How Did I Get Here?

From NICU lullabies to drag-strip thunder, the unscripted privilege of telling your stories

This — a reflection captured of Vicki and Sheldon Eaton —is one of the first pictures I ever took working for Yellowstone Valley Woman Magazine. From a technical standpoint, it's not all that great and if I had to do it all over again, I’d definitely make some improvements. But this picture remains one of my all-time favorites because it was full of inspiration, and that inspiration didn’t come from me.

It was late summer 2013. I’d only been a professional photographer for about five years when a series of providential encounters connected me with YVW and led me to the Billings home of Sheldon and Vicki Eaton. They shared with us the story of their son, Ryan, who’d been diagnosed with Synovial Sarcoma at age of 25. He lost his battle with cancer about a year later. Ryan had used his skills as a graphic designer to start a T-shirt business with one of his brothers, and he spent his final days working to ensure that other cancer patients were comforted and connected though the proceeds of his shirt sales.

I had four young boys at home and I couldn't even fathom what it would be like to lose one of them, yet these grieving parents spoke with such grace and hope. They told us how Ryan’s legacy was living on through the work that he started and they were now continuing. The Eatons were genuine, and vulnerable. I, on the other hand, was secretly panicking.

How can I possibly capture this feeling? I thought, as I went through the motions of doing photographer things. I had a standard shot list to follow, but it felt inadequate, and I was at a loss to come up with a way to even partially convey the love and connection that emanated from their story. Then Vicki handed me a framed photo of her son, and the inspiration struck.

It was their inspiration, not mine, as it almost always is. The women (and men) who fill the pages of YVW come with a lifetime’s worth of inspiration through their stories of loss, pain, trauma, long-suffering, charity, devotion, achievement, creativity, tenacity, talent, resourcefulness and faith — sometimes all in the same story. I’ve met mothers, chefs, business leaders, ranchers, judges, law enforcement officers, musicians, dancers, bakers, architects, truck drivers, civil servants, doctors, nurses, artists, pastors, refugees, athletes, explorers, engineers, authors, aviators, first-responders, educators, caregivers, volunteers and more who all have that unique spark that makes them who they are, and it’s their inspiration that fuels mine.

Can I do them justice? Not even close. How I wish I could convey the delicious aromas that waft out of Stella Fong’s kitchen, or the sounds of children finding a way to express joy during therapy, or the relief felt after a medical breakthrough, or the kindness in the humanitarian work that I’ve witnessed. There is no way a 30-minute photo session could ever fully encapsulate what took years, decades or a lifetime to develop.

I’ll never forget being at St. Vincent Healthcare’s NICU with Brooke Wagner. Amid the hum of life-sustaining equipment and the incessant beeps and bops of health monitors, Brooke gently plucked at her acoustic guitar and softly sang a lullaby to a young mother holding her tiny infant who was born premature and in need of intensive care. The music was like a warm beam of sunshine cutting through dense, cold fog. As a musician myself, I was caught up in the melodic repose and found myself humming along. How did I get here? I mused, feeling fortunate as I remembered that I had a job to do.

It wasn’t much later that I found myself in the pits out at the Yellowstone Drag Strip, shooting once-in-a-lifetime portraits with Casey Tehle. Her 10-thousand-horsepower top drag racer was thunderously loud and the scene was in sharp contrast to the serenity of the NICU, but my question was still the same. How did I get here?

That question persists on almost every assignment — whether I’m covering a candle-light vigil for a missing high school student, creating portraits of the women who make up St. Vincent’s HELP Flight, witnessing a veteran celebrate a milestone anniversary of sobriety or even taking pictures of my own dear mother. I had the privilege of capturing photos to go along with her story of trauma, despair and ultimate redemption, and now when I tell someone, “Thank you so much for sharing your story with us,” I know what it costs, and I mean it wholeheartedly.

“I'm not very photogenic” they say almost universally, and I commonly hear, “I’m not sure I deserve to be in a magazine.” Sometimes we're in their living-room-turned-sewing-center, or a church basement, or literally working out of the back of their car. It's rarely glamorous, but doing the work of small things with great love deserves to have its moment in the spotlight. What they don't realize is the same spark that inspired them has the potential to ignite others in ways they had never dreamed of. And the more they’re inspired, the more I’m inspired.

Every issue is a battle. Every issue is an adventure. Every issue has a little fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants element to it. “Unscripted” as my dad would say. I’ll never know what I'll find for lighting, location, backdrop or subject matter, but I do know one thing: if I find inspiration, it's because it was already there.