Two Minutes After Birth, In A Hospital Room

I wasn't there for the labour itself. I arrived just after — timed for those first minutes, when a baby is only a few minutes old and everything in the room is still new.

A hospital room isn't somewhere you'd expect to feel much warmth. Fluorescent light, monitors, the particular quiet of a ward. And yet, in that room, none of that mattered. What I was photographing was the first feed. The first minutes of three people together as a family, instead of two. A father crying in a way I don't think he expected to, and I know I'll never forget. Doctors and midwives who were smiling too, quietly, at the edge of the frame, because even after however many births they've been part of, this one still moved them.

That's the thing about hospital birth photography that surprises people. It isn't about documenting a clinical event. It's about being present for something that happens to be happening in a clinical place — and finding that the feeling in the room has nothing clinical about it at all.

I've photographed this after a caesarean, too. The room, the procedure, the recovery — all of it very different from what people picture when they imagine a "birth photo." But the moment itself, the first time a baby is placed against their parent's skin, is exactly the same kind of unforgettable, whichever way that baby arrived.

I don't try to make a hospital room look like something it isn't. I don't bring props, or ask anyone to perform for the camera. I photograph what's actually there — the IV line still taped to an arm, the hospital blanket, the exhausted, radiant faces — because that's the true version of the story, and it's the version people want to remember, once enough time has passed that the exhaustion fades and only the joy is left.

If you're due to give birth in hospital, whether that's a planned caesarean, an induction, or simply where you feel safest, I'd love to be there for those first minutes too. You can find out more about how I approach birth photography here →

my approach to birth photography →

I've written more about caesarean birth specifically here →

Years Later, I Often Can't Tell If It Was My Studio Or Your Living Room

People often assume that a studio is what makes a photograph look professional — the backdrop, the lighting rig, the controlled space. And I understand why. But after eighteen years of bringing a full studio setup into other people's homes, I can tell you something that still surprises most parents: the room matters far less than you'd think.

It starts before I even arrive. I ask what the walls look like, how big the windows are, what everyone's planning to wear. Sometimes, just from those answers, I already have a rough picture in my head of how the session will look. Either way, the car gets loaded the same way every time — backdrops, lighting, flashes, mounts, and everything else that makes up a proper studio setup, all of it coming with me regardless of what I hear about the space.

Once I arrive, the first thing I do is ask the parents which room they'd imagine photographing in. If there's no strong preference, I walk the whole house, reading the light in each room, looking for the spot that will work best and feel most comfortable for everyone. It's a bit like reading a space the way you'd read a person — where the light falls softly, where it's harsh, where a family will actually want to sit and be together for an hour.

And here's the part that still surprises people, however unlikely it sounds: the quality of light in an ordinary living room is very often just as good as anything in a studio. A big window facing the right direction can do more work than any softbox. Walls become the backdrop for family portraits — no need to bring one, no need to fake it.

That's really the heart of it. Years later, looking back at a gallery, I often can't tell you with certainty whether a session happened in my studio or in someone's actual home. There's no difference in the final images. None at all.

If you've been picturing a studio as the only way to get properly lit, properly composed photographs of your newborn or your family, I'd love to show you otherwise — in the comfort of the space you already know and love.

You can see how my in-home sessions work here →
my in-home newborn sessions →

Here's Our Baby At Six Months. Here's Him At One. Look How Much He Changed.

Children change so quickly.

In the middle of everything else — the feeding schedules, the sleepless nights, the sheer busyness of raising a small person — we don't really notice it happening. Their face shifts, week by week, in ways too gradual to catch in the moment. And then one day you look at a six-month photo and you almost don't recognise the baby you're holding now.

This is what a milestone session does, really. It stops time on purpose.

Here's our baby at six months. Here's him at one — look how much he's changed. Here he is at eighteen months, right after his first haircut. Without a photograph, all of that softens into a kind of blur. You remember that he changed, but not quite how, not quite when. The photograph holds what memory alone can't.

I think of it almost like a diary for a child — one you could genuinely tuck these images into, alongside the notes about first words and first steps. Years from now, you won't just remember that your baby grew. You'll be able to see it, stage by stage, and feel something close to disbelief at how fast it went.

I know it's tempting to think a phone camera does the job well enough. And in a sense, it can — for the everyday moments, the quick smile across the kitchen. There are even clever tools now that can dress up a phone photo into something that looks polished. But none of that replaces what a proper session gives you: real studio-quality light, the patience to actually get everyone looking the same direction at the same time, and — for cake smash sessions especially — a genuinely joyful, engineered moment that doesn't happen by accident.

