There was a time in my life when photography felt like breathing. Not because I was making a fortune or curating a perfect social media feed, but because for the first time in a very long time, I felt truly present.
My business was called ELLE Photography, a name inspired by the final letters of my first name. Looking back, there is something poetic about that. "ELLE," it felt soft and artistic; it was the version of me I was slowly becoming. It was a version of me that existed outside of survival mode, and I loved her. I loved capturing abandoned churches, weathered buildings, and the profound stillness of nature. Every sunset felt like magic; every family session was a chance to freeze love in time. Whether it was weddings, newborns, or golden hour engagements, I was capturing the moments that would eventually become someone’s most treasured memories.
That’s the thing about photography: people may not always remember the photographer, but they remember how the photograph made them feel. For a while, photography made me feel alive! It allowed me to quiet the noise of a chaotic life, silence the overthinking, and finally put down the weight of everyone else’s expectations. Behind the lens, I wasn’t overwhelmed, anxious, or failing. I was creating, and honestly, that was incredibly healing.
The Cracks in the Foundation
But life has a way of testing us right in the middle of our becoming. Just as my business began to grow, my relationship was quietly falling apart. When cracks form in a relationship, they seem to have a way of spreading into every other corner of your world. I was living rural, raising two young children, and managing animals, chores, and a household mostly on my own while their father worked away. I was desperately trying to hold everything together while I was silently falling apart.
Then, suddenly, our home changed. What was once a quiet home of three became a revolving door of ten people. My partner's cousin moved in with her family of five, along with his brother, and the walls seemed to shrink overnight. Amidst the new crowd and the mounting noise, I took on a part-time job that eventually grew into the full-time career I have today. I was still coaching online when I could, trying to inspire others through Facebook posts and awkward YouTube videos, and desperately trying to run ELLE Photography on top of it all. I was building a dream in a house that no longer felt like my own.
The Weight of the Carry
Here’s what people don’t always talk about regarding mindset and self-esteem: You can love something deeply and still not have the capacity to carry it anymore. I started bringing my children to photo shoots because I had no other choice. They were wonderful little boys, but try photographing a group of twenty people while mothering a tired toddler and worrying if your other child is okay. It was chaos! Slowly, I noticed the bookings became less frequent. Not because I lacked talent or care, but because I was drowning.
When my relationship finally ended, I remember clinging to one thought: "At least I still have photography." It was the one piece of my identity I thought was safe. But survival has a cruel way of changing the locks. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I couldn't take my desktop with me, which meant my professional editing programs, the tools of my trade, stayed behind on the farm. Suddenly, the thing that brought me joy became a source of immense stress. I was forced to edit my final professional sessions on my mum’s agonizingly slow computer and even partially from my iPhone.
I still remember one particular family session from that time. Whenever those photos pop up in my memories, I feel a lump in my throat. I silently thank that family for taking a chance on me; they had no way of knowing they were trusting a photographer who was barely holding on to the edge of her own world.
The Price of Peace
Christmas was approaching fast, and I was terrified. It wasn't that my children expected extravagance; I just wanted them to still feel the magic of the season, stockings, snacks, a warm meal, and small joys. After everything they had been through, they deserved to feel celebrated. So, I started selling pieces of my life. First went the elliptical. Then the garden arch I once dreamed would frame a farm wedding. Soon after, my Reiki table and all the essentials were sold off. One by one, the tools I used to heal others and build my own future were being traded to provide for my present.
Finally, I reached the hardest part: my photography equipment. I sold the entire bundle, the camera, the backdrops, the lights, my whole setup. I remember meeting the young woman in an RCMP parking lot for the sale. She was a photography student, practically glowing with the excitement of buying her first professional gear. I managed to hold it together in front of her, but inside, I felt like I was handing away a piece of my soul. By a small twist of fate, I accidentally forgot to include one single lens cap in the bundle. I told her if I ever found it, I’d let her know. But as time went on, that small piece of plastic became my keepsake. I kept it long after the camera was gone as a quiet reminder of the impossible strength I had to find that day.
Looking back now, I see that the money I received from selling off those pieces of my life did far more than fill a few stockings. It got us through Christmas, yes, but it also carried us through the cold uncertainty of January and all the way into tax season, which was a huge blessing at the time. It’s easy to look at a camera or a Reiki table as "tools of a dream," but in that season, they became something so much more important. That money didn't just buy "things." It bought us our survival. It bought us time. It bought us a roof and a warm meal and the ability to breathe through the winter.
What Remains
Looking back now, I see that the money I received from selling off those pieces of my life did far more than fill a few stockings. It got us through Christmas, yes, but it also carried us through the cold uncertainty of January and all the way to tax season. It’s easy to look at a camera as a tool for a dream, but in that season, it became something much more important. That money didn't just buy "things." It bought us our survival. Sometimes, the most "successful" thing a business can do is save its owner, and that is exactly what ELLE Photography did for me.
For a long time, I thought losing photography meant I had lost another piece of myself. But now, I see it differently. Photography taught me that life isn't about the things we own. It wasn't the camera, the lights, or the editing software that mattered most, though I worked incredibly hard for them. What photography actually gave me was presence! It reminded me how to notice beauty in fleeting moments, how to pause long enough to see magic in ordinary things, and how to tell stories without words, and how to connect, and feel passion again. And the beautiful thing is that no one can take any of that from me. Not heartbreak. Not financial struggles. Not loss. Not even survival mode. Because the art was never truly living inside the camera. The art was always living inside of me.
Cheers,
Coach Jo <3
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