Or, why a flower girl with a wicker basket changed everything.
I’ve always felt like I was born 10 years old. Anyone else? Too grown-up to be a kid, too young to be taken seriously. The oldest child in my parents' friend group, I was that little person who was always around—quietly watching, listening, absorbing.
I learned early how to read a room. I didn’t need to be the center of attention. I just wanted to understand people. And when my younger sister came along—who needed a lot more of that spotlight—I leaned further into my independence. I became the observer. The noticer.
Fast forward to September 28, 1996. I was a gangly almost-14-year-old: all limbs, zero curves, acne, awkward in a way that only a 90s kid could be. My dad handed me a camera, like he always did at family events. “Here, go take pictures.” It made me feel useful. Important. Invisible in the best way.
That day, we were at Auntie Shar Shar's wedding. Sharon was my second mom, my mentor, my cool big sister who taught me about life and music. Just before she walked down the aisle, her flower girll—her tiny blonde niece in a billowy white dress—tripped and spilled the entire basket of rose petals. A full wipeout.
For a second, Sharon’s face said it all: the kind of stress that wedding mornings love to serve up. But then, something shifted. She laughed. She dropped to her knees, smiled, and helped Lauren gather the petals, saying something like, “It’s okay, babe. Let’s just pick them up.”
And I took the photo.
It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t posed. It was real. And it was perfect. A moment where kindness won over chaos. Where love beat out perfectionism. That split second—that quiet, human choice—was what I caught on film.
Years later, I was visiting Sharon at my childhood home in Naples, Long Beach. We were talking about photography, about purpose, about what it would look like to take this dream seriously. She disappeared upstairs and came back down holding something framed.
It was that photo.
She said, “Out of all my wedding photos, this one is my favorite. Because this was the moment I remembered why I was getting married. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about love, grace, and staying grounded. And you caught that.”
Then she looked at me and said, “Michaela, you have a gift. You see things other people miss. You feel the room. You should be a wedding photographer.”
And that was it.
That was the moment I realized: This was my origin story. I’ve always told people I loved weddings because they were emotional, beautiful, and filled with meaning. But this—this was the seed. The real reason.
I’ve been an artist my whole life. I painted, cooked, styled, decorated, carved pumpkins way too elaborately, and made Easter eggs that probably belonged in a museum. But this photo? That was when I understood that storytelling could change how someone remembers a day.
Because wedding days fly by.
They're emotional and chaotic and full of pressure. But they’re also layered with tenderness, inside jokes, micro-moments of joy.
And if I can help one couple feel peaceful, seen, and rooted in the actual why behind it all—then I’ve done my job.
It’s not about how cool your wedding looks (though don’t worry, we’ll make it look amazing).
It’s about your love story.
Your origin.
And making sure you have the photos to remember not just what happened—but how it felt.
