I’ll never forget the day I graduated from uni, although probably not for the reasons you might think. The ceremony was held in the courtyard of my university in The Hague. I wore a dress I had bought for a wedding I never got to attend because of Covid, and  was exhausted from the chaotic week I’d had leading up to graduation.

I’m stepping out of the teenage years and into adulthood, and the lessons I’ve learned this year have been huge—not just about my work, but about myself and the people around me.

Love isn’t always found in grand declarations or dramatic embraces. It lingers in the unnoticed, in the spaces between. It’s in the way hands reach for each other without thinking, the unspoken language of a glance, the quiet assurance of presence. Love is the warmth of a lingering touch before parting, the soft laughter shared over a forgotten joke, the way morning light catches a stray lock of hair. These are the moments we rarely think to capture, yet they hold the essence of something eternal.

Have you ever looked at a photograph and felt something shift—not because of what you saw, but because of what you didn’t? It’s in those moments of emptiness—the negative space—that something unexpected can emerge. In photography, just as in life, the act of leaving things out is as powerful as what we choose to include.

Picture this,

The air hums with the electric anticipation of a thousand hearts beating in sync. Your back presses against his chest, the warmth of his embrace wrapping around you as you expectantly for the artist to come upstage. His fingers gently brush your skin, sending a wave of tingles through you, as the crowd’s energy pulses like one living, breathing entity.

There is a certain way that light touches things before the world notices. A quiet moment before it fades. A flicker in someone’s eyes. A shadow stretching long across the pavement. I have always been intrigued by that light— but there was a time in my life where everything turned dark.