Honoring My Mother

Honoring My Mother: Why Printed Photographs Are the Threads That Hold Our Story Together

These last few weeks have been some of the hardest of my life. Losing my mother has created a space in my heart that I’m still learning how to navigate. Grief has a way of slowing time, of making you remember moments you thought you had tucked away safely in the past. And in the middle of that ache, there has been one source of comfort — the photographs. The printed ones. The ones that lived in shoeboxes, albums, frames on the wall, and tucked inside drawers we hadn’t opened in years.

My mother’s childhood photos… the ones of her running barefoot in the yard, sitting with her siblings, blowing out candles, laughing with her parents — all of those images suddenly became priceless. Not because they were perfect, or posed, or technically flawless. But because they are *her*. Her life. Her story. Her beginning.

And now they are mine to hold.

Printed Photographs Are the Proof That We Lived, Loved, and Belonged

In a world where most memories live on phones or clouds, I am so grateful that my mother’s childhood existed in *prints*. Tangible, hold-in-your-hand, pass-them-around-the-kitchen-table prints.

When someone you love becomes a memory, those pieces of paper become your inheritance. They become the bridge between generations, the evidence of lineage, the comfort when words fail. They become the legacy you didn’t know you’d cling to.

As I sat surrounded by my mother’s photos — the slightly faded corners, the worn textures, the handwritten dates on the back — I realized something deeply true:

Our stories don’t survive unless we preserve them.

Heritage Isn’t Just About Where We Come From — It’s What We Choose to Carry Forward

My mother’s story lives in those photographs. Her smile. Her spirit. Her warmth.

It lives in the images she kept, the ones she cherished, the ones she carefully tucked into albums as if she knew one day we’d need them.

Those printed photos became a map of her life — and a reminder of mine. They also reminded me why I do what I do as a photographer. Photography isn’t just about capturing a moment. It’s about **protecting it**. Preserving the legacy of a family.

Making sure that one day — when someone searches for pieces of someone they miss — they’ll find something to hold onto.

• This is heritage.
• This is storytelling.
• This is love, made tangible.

Passing Down Our Story Matters More Than We Realize

In my own home, with my own family, and through my work at Texas Vogue Photography, I see the importance of printing your memories. Not next year. Not someday. *Now.*

• Digitals don’t get passed down.
• Hard drives fail.
• Phones break.
• Cloud passwords get lost.

But a printed portrait…

A framed image…

An album your children can flip through one day…

Those are irreplaceable. Those become heirlooms.

Those become the pieces of your life someone will cling to when they miss you the most.

I Am So Grateful for the Images I Have of My Mom

In losing her, I found a deeper understanding of legacy — of how we live on in the stories we leave behind. And more importantly, how those stories need to be **seen, held, touched, kept, and shared.

I am grateful for every portrait.

Every snapshot.

Every photo of her as a child… because those images remind me who she was long before I was born. They let me see her joy, her innocence, her beginnings.

And they remind me of mine.

This Is Why I Believe So Deeply in Printed Photographs

Not just because I’m a photographer — but because I’m a daughter, a mother, and now someone navigating life after loss.

• Print your memories.
• Fill your home with your story.
• Pass down your heritage intentionally.
• Give your children the gift of knowing where they come from.

One day, those photographs will mean more than you could ever imagine.