
October 13, 2026
Last week, I wrote about how important it is for Mom to actually be in the photographs.
Not always behind the camera.
Not always the one documenting everyone else.
Actually in them.
And this week, I want to take that thought a little further.
Because Mom isn’t the only person we sometimes accidentally leave out.
Grandparents need to be in the photographs, too.
Not someday.
Not when everyone loses weight.
Not when we finally coordinate all the outfits.
Not when everything feels a little less chaotic.
Now.
While they’re here.

I think this is one of the easiest things to believe when it comes to family.
There will be another Christmas.
Another Thanksgiving.
Another birthday.
Another Sunday dinner.
Another time when everybody happens to be together.
So when someone says, “We should take a picture,” somebody inevitably answers:
“Next time.”
And most of the time, there probably is a next time.
Until there isn’t.
That’s the part none of us like thinking about.
And I don’t say that to make anyone sad.
I say it because the older I get, the more I understand that photographs become important in ways we cannot predict when we take them.
The picture that feels ordinary today may someday become the one you keep going back to.
Because Grandma is in it.
Because Grandpa is in it.
Because everybody is together.




There are pictures you look at one way when everyone is still here.
And then one day, you look at them differently.
Suddenly, you notice things you never noticed before.
The way someone smiled.
The way they stood.
The watch they always wore.
The chair they always sat in.
The way Grandma held the baby.
The way Grandpa looked at the kids when they were being ridiculous.
Little details that felt completely normal at the time.
And now?
They mean everything.
That’s what photographs do.
They hold onto the things our memories eventually start to soften.
They give us something to come back to.
Something we can show our children.
Something that says:
They were here.
Sometimes we think family photographs are for us.
But so many of them eventually belong to our children.
Your child may not remember being held by Grandma when they were two.
They may not remember how Grandpa used to make them laugh.
They may not remember the sound of someone’s voice, the way they walked into a room, or exactly how loved they were by the people who came before them.
But they can have the photograph.
They can see themselves in their arms.
They can see the way they were looked at.
They can see that they were part of something bigger.
That’s what extended family photographs give us.
Not just more people in the frame.
Context.
History.
Belonging.

Maybe it’s because the holidays are so wrapped up in tradition.
The recipes that have been made forever.
The dishes that only come out once a year.
The house everyone knows.
The stories that get told again and again.
The same people sitting in the same places.
We build these little rituals and somehow assume they’ll always look this way.
But families change.
Children grow.
People move.
New people join the table.
And eventually, some chairs become empty.
That’s why I think the holidays are such an important reminder to photograph what feels normal now.
The crowded kitchen.
Grandpa carving dinner.
Grandma helping a little one with their plate.
The family piled onto the couch.
The photograph where half the people are looking and the other half are still talking.
Take it.
This is probably where I sound like a photographer, but I mean it.
Please stop waiting for everyone to look perfect.
Grandma may say she doesn’t like how she looks.
Grandpa may complain that he hates pictures.
Someone is going to blink.
A child may not cooperate.
Take it anyway.
Because someday, the things you are worried about right now are not going to be the things that matter.
Nobody is going to care that Grandma didn’t love her arms.
Nobody is going to care that Grandpa’s shirt wasn’t exactly what you would have chosen.
Nobody is going to care that the toddler looked away.
They are going to care that everyone was there.

Of course I want the big photograph.
The one with everybody together.
The one that shows generations in one frame.
That image matters.
But it’s not the only one I’m watching for during an extended family photography session.
I want Grandma with her grandchildren.
Grandpa holding the baby.
Adult children with their parents.
Siblings who haven’t had a photograph together in years.
The little in-between groups that show how everyone is connected.
Because every relationship inside that big family is its own story.
That’s where the emotion really lives.


That’s the hard part.
You don’t know.
You don’t know which photograph will become the one somebody keeps on their nightstand.
The one that gets framed after someone is gone.
The one your child asks about years later.
The one that becomes somebody’s favorite because it’s the only photograph they have of everyone together.
We don’t get to know that ahead of time.
So we take the picture.
We show up.
We make the time.
We stop assuming there will always be another chance.
Legacy sounds like such a big word.
Like something formal.
Something we leave behind intentionally.
But I think most legacy is actually very ordinary.
It’s Grandma’s kitchen.
Grandpa’s laugh.
The stories everyone knows by heart.
The person who always hosts.
The person who always shows up.
The hands that held generations of babies.
The people who built a family one ordinary day at a time.
That’s what I want photographs to hold onto.
Not perfection.
People.
If you have parents or grandparents who are still here, photograph them.
Get in the picture with them.
Put your children beside them.
Ask someone else to hold the camera.
Book the extended family session.
Do whatever you need to do.
Just stop saying:
“Next time.”
Because one day, the photograph you almost didn’t take may become the photograph you treasure most.
And I hope you have it.
I hope your children have it.
I hope years from now, someone can hold that photograph in their hands and say:
Look. There we all were.
Together.


You simply need the people you love.
Through The Art of Your Story™ and a Beautifully Guided™ experience, I’ll help you create photographs that feel like your family—not a perfectly posed version of it.
You show up and love your people.
I’ll take care of the rest.
Because someday, these photographs won’t just show your children what everyone looked like. They’ll show them where they came from.
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