I traded the red dirt of Oklahoma for the limestone bluffs of the Kansas City Northland, a move that felt less like a relocation and more like a tactical shift in scenery. Leaving home is never easy; it’s a heavy lift, a messy transition of lives and luggage. But my family and I have found our rhythm here, settling into the strange, beautiful groove of a new zip code. At the center of it all is a three-year-old - a tiny, chaotic force of nature who keeps me honest and perpetually on my toes. Parenthood is the ultimate crash course in the ephemeral; it’s a constant, jarring reminder that time is a thief, and if you aren’t paying attention, the best parts of the story slip right through your fingers.

 

That’s what brings me to KC Kids... In this business, school photos are often treated like a factory line - a mechanical box-ticking exercise in stiff collars and forced smiles. I’m not interested in that. I believe a portrait should be a record of a soul in progress, a snapshot of a personality that’s still under construction. I approach every kid with a warmth that says: "I’m on your side." I want to dismantle the nerves and the "cheese" and find the authentic spark hidden underneath. My mission is to give parents something real - not just a tradition, but a genuine piece of their child’s history they can hold onto long after the backpacks are retired.

 

When I’m not behind the school lens, I’m usually disappearing into the brush. My husband and I are into the vertical world - hiking trails and scaling limestone faces, hunting for Paw Paws like we’re searching for buried treasure. I’ve always found a strange comfort in the physical grind of a climb. It’s very much like a good book or a journey through Middle-earth; it’s about the quest, the struggle and the payoff. Whether I’m navigating the woods or revisiting the epic lore of The Lord of the Rings, I’m drawn to the idea of the "unexpected journey." In my off-time, I bring that same sense of narrative to family portraits, helping people document their own wandering paths through life.

 

The work doesn't stop when the light dies. In fact, that’s when it gets interesting. There’s a specific kind of zen to be found in the pitch black, driving out to some forgotten dark patch of earth just to watch the sky. Astrophotography is a slow game. It’s about setting the aperture, opening the shutter, and waiting - letting the ancient light of the cosmos bleed into the sensor. It’s a pursuit that demands a certain kind of stubborn patience and the ability to pivot when the clouds decide to ruin your plans. There is something deeply rewarding about finding stillness in the dark, capturing the essence of a universe that’s far bigger than our small, frantic lives.

 

At the end of the day, whether I’m coaxing a smile out of a shy preschooler or waiting for the Milky Way to align over a ridge, it’s all the same thing: storytelling. It’s about being present. It’s about looking at the world from the micro-expressions of a toddler to the macro-vastness of the stars and saying, "This happened. It was beautiful. And I was there to see it." I’m just trying to capture the truth, one frame at a time.

 

Xoxo, Mackenzie