Because that's the other thing about ordinary life with small children: it doesn't hand you many truly special moments on its own. Most days are just days. A cake smash session is one of the rare times you get to manufacture pure, uncomplicated delight — icing everywhere, a baby completely unbothered by mess, a room full of adults laughing — and have it properly documented, not just half-caught on someone's phone mid-chaos.

That's really what a milestone session is for. Not just a nice photo. A way of making sure that when you look back — and you will look back, more than you can imagine right now — there's something real there to see.

If this is the year you start marking the stages — six months, one year, eighteen months, or just a cake smash to celebrate the first birthday — I'd love to help you hold onto it properly. You can see how my milestone sessions work here →

my milestone and cake smash sessions →

Get In The Photo. Your Children Don't Care How You Look.

I have almost no photographs of myself with my own children.

It's a strange thing to admit, for someone whose whole life is photography. I have thousands of images of other people's families — but when I go looking for pictures of me with mine, there's almost nothing. I was always the one behind the camera. Always the one saying "one more" to everyone else, never stepping in front to be part of it myself.

My children have told me this makes them sad. And they're right to feel that way. One day, a photograph of me — however I looked that day, whatever I was wearing, whether my hair was done — will be the only version of me they have left to hold onto.

I understand this from the other direction too. My own grandmother, and her mother before her, died before I had the chance to know them properly. What I have of them is a handful of old photographs my parents kept — creased, faded, some barely in focus. I am endlessly grateful those photographs exist at all. They're not just images. They're the only proof I have that these women were real, that I come from somewhere, that a whole life happened before mine did.

This is why, on almost every family session I photograph, I try to talk someone into the frame who doesn't want to be there.

It's nearly always a woman. A mother, a grandmother. "Not today," she'll say. "I look tired." "I haven't done my hair." "Just get the kids — I'll be in the next one." I understand this instinct completely — I've felt it myself, plenty of times, on the other side of my own camera. There's something deeply uncomfortable about being looked at when you don't feel your best.

But here's what I've learned, watching hundreds of families over eighteen years: the children don't see any of that. They don't notice the wrinkles you're worried about, or the concealer you didn't have time to apply, or the ten pounds you wish weren't there. None of it registers to them. What they see is their mother. Their grandmother. The person whose face they love more than any other face in the world, exactly as she is.

So I keep asking. Gently, but I keep asking. And almost every time, when someone finally steps in — reluctantly, still a little unsure — something shifts in the room. I've watched a grandmother go from arms crossed at the edge of the garden to laughing in the middle of a pile of grandchildren within a few minutes. I've watched mothers who spent the whole session directing everyone else finally sit down and let themselves be photographed too, and cry a little when they saw the images afterwards.

That photograph — the one that almost didn't happen — is very often the one a family tells me they love most.

If you're a mother, a grandmother, the one who always takes the pictures and never appears in them: I'd love to help change that, even just once. Not a perfectly posed, everyone-looking-at-the-camera kind of photograph, necessarily — just a real one, of your family, with you actually in it. Your children won't remember how you looked that day. They'll just be grateful you were there.

my family portrait sessions →

If this is the year you finally get in the photo — whether it's a full family session, or just you and your children, or three generations together — I'd love to talk it through. You can see how my sessions work and what's included here →

Newborn Photography in Summer — What Actually Helps

Summer in London can be glorious. It can also be 32 degrees in a flat with no air conditioning, a three-day-old baby who won't settle, and a very uncomfortable mother at 40 weeks who has been hot since April. I've worked through all of it — here's what I've learned.

Newborns and heat

The first thing to know is that newborns are genuinely harder to settle in warm weather. This isn't just perception — small babies (and small children generally) sleep worse in the heat, the same way adults do. A baby who might drift off beautifully in October can be wide-eyed and unsettled in July, and that's not anyone's fault. It's just heat.

For indoor sessions in warm weather, my first move is to prepare the space before I arrive — opening everything that can be opened to create airflow, while being careful about draughts directly on the baby. If it's 30 degrees or above outside, I'll use light fabric on windows that get direct sun to reduce the temperature without blocking the light entirely. The goal is a room that feels calm, not a room that's been turned into a fridge.

