I was twelve when I started pointing a camera at other people’s love stories. Weekends blurred into white dresses and bad DJ playlists, fathers crying into microphones that barely worked. By the time I walked into film school, I had already filmed more than 150 weddings, an adolescence paved in aisle walks and plastic champagne flutes.

​

I loved the camera, but I loved the hustle too. Rebranding my little business every year felt like fuel, fresh cards, glossy brochures, websites built at midnight. It was not just about filming moments, it was about selling the myth of them, making something small look bigger than it was.

​

Then came the graveyard hours. Murder-mystery sets at four in the morning, fake blood under my nails, caffeine holding me upright. Indie features that chewed through days at a time. Documentaries that left my boots frozen in the snow. My name buried in call sheets, but I was there, alive inside the madness, certain the work was worth it.

​

And then 2020. The world shut down, the lights went black. But even in the silence, something held. The stories were still there, waiting for a new way to be told.