I think it's a love language

I see you right now and I see how much this moment matters.
I want you to have it forever.

This summer, we packed up the car and set out on a road trip up the St. Lawrence, through Quebec, and out to Gaspe. Ale and I had done a version of this trip pre-kids, and we always said we wanted to do it again and again. This time as we covered the same miles with our kids and our friends, we got to collect new memories — pit stops, lookouts, campfires, mountain summits, forest magic, and kids’ laughter across the campsites.

We were coming to the end of our trip when we decided to book a whale watching tour. I had never done one before, and to be truly honest, as we climbed onto that boat I focused my mind on not seeing any whales.

After all it was a dull grey day and the skies looked about ready to pour any second. But each of us hopeful patrons donned our banana suits and set out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence eyes peeled on the horizons. We saw seals and porpoises but then 30 mins in — it happened.

We heard that distinctive puff of breath and a whale broke the surface. And then another. These massive creatures were just swimming silently beside us enjoying the very same channel we were in, and we enjoyed them in turn.

For almost two hours we circled the waters, following the pod around. Seeing them rise up out of the water never got old. Kids and adults marvelled at the same thing, and I turned to my youngest son and said “Do you realize I am 40 years old and this is the first time I’ve seen a whale! You’re 5! You’re so lucky!”

Of course my camera didn’t stop firing the whole time. I knew it was an experience I just didn’t want anyone to forget. By the time we climbed back into the car, I was buzzing. I turned to Ale and said, “I actually love capturing people’s memories for them. It feels like such a gift.”

Because it is a gift. Some people gift their cooking—loving with soup or meat pies. Some with their words—loving by tucking poems into lunch boxes. Some with quiet acts of service no one ever sees. For me, it’s through capture.

When I click the shutter, it’s about gifting someone the memory. I get to freeze it for someone. It’s my way of saying: I see you right now and I see how much this moment matters. I want you to have it forever.

That day on the water reminded me again why I do what I do. Photography isn’t just a job, or even just an art—it’s a love language.