Cool water nearby, light clothing, and patience are the main tools. Synthetic fabrics trap heat — natural fibres breathe better. And sometimes a session simply needs to move more slowly than usual, with more time between setups to let the baby resettle.

Outdoor sessions — timing is everything

For outdoor family sessions or any location work, I schedule around the heat rather than fighting it. In summer I strongly prefer early morning or after 7pm — the light is better at both ends of the day anyway, and the temperature is manageable. Midday and early afternoon in direct sun are not the time for a newborn, a heavily pregnant woman, or honestly anyone holding a camera.

For outdoor sessions with children and families: water, shade, light-coloured clothing, sandals or bare feet, and sunscreen are non-negotiable. I'll always flag the timing when we're booking, and if the forecast shows extreme heat on the day, we talk.

For pregnant mothers in summer

Late pregnancy in the heat is its own kind of endurance. By the third trimester, the body runs warm regardless of the weather — add July or August and it can feel genuinely overwhelming.

During my own pregnancy, I spent a significant amount of time at the pool. Not to exercise particularly, just to exist in water, which is the most effective way I know to feel like a human being again when you're heavily pregnant and it's 28 degrees outside. If you're in your third trimester this summer: find a pool, go often, don't feel like you need to justify it.

For maternity sessions in the heat, I work with what the body needs rather than against it. We take breaks. We choose the coolest part of the day. Lightweight, natural fabrics photograph beautifully and are far more comfortable than structured or synthetic options. If something isn't working physically, we adjust — the session adapts to you, not the other way around.

The honest version

Summer sessions are absolutely possible and often produce beautiful work — the light in early morning and evening is some of the best of the year. But they take more flexibility than sessions in milder weather, and I'd rather build that flexibility in from the start than pretend the heat isn't a factor.

If you're planning a session this summer and have questions about timing or what to expect, I'm happy to talk it through.

For newborn session details and pricing, you can find everything here →

What I Know About Maternity Portraits — Including the Ones I Took of Myself

There's an old expression about the shoemaker whose own children go barefoot — so busy making shoes for everyone else that there's never time to make a pair for home. When I was pregnant, that was me. I'd photographed other women through their pregnancies for years, and yet when it came to documenting my own, I ended up doing it myself: a self-portrait, figured out alone, camera on a timer, no one behind the lens but me.

It taught me something I think about every time I photograph another expectant mother now: how strange and vulnerable it is to be looked at right then, even when you're the one in control of the camera.

What working with pregnant women has taught me

Pregnant bodies are wonderfully unpredictable, and that unpredictability is the first thing I plan around. Physically, some women feel strong and capable right up to their due date; others are exhausted and sore by the second trimester, and that can shift week to week, sometimes day to day.

Hormones add another layer entirely. Mood can swing in the middle of a session — joy one moment, tears the next, not because anything is wrong, just because that's what pregnancy does to the nervous system. I've learned to read those shifts quickly and adjust the pace, rather than push through a shot list regardless of how someone is actually feeling in that moment.

Temperature matters more than people expect, too. Most pregnant women run hot, even in a cool room, so I keep that in mind with lighting, location, and how long I ask anyone to hold a pose.

And then there's the emotional range on any given day: some women feel shy or self-conscious in front of the camera, suddenly aware of a body that feels unfamiliar to them. Others arrive so deep in the experience of being pregnant that they forget the session is even happening and simply exist in front of the lens, completely themselves. Both are valid, and both need a slightly different kind of attention from me.

Why bodies lead, not poses

I have a set of poses I know work well, built from years of sessions — but I never treat them as fixed. If a position isn't comfortable, or a body simply won't move that way that day, we adjust. The body leads. I follow.

Beyond that, every woman wants something different from her maternity portraits. Some want flowing fabric and movement. Some want minimalism — clean lines, soft light, nothing extra. Others are drawn to something more boudoir in feeling, more intimate. I keep a collection of fabrics and dresses on hand for exactly this reason, and often something beautiful comes together spontaneously, mid-session, that wasn't part of the original plan at all.

So what does a good maternity session actually require?

Patience, mostly. A willingness to let go of a rigid plan the moment the day calls for something else. And an understanding that the woman in front of the camera is not a fixed subject — she's in the middle of one of the most physically and emotionally unpredictable chapters of her life, and the photographs should hold space for that, not flatten it into something tidier than it really is.

If you're expecting and thinking about maternity portraits, I'd love to talk through what feels right for you — fabric, minimalism, something more intimate, or simply whatever your body wants to do on the day.

