One day, while waiting for a friend, I realized I wasn’t breathing. I was just learning how to live on my own after 25 years of marriage and helping my only child, a daughter named Zoe, fight cancer.  It felt like the air had been knocked out of me. I tipped my head back and took a full breath. Above me was a deep blue sky, with white clouds that felt close enough to touch. That moment stayed.

It became a way through—a pause when everything felt tight, a breath when my thoughts were moving too fast. Looking up didn’t solve anything, but it made space.

When Zoe’s cancer returned, I had new tools to help our family rid her of this disease. Zoe has been cancer free for 9 years as this book is being published.

I had always taken pictures. It started early—family cameras, school assignments, a darkroom, and a few small moments of recognition. Then life moved on, and the habit faded, yet it reappeared consistently when things got tough. I truly leaned into it 11 years ago and the hard lean continues to this day.

So I looked up. I began photographing the sky—nothing dramatic, just what was there. Light, clouds, change. Over time, the act of noticing became enough.

I spent twenty years building a career I thought would carry me forward. When I moved to San Francisco, I knew it might not last. What I didn’t expect was how much else would shift at the same time.