I didn’t arrive at photography in a straight line. I came from the fashion industry, working behind the scenes, drawn to process, to the hands and decisions that shape what we eventually see. I was never interested in the final image alone, but in what it carries. The real work happening in the backstage. The details nobody cares to photograph.

That eye didn't change when my subject did.

Motherhood shifted everything.

I became a mother in Tokyo, during the pandemic, navigating pregnancy and birth without language, without family, and often without a hand to hold. It was isolating, overwhelming, and the most transformative thing that has ever happened to me.

In that space, I began photographing myself, not just to document how it looked, but to understand what it felt like.

A body holding two hearts.
Skin stretching into a new shape.
A reminder to love myself, even in chaos.
A love I didn’t know existed yet.

What began as a personal obsession became my language.

My work does not focus on idealized motherhood. 

I am drawn to what lives underneath: the physical weight, the quiet tenderness, the exhaustion, the instinct, the constant becoming. 

Late nights blending into early mornings.
The invisible hours of nourishing a new life.
Patient days guiding a small person through eating, sleeping, and walking. Again and again.

The moments often unseen, yet deeply lived.
Simple joy in growing together.
An appreciation for small things.

I don’t try to separate motherhood and creativity.
Mothering is the work. Mothering is art.

Every story is valid and worth acknowledging. I hold space for the many ways motherhood exists, for those in it, those who long for it, those who choose otherwise, and those carrying absence, distance, or complexity within it.

My photographs are quiet conversations—between mother and child, past and present, who we were and who we are becoming.

A way of saying :
I see you. You are here. That is enough.