best job in the world.

Looking Toward the Horizon

I once read a quote that stayed with me:

“There is a stirring in my soul; restless, wild anticipation. I am staring into the horizon, as far as I can. I can’t see what’s beyond it—but I can feel it.” — L. Leav

Over the years, I’ve stood on mossy peaks and canyon edges, beside wild coastlines and quiet ceremony circles, watching the horizon stretch out before me. It’s measurable, but unreachable. Constant, but always moving. And something about that—the wildness paired with steadiness—feels like the perfect metaphor for this journey.

Because at its heart, this work has never just been about photography. It’s about the life Joshua and I have built—and the lives we’ve had the honor of stepping into. It’s about sharing in stories that aren’t ours, but being entrusted to help shape how they’re remembered.

It’s about holding space for vows on windswept summits and joyful toasts in candlelit rooms. It’s about witnessing the sacred in the smallest gestures and the loudest laughter. It’s about blending our love for art, light, and story with the beautiful complexity of real people in real places.

And it’s about you.

If you’ve made it here—whether you’re planning your wedding or simply love the idea of preserving something meaningful—I want you to know: you’ve been part of this story. You are part of this story.

Ten years in, and I still feel like I’m just getting started.

I’m so grateful for every step that brought me here. For the people we’ve met. The stories we’ve told. The ones still unfolding.

And if our paths cross—if we get to step into your story next—it would be an honor.