Documentary or Posed? What That Choice Actually Means

When people enquire about a newborn session, they often arrive with one of two words in mind: "posed" or "documentary." They've usually seen examples of each online and assume they need to pick a side. In practice, the distinction is less black-and-white than it looks — and most of what I deliver in a typical session is a deliberate mix of both.

What "posed" actually means

Posed newborn photography is the classical style most people picture first: a sleeping baby arranged in a bucket, wrapped in a particular way, lit with studio lighting against a clean backdrop. It takes skill, patience, and a calm baby — and it produces the kind of timeless, polished image that looks beautiful printed and framed for years to come.

This is the bulk of what I do. Around 70% of a typical newborn session with me is built around this classical, composed style.

What "documentary" actually means

Documentary newborn photography is the opposite instinct: no arranging, no studio setup, no asking anyone to hold still. It's photographing what's actually happening — a sibling peering into the moses basket, a parent mid-yawn at 3am, the baby's hand wrapped around a finger during a feed. Nothing is directed. It's reportage, not composition.

This makes up roughly the remaining 30% of most sessions — the quieter, in-between moments that happen naturally around the posed portraits.

Why I blend the two, rather than choosing one

Most families don't actually want a session that's entirely one or the other. They want the beautiful, classical portraits that make a stunning print for the wall — and they also want the real, unposed moments that show what early life with this particular baby was actually like. A purely posed session can feel a little stiff if it's all you get. A purely documentary session, while honest, often misses the timeless portrait families want to print and frame.

Blending both in the same session gives you the best of each: the polished portraits you'll treasure formally, and the candid ones that bring you straight back to how those first days actually felt.

When a fully documentary session makes more sense

For some families, a fully documentary approach is the better fit — particularly if posing isn't something the baby or parents want at all, or if the goal is purely to capture the atmosphere of those very first days rather than create formal portraits. That's why I also offer a dedicated Newborn Documentary session: three to four hours, entirely reportage-style, with no posed setups at all. It suits families who want their newborn days told as a story rather than composed as a portrait.

So which should you choose?

If you're not sure, that's completely normal — most people aren't. In our pre-session conversation, I'll ask about what matters most to you: the wall-worthy portrait, the honest in-between moments, or both. There's no wrong answer, and the blend can always shift based on what feels right for your family.

If you'd like to talk through which approach suits you, I'd love to hear from you.

If a fully documentary birth is more what you're after, you might also enjoy reading about a home birth I photographed that lasted hours → or what "natural" really means to me as a photographer →.

If you're deciding between a posed, documentary, or blended session, the full details of what to expect — and how to book — are on my newborn photography page →

What "Natural" Actually Means When I'm Photographing a Birth

People use the word "natural" a lot when they talk about birth photography, and I think most of them mean something different than I do.

For me, it has nothing to do with where the birth happens or whether there's an epidural. It's not a description of the birth at all — it's a description of what I do with my camera. Natural means I don't pose anyone. Ever. Not a hand placement, not a turn of the head, not "could you do that again, but slower." None of it.

Why I stopped directing, even a little

Early in my work, like most photographers, I'd occasionally nudge things — ask someone to move slightly into better light, suggest a moment be repeated for a cleaner frame. I don't do that in a birth room, and over time I stopped doing it almost anywhere in my documentary work too.

The reason is simple: the moment I ask someone to do something, it stops being theirs and starts being mine. A birth has its own rhythm, its own pace, its own collapses and surges of emotion. If I interrupt that to get a "better" angle, I've taken something true and replaced it with something performed. I'd rather have the real moment, slightly imperfect, than a beautiful recreation of it.

What this looks like in practice

It means I spend a lot of time simply watching. I don't bring a shot list. I don't have a sequence I'm trying to capture in order. I read the room — when to lift the camera, when to lower it, when my presence needs to shrink to almost nothing.

It also means I work with whatever light and whatever space I'm given. No flash, no reflectors, no asking anyone to move closer to the window. If the room is dim, the room is dim — that dimness is part of what actually happened, and softening or brightening it afterward would be its own kind of dishonesty.

Why this matters more in birth than almost anywhere else

A birth is not a moment people can perform twice. There's no "let's try that again" when a baby is being born. So if a photographer is the kind who needs to direct, who needs control over a frame, they're working against the one thing that makes birth photography worth doing at all: it's real, and it happened exactly once, exactly like that.

