A Labubu and the Moments we Try to Erase

In my career as a wedding photographer, I spend my life surrounded by symbols. The rings, the lace, the handwritten vows that anchor two people to their promises. I am a professional observer of the things we hold dear. The physical anchors for our most abstract, intangible feelings.

But recently, I found myself grappling with a different kind of symbol.

I was going through the end of a relationship and I tried taking away a memory. In my possession: a Labubu. Something that once represented the fun, witty, and uncomplicated parts of something that over time became too real. In the heat of it, I did what so many of us do. I tried editing the past. I took the token. I wanted to crop the image, delete the files, pretend the frame had never existed.

But as a photographer, I know something about the nature of reality: you cannot edit a moment after it has already happened.

A day later, a quiet guilt settled over me. My entire philosophy as a documentarian of love is built on the sanctity of memory: the belief that even if a story changes, the moments within it were real. They deserve dignity, not destruction. And by taking that token, I was violating my own values. I was angry at myself. Mostly sad. And I had no right to strip away the memory he chose to keep. I was trying to rewrite history to outrun the discomfort of the present.

So, I returned it.

Anonymously left it at his door. Not because I wanted the relationship back. But because I realized the sanctity of memory isn’t about hoarding what we love or destroying what hurts us. It’s about letting the past exist. Exactly as it was. When we destroy the tokens of our history, we aren’t just wounding the other person. We’re telling ourselves that those moments weren’t worth keeping. And that is a lie.

To my future couples: your wedding day will become a collection of moments you’ll carry long after the flowers fade. There will be beautiful seasons, and there may be harder ones. There will be times when the symbols of your love feel like they weigh a ton. Don’t be afraid to keep your memories, even the ones that ache; Especially the ones that ache. Allow your story to have chapters that close. Allow your tokens to hold their weight.

The most beautiful part of any photograph isn’t the edit.

It’s the reality of what was captured, exactly as it happened.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ That little Labubu carried it all. The laughter, the conversations, the depth, and somewhere in-between, the serenity of what it felt. That’s what a good photograph does. It doesn’t choose what to keep. It just keeps. And that to me is what makes photography so incredible.