Embracing Doubt, Faith, and the Present in Documentary Photography

A girl flicks out her hair while standing on one of her favorite spots near her home.

In 2017, I took a workshop called Finding Your Vision with Alex Webb and Rebecca Norris Webb. It changed how I photograph. It gave me language for something I’d already been chasing: truth in the unexpected.

Alex Webb is known for patiently waiting for “offbeat moments”—the unexpected, layered, emotionally charged fragments of everyday life. What stuck with me most wasn’t just his eye, but his patience. He’s said it’s normal for a long time to pass between “good” photos. That resonates with me. In life and in photography, rarity is what makes moments meaningful.

Parents carefully place their one-year-old in a warm towel after his bath.

Whether I’m photographing life from the street or in a family’s living room, I’m not chasing what I expect to see. I’m paying attention to what’s actually happening. I’m not just waiting for a moment that looks good—I’m waiting for one that carries an emotion, that sneaks up on you with its honesty.

Two sisters share a moment of levity while caring for their mother who suffers from vascular dementia.

Rebecca Norris Webb’s approach adds another layer—one rooted in introspection, memory, and a poetic way of seeing. During that workshop, she said two things that I’ve carried with me ever since. The first:

“As photographers, we’re trying to get in touch with the present.”

This is easier said than done. But I find the camera itself can be a meditative tool in a way. Just holding it reminds me to be present. After feeling the physical weight of the camera in my hands or on my shoulder for many years, I now associate this feeling with the act of being present and staying in the moment.

Father and son at the park across the street from their home.

The second thing Rebecca said was something I think about often, especially when I’m feeling uncertain or when I’m not sure where I’m going:

“Doubt is just the flip side of faith…You’re going to go back and forth. That tension is part of what fuels one’s work.”

A tired mother pauses for a moment and watches her son play.

The interplay between faith and doubt is a recurring experience for me. That tension—between waiting and acting, between observing and feeling, between knowing and not knowing—is right at the heart of documentary work. It’s what makes it so human.

A toddler goes down a slide a little faster than she expected.

During the workshop I remember Alex made the point that finding and photographing these moments is similar to mining for gold.

If gold were everywhere, we wouldn’t value it the same way. These unscripted moments matter because they’re hard to come by. And they’re powerful, not because they’re polished or “perfect,” but because they’re real. Sometimes even raw. The kind of photo that can move you, even when you don’t know the people in it.

A mother and daughter share a quiet embrace during the holidays.

This is why I structure my family sessions the way I do. A short session might be two hours, but more often I’m there for four or even eight. I am not constantly taking photos. There’s conversation. Listening. Observing. Photographing. More sharing. More listening. It’s a rhythm. And it’s why I love this job—being invited inside the lives of my fellow humans, seeing how they live, and sharing a real connection.

A family’s chickens wait for some food to drop during dinner in the backyard.

The longer I stay, the more I start to see the moments that aren’t trying to be anything. The stuff you’d miss if you were only there for the highlights. It’s about slowing down, listening, and letting things unfold naturally. And when it does come together in a photograph, it doesn’t feel like something I captured. It feels more like something I got out of the way for.

A boy makes a rainbow when “washing” his father’s car with the hose on a typical Sunday.

Whether I’m on the street or in someone’s home, I’m not chasing the expected version of a story. I’m just trying to pay attention. To stay present. To be ready when something surprising and honest happens.