I'd rather hand someone a slightly messier photograph that's completely true than a polished one that quietly edits the truth out.

If that's the kind of birth photography you're looking for — quiet, unposed, and entirely yours — I'd love to hear from you.

If you'd like to read more about specific experiences — including [a caesarean birth I photographed and lived through myself →] and [a home birth that lasted hours →] — those stories are part of this same approach.

The Photograph I Always Want to Take

There is one photograph I always want to take during a newborn session.

Not the baby curled and sleeping.
Not the mother gazing down.

The hands.

A father's hands holding a newborn — enormous and careful and completely certain — while everything else in the room is uncertain.

Those first days at home with a new baby are unlike anything else.

A new mother who doesn't yet know what to do with this small person she has been handed.
Who is exhausted in a way she has never been exhausted before.
Who hasn't slept.
Who worries.
Who wants, more than anything, to be the best mother she can possibly be.

Whose body hurts.
Whose whole self is rearranging.
Who sometimes feels completely alone in the universe — even in a room full of people.

Whose own parents may be far away.
Who has only just stopped being someone's child herself — and is now responsible for another life entirely.

In those moments, there is nothing more important than the person beside her.

Not always words.
Sometimes just a look.
A steadiness.
An energy that says: I've got you. We've got this.

That is enough to move mountains.

And when I photograph a father holding his newborn — those huge hands, that quiet certainty — I am photographing that too.

The thing that doesn't always get said.
But that makes everything possible.

If you're expecting a baby and thinking about a newborn session in London or Bromley, I'd love to hear from you. See full collections at investment or get in touch.

When Is the Best Time to Book a Newborn Photographer in London

Most people ask me this question somewhere around week twenty of their pregnancy.

Which is, honestly, exactly the right time.

But let me explain why — because the answer is a little more nuanced than "book early."

The window that matters most

Newborn photography works best in the first six weeks of life.

Within that window, the first two weeks are the gentlest. Babies sleep more deeply, curl more naturally, and settle more easily into the classic poses that make newborn portraits so timeless — hands tucked under chin, wrapped and peaceful, tiny and new.

After two weeks, babies become more alert. More awake. More opinionated.

The photographs are still beautiful — just different. More personality. Less curl.

So if you want the classic posed newborn portraits, the earlier the better. If you're drawn to a more awake, expressive style — there's more flexibility.

Either way, the session needs to happen in those first weeks. And those weeks arrive faster than anyone expects.

Why London families book during pregnancy

A good newborn photographer in London — one who takes a limited number of sessions each month, who comes to your home, who gives your family their full attention — books up.

Not weeks in advance. Months.

I take a limited number of newborn sessions each month across London and Bromley. In busy periods — particularly spring and the weeks before Christmas — I'm sometimes fully booked two to three months ahead.

If you contact me when your baby is already here, I will always try to help. But I cannot always guarantee availability in that first precious window.

The families who get the dates they want are almost always the ones who reached out during their second trimester.

How booking actually works

When you contact me during pregnancy, I don't ask you to commit to a fixed date.

We hold a provisional date around five to ten days after your due date — and we keep it flexible. If your baby arrives early, we move it. If your baby arrives late, we move it. If you need an extra week to feel ready, we move it.

Nothing is fixed except the intention.

The session fee is confirmed once your baby arrives and we set the final date together.

If your baby is already here

Please still get in touch.

I photograph newborns up to six weeks old — sometimes a little beyond, when the timing works. An older newborn has something a younger one doesn't — more expression, more presence, more of themselves already showing through.

The photographs are always worth taking.

Just reach out as soon as you can, so we have the best chance of finding the right date.

A quiet note on waiting

I understand why families sometimes wait.

You want to be sure everything is going well with the pregnancy. You don't want to plan too far ahead. It feels strange to be organising photographs before the baby is even born.

All of that makes complete sense.

But those first weeks pass very quickly. Faster than anyone warns you.

One morning you look at your baby and realise they no longer look the way they did on day three. The curl is a little less. The newness is already softening.

That's not a reason to panic. It's just a reason to reach out when you feel ready — and not to leave it too long.

If you're thinking about newborn photography in London or Bromley, I'd love to hear from you. You can see full collections on my investment page or simply get in touch — I'm always happy to answer questions, whatever stage you're at.

