Written by: Maryjane Griffin
@maryjanegriffinphotography | maryjanegriffinphotography.com
The tension between capturing a moment and being present has never felt more fragile than in this season of motherhood. A season so full of firsts and lasts, I rarely know which is which. I want to remember everything, but also want the memories themselves to feel happy, easy, warm. Sometimes, I get it right: a photo full of emotion and detail that brings me right back. Other times, success means putting the camera down entirely.
Picture this: You’ve spent weeks coordinating outfits and checking weather reports. You arrive at the beach, hair brushed, bows tied, snacks packed. The wind is soft, the sand is cool, and the light is perfect. It’s time for family photos.
But the walk to the dunes has tired them out. The kids are getting silly, throwing sand. The more you try to direct them, the more they spin out, running, laughing, cartwheeling. You tried so hard to set this day up for success, but it’s just not working. You don’t like the tone you're starting to use, your disappointment is peeking through.
And in that moment, you have to ask: What am I really trying to capture?
There’s something especially tender and complicated about this dynamic when the photographer is also the mother. Because the camera is present so often, I think my kids have developed a kind of fatigue around it. More and more, I hear: “Mom, no pictures.” Or I see it in their body language, pulling away, shielding themselves from the camera. I’m learning to recognize the cues earlier now: the sighs, the playful resistance, the flat-out “no.” Their boundaries deserve as much attention as the light.
I ran into a photographer once who wrote her dissertation on what it’s like to grow up with a mother who’s a photographer. I asked her what it all came down to, what she learned after all that research. She didn’t hesitate: “You don’t need this picture.” She said it casually, as if she hadn’t just given me a sentence I’d return to for years. That phrase has truly stayed with me, a quiet permission slip. And she was right. I don’t need the photo. I don't need a memory of a moment that’s not working, for them, or for me. So where’s the middle ground?
I’ve come to think of documentary photography as a kind of compromise. A way to witness without steering. The camera becomes an accessory instead of the center of attention, still present, but not in charge. Still capturing memories, but in a subtle, candid way.
In that spirit, I’ve been reaching more often for my film cameras, which help me loosen my grip. The Holga is a favorite: twelve frames, no fuss, no screen. I can stay close to the moment without trying to manage it. There's still a sense of timing and composition, but film lends itself to such surprise and delight. It feels like a truer step back in time when you finally see what developed.
One of my favorite photos from recent years wasn’t planned at all. It’s a quiet morning in a bedroom, sunlight spilling in, a forgotten pile of pajamas nearby. My youngest is mid-motion, determinedly pulling on mismatched socks, and his sister sits nearby doing the same. Nothing is posed, everything is a mess, yet it captures something unfiltered and true, and I love it.
So when do we put the camera aside? Maybe just asking the question is enough. If you're wondering, “Is this a good experience for them? Is this a happy memory, not just a happy-looking photo?” then you're already doing the hard and beautiful work of staying present.
Leave space for not getting the shot.
Notice when your presence might serve them better than proof. And trust that when you do pick up the camera, it’s not to make something happen, but to witness what’s already unfolding.
Maryjane Griffin is a New England-based photographer using film and digital to capture everyday moments and relationships with an emotive, documentary approach.
