I don’t think this started as a big realization.

It was more like catching myself standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, forgetting what I’d walked in there to do. Or opening an app out of habit instead of intention.

I see it in the way people talk about their phones — like something they’re tired of carrying but don’t know how to put down.

I see it in the way envelopes get saved, creased, addressed by hand, and lovingly walked to the mailbox. 

I see it in the way hands reach for film cameras, notebooks, puzzles, bread dough — anything that pushes back even just a little.

I see it in the way people linger longer over things that can’t be sped up or saved or shared.

Lately, I find myself craving the analog 

Things that require my hands.
Things that slow me down.
Things that ask me to be here instead of everywhere else at once.

Paper. Texture. Weight. The sound of something being set down instead of tapped. The feeling of making something imperfect and real, instead of endlessly editable.

I don’t think it’s nostalgia. I think it’s a nervous system thing. A collective exhale.

And maybe that’s why “analog” keeps calling to me.

Not because it’s trendy.
But because it feels like coming back to myself.

A few things on my mind [and in my notebook] for 2026:

I’m sharing these not as resolutions, and definitely not as rules — more like intentions I’m holding loosely as the year begins.

Little ways I’m trying to live closer to the things that feel grounding and true right now. If any of them sound familiar, or make something in you soften or spark, I think that’s worth paying attention to.

Going as analog as possible

If I can do it on paper, I want to at least try. Daily and weekly calendars I can flip through. Client and course notes I can highlight and dog-ear. Cookbooks open on the counter instead of recipes I have to keep waking my phone up to read. A handwritten letter instead of an “I miss you” text. Maybe even a real address book — the kind where names live in one place and don’t disappear into the mess of documents on my computer.

This one isn’t about rejecting technology. It’s about letting things take a little longer. Letting them feel a little heavier. Letting my hands remember things my brain is tired of holding.

All-film family sessions

There’s something about film that refuses to rush. You wait. You watch. You wait again. You trust what’s unfolding instead of trying to control it. The result isn’t perfect — it’s honest. Fewer frames, more intention. Less performance, more presence.

These sessions are for families who want to slow way down and let the story breathe. The kind of images that feel like memories instead of manmade moments.

[The ~vision~ is still in the works and will likely take place mid-to-late summer. Interested? Let me know here!]

Sew one piece of clothing

I’m thinking a dress. I want to make something that doesn’t exist yet — with my hands, from start to finish. Something imperfect and wearable and real. Something that reminds me how much patience lives inside learning something new, and how good it feels to move slowly without an end result guaranteed.

No productivity points. No timeline. Just curiosity, fabric, and the willingness to be bad at something for a while.

Take one B&W film photo per day

One frame a day. No pressure to make it good.

Black and white feels honest to me — it asks me to pay attention to light, shape, texture, and emotion. To the way life looks when you strip it down to what matters. This isn’t about building a body of work. It’s about continuing to train my eye to see beauty in the in-between, the ordinary, the things I’d otherwise walk right past.

Buy as local, secondhand, and small-biz as possible

This year, I want to put my money where my values are. Choosing the farmers at the market over the grocery chain. Digging through well-made-and-loved clothes instead of hitting TJ Maxx. Ordering from the small business instead of turning to the convenience of Amazon.

I want to notice the story behind what I bring into my home and what I put on my body, slowing down long enough to connect with it, and keeping those little circles of care alive — the ones that feel like community instead of convenience.

 If this kind of slowing down is calling to you, too — especially in the way you want your family documented — I’d love to talk.

Here’s to a year of making things with our hands, paying closer attention, and choosing what feels like home.

[This note was written while watching my toddler knock over his Lincoln Log tower for the millionth time & hitting “add to cart” on my new address book (from Etsy, of course).]

If you’d like these notes to land in your inbox instead of finding them later on the internet somewhere between your 14 open tabs, you can sign up for Sincerely, A. It’s where I share the quieter stuff — motherhood, memory, photography, things I’m noticing, things I don’t want to forget — sent every so often, like a letter from a friend. [psssst… it is also where I share session openings, product drops, and other tidbits that are worth being the first to get your hands on.]