I Wonder if We Are Lonely is a collection of 4x5 black and white large format photographs. This series explores the layered dynamics between three generations of women — myself, my mom, and my MeMe.

I am often away from them. When I am gone, I often wonder what my mom is doing. Is she outside? What is she thinking about? I think about her constantly, wondering how she might feel about the choices I make. Her feelings consume me. She’s retired now so I assume she’s home alone. I imagine her watching a movie, maybe looking at old pictures of us. We are both so nostalgic.

I get my love of photographs from her. She takes pictures of me every time I go home, right before I walk out the door, just after I’ve said goodbye. She’s always taken pictures of me. Thousands of her photographs throughout the years created tangible memories for me. I can see every version of myself through my childhood albums: gapped teeth, boy shorts, awkward phases, and different friend groups. 

But now, it feels different. I sense that she is taking the photos not just to remember who I am, but because she doesn’t know when I’ll be home again. There’s an ache behind this familiar gesture—like each photo is a way of her holding onto me just a little longer. 

My MeMe’s townhouse is exactly one hour from where I live now. I’ve been gone for almost four years. I went home every weekend for this project, which is something I hadn’t done since I moved away. Home feels familiar, but it’s different now. It’s quieter. We have had loss.

My mom and Meme have experienced real loss. We don't always talk about it, but it shows in the way they hold onto things. I think their love language is memory—how they remember, how they tell stories, and how they hold onto things. 

There is something about this townhouse that holds all of our past versions of each other. The way MeMe moves through the kitchen offering us what little she has. The way my mom lingers at the door waiting for a hug. The camera helps me capture what we can’t say out loud: the distance, the tenderness, and the pain of time passing.

I learned that my mom takes photos of me not just to remember, but to hold on—just a little longer. This is me holding onto them for a little longer before going away again. 



That space—between presence and absence, between longing and letting go—is where this work lives. And maybe it’s where I live too.