Hi, I’m Kayla.

:)

Central Florida Native / Aries / Queer / Neurodivergent / Part-Time Floral Designer / Cozy Video Game Enthusiast / Home Chef / Cat Mom / Just A Girl Who Really Loves Taking Photos

On wedding days, I’m usually just outside the center of things, paying attention.

I notice when the energy shifts in a room. I notice when someone needs a breath. I’ll step in when I’m needed. I’ll steady your veil, fix a boutonniere, take a deep breath with you before you walk down the aisle. And yes — I will absolutely be wiping tears behind my camera when it all hits.

In my own life, I’m the one who hosts. I stay at the table long after dinner ends. I make sure everyone feels comfortable before I relax.

That’s how I show up here, too.

I’ve had a camera in my hands for as long as I can remember.

As a kid, I ran around with my mom’s old Polaroids, documenting everything like it might disappear. Later, I found myself in dimly lit music venues photographing bands and learning how to move through chaos without missing what mattered.

There were no second chances in those rooms. You had to anticipate the moment before it arrived.

That instinct has stayed with me.

Weddings carry a similar current. They’re layered and emotional, shifting quickly from quiet to loud and back again. I’ve learned when to step forward with intention and when to let a moment unfold on its own.

I’m drawn to what’s real.

When you look back at your photos years from now, I don’t just want you to see a beautiful day.

I want you to remember how it felt.

That perspective didn’t come from nowhere.

My grandparents’ love shaped the way I see the world.

The way they cared for each other was soft, steady, and deeply devoted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t performative. It was in the small things. The way my grandfather would reach for her hand without looking. The way she made sure he always had what he needed before he asked.

They both passed within the last few years, and I miss them dearly.

Photographing love now feels like honoring that legacy. It feels like preserving the kind of tenderness that doesn’t always announce itself, but changes you forever. When I document a wedding day, I’m not just thinking about how it looks right now. I’m thinking about the photographs someone will hold decades from now. The ones that will outlive us. The ones that will say, this is how we loved.

That perspective stays with me every time I lift my camera.

Being photographed asks you to be seen. That takes trust.

If you’re looking for someone who will approach that with care, steadiness, and a deep respect for who you are, I would love to meet you.