Back in August. Fuck. It still doesn’t feel real.
You ever have one of those moments where the world hands you something so completely absurd that you just laugh because you can’t make sense of it? That was me. Sitting in my inbox was an email from fucking Rangefinder. RANGEFINDER. Inviting us—us—to be part of their 30 Rising Stars of Wedding Photography.
Cue every self-doubt demon I’ve ever had throwing a goddamn rave in my head. Like, who are we to be on that list? Do they know I once forgot to shoot an entire cake cutting because I was busy snapping a grandma who looked like she might go full disco on the dance floor? (No regrets, by the way. That grandma was fire.)
Fuck Picking Favorites
They wanted 30 photos. Just 30. Out of years of work. Do you know how hard it is to slice your soul into 30 pieces? Fuck me. Jessy smartly avoided my spiral while I sat there surrounded by discarded prints, half-empty coffee cups, and the kind of existential dread only photographers know.
I was this close to rage-quitting the whole thing. But then Yannick, Martina, and Fer swooped in like goddamn superheroes. “These,” they said. “These are your shots. Send them.” So I did. At 11:57 PM. Three minutes before the deadline. Classic.
The Wait (and the Panic)
And then? Nothing. Weeks of nothing. Life went on—weddings, edits, the usual shitshow—but in the back of my mind, it was there. That tiny, annoying voice saying, What if you actually fucking did it?
Fast forward to the day the results came in. Jessy was at home. I was in Barcelona, up to my eyeballs in a cycling race. My phone buzzed. The email landed.
“Do I open it?” I muttered to no one. Because of course, I was alone, surrounded by Lycra-clad strangers who couldn’t give two shits about my impending breakdown.
I opened it.
And there it was: WE FUCKING MADE IT.
I called Jessy. She didn’t answer. Figures. So I sent her a voice note where I probably sounded like a drunk lunatic who’d just won the lottery. (I didn’t. But it felt like it.)
Here’s the Kicker
We weren’t allowed to tell anyone. For months. MONTHS. Do you know how hard it is to keep your mouth shut about something like this? I’ve lied to everyone. Friends. Family. Probably a barista. I’m not proud. But now? Now I can finally scream it:
WE FUCKING DID IT.
This Isn’t Just Ours
But this win? It’s not just ours. It’s every couple who let us crash their chaos, who trusted us with their love stories and their messes. You’re the reason we keep doing this—why we drag our asses home at 3 AM covered in confetti, sweat, and sometimes questionable food stains. This is for you.
To the friends who’ve watched me unravel on shoot days and the family who’s dealt with my “wedding brain” at dinner tables—thank you for not disowning me.
And to Rangefinder, for seeing something in us we still can’t believe is there—thank you. Truly.
The Credits Roll
There are 29 other photographers who made this year’s list, and they’re all fucking brilliant. Special shoutout to Danilo, Sharon, and Naomi—you’re the kind of talent that makes us better.
Here’s the official article and gallery of winners. Go check it out if you feel like crying over beautiful shit.
And me? I’m still pinching myself. This one’s for the hearts still beating. Fuck, I love this.
