you can call me shannon

I learned to pay attention because life didn’t give me another choice. Loving people, losing people, moving through places that never stayed mine for long — I realized early that everything can change faster than you’re ready for. Noticing became my way of holding on. Of remembering. Of not letting the good slip through my fingers before I even understood it was happening.

I started documenting life because I was terrified of forgetting it — the expressions, the warmth, the breath between words. Photography wasn’t some childhood dream; it was survival. It helped me make sense of the mess, the tenderness, the weight of memory and time. And over the years, I learned something that changed everything: it’s not the big moments that take us out—it’s the quiet ones that bring us home. The things most people miss. The things I can’t help but see.

I’m not a loud presence in a room. I don’t need to be. I watch closely. I move with intention. I guide when the moment calls for it and stay out of the way when it doesn’t. I’ll fix the angle, the light, the frame — but I don’t fix you. I don’t want a performance. I want the truth. The shoulder dropping. The breath easing. The second you stop trying to look right and start actually being there.

Because the honest moments — the imperfect ones, the unpolished ones, the ones where something real breaks through — those are the ones that stay. I don’t care about creating a highlight reel of your life. I care about witnessing you the way you actually are, not the way you think you’re supposed to appear. The fullness. The flaws. The love that isn’t filtered or posed or held at arm’s length.

My aim is simple: to make photographs that live — images shaped by intention, light, and care, and charged with the pulse of the people in them. They are technically strong, thoughtfully composed, and full of life. They carry the weight, warmth, and fierceness of the connections that matter most. This is the work I believe in — the kind that keeps you holding on, remembering, feeling, and loving as fiercely as you do in real life.

pocono mountain and lehigh valley photographer

Pocono mountains and lehigh valley photographer

YOu can call me Shannon

I learned to pay attention because life didn’t give me another choice. Loving people, losing people, moving through places that never stayed mine for long — I realized early that everything can change faster than you’re ready for. Noticing became my way of holding on. Of remembering. Of not letting the good slip through my fingers before I even understood it was happening.

I started documenting life because I was terrified of forgetting it — the expressions, the warmth, the breath between words. Photography wasn’t some childhood dream; it was survival. It helped me make sense of the mess, the tenderness, the weight of memory and time. And over the years, I learned something that changed everything: it’s not the big moments that take us out—it’s the quiet ones that bring us home. The things most people miss. The things I can’t help but see.

I’m not a loud presence in a room. I don’t need to be. I watch closely. I move with intention. I guide when the moment calls for it and stay out of the way when it doesn’t. I’ll fix the angle, the light, the frame — but I don’t fix you. I don’t want a performance. I want the truth. The shoulder dropping. The breath easing. The second you stop trying to look right and start actually being there.
Because the honest moments — the imperfect ones, the unpolished ones, the ones where something real breaks through — those are the ones that stay. I don’t care about creating a highlight reel of your life. I care about witnessing you the way you actually are, not the way you think you’re supposed to appear. The fullness. The flaws. The love that isn’t filtered or posed or held at arm’s length.

My aim is simple: to make photographs that live — images shaped by intention, light, and care, and charged with the pulse of the people in them. They are technically strong, thoughtfully composed, and full of life. They carry the weight, warmth, and fierceness of the connections that matter most. This is the work I believe in — the kind that keeps you holding on, remembering, feeling, and loving as fiercely as you do in real life.