What I Know About Home Birth — From Both Sides of the Camera

I was twenty-two. It was the late nineties, and where I lived, there were no antenatal classes, no birth preparation courses, none of the structure that exists now to walk a first-time mother through what's coming. There was just a decision I made early on: I would not give birth in a hospital.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I bought a book on birth and read it properly — not skimming, but studying it the way you study something that frightens you a little. By the time the day came, I felt like I already knew what was happening to me, even though it was my first time and I was so young.

The birth itself was easy. My husband was beside me the whole time, and I remember the strangest, funniest detail more clearly than almost anything else: we had spent the entire pregnancy certain we were having a boy. We even had the name picked out. So when she finally arrived and he lifted her up, there was this beat of pure confusion before we both realised — it's a girl. We laughed. After everything, that was the moment that broke the tension completely.

I think that experience shaped how I photograph birth more than anything I've learned since.

Photographing someone else's home birth

Years later, I found myself in a client's home for a birth that was nothing like a quick story. It was long. Hours and hours of it. And unlike a hospital, where you might have some control over light, here I worked with whatever was actually in the room — no setup, no adjustments, because the only thing that mattered was that the mother felt comfortable, not watched.

I made myself as invisible as I could. I didn't direct, didn't ask anyone to move or pause. I just stayed close and quiet and ready.

What I didn't expect was how much I would feel. I had been through this myself, so every stage of it landed somewhere in me — I wasn't just observing, I was recognising. That made it harder in a way I hadn't anticipated, but it also meant I understood exactly what mattered enough to capture and what didn't. Because the day was long, I had time to see so much: the early hours, the shift into harder labour, and finally the moment everyone in the room had been waiting for.

Why I still believe in this work

A home birth has no schedule I can plan around and no lighting I can control. It asks a photographer to disappear into the background and to trust that the story will tell itself, in its own time, exactly as it happened.

That's the only kind of birth photography I know how to do, really — because it's the only kind I've ever lived through myself.

If you're planning a home birth in London and want it photographed honestly, without posing or performance, I'd love to talk about it.

If you're planning a home birth in London and considering having it photographed, you can read about how I work — and enquire about availability — here →

That's the only kind of birth photography I know how to do — without posing, without direction, just watching closely. I've written more about what that actually means here: What "Natural" Actually Means When I'm Photographing a Birth →

What I Know About Caesarean Birth — From Both Sides of the Camera

I had a caesarean myself.

I remember the specific kind of pain that nobody quite prepares you for — not the operation itself, but the days after. Standing up. Lying down. Anything that asked anything of my stomach muscles. I had been someone who trained, who moved through the world easily, and suddenly I couldn't sit up without thinking about it first.

My scar healed slowly. For a long time there was no feeling there at all. My husband talked me into trying leeches, of all things — and somehow, it helped. I still don't fully understand why. I just know that I needed something, and that was the thing that worked.

I tell you this because when I photograph a mother recovering from a caesarean, I am not guessing at what she's going through. I know it.

Years later, I was on the other side of it in a different way.

My daughter was in labour for three days. A home birth that became, in the end, an unplanned caesarean — her baby was simply too big. I didn't sleep for those three days. I have the data on my watch to prove it, which still makes me laugh a little.

I was there when they brought her and my grandson back from theatre. I heard his first cry. I photographed him, and the feeding, and her, and her husband — not a single pose, nothing arranged. Just the tenderness. The relief. The tears that come after something that hard is finally over.

I stayed with her for several weeks afterward.

So when I photograph a newborn session for a mother who has had a caesarean, here is what changes:

I bring the pillows. I roll the blankets into the right shapes before she even has to ask. I find the positions that don't ask anything of her stomach — propped against the headboard, baby resting high on her chest, nothing that requires reaching or twisting or holding her own weight in a particular way.

I move slowly, and I let her move slower.

There is no part of the session where I need her to lie a certain way for the photograph. The photograph adjusts to her — never the other way round.

Recovery from a caesarean is real, physical, and it takes longer than anyone tells you it will. If you're in those first weeks and thinking about a newborn session, I'd love to talk it through with you — what's comfortable, what isn't, and how we make it work for exactly where you are.

This experience also shaped how I approach every birth I photograph — not just caesareans. I've written more about that philosophy here: What "Natural" Actually Means When I'm Photographing a Birth” →

If you're considering birth photography in London, here's what to expect →

Get in touch or see the collections.

What Happens If My Baby Won't Sleep During the Newborn

This is the question I'm asked most often.

More than what to wear. More than what to bring. More than how long it takes.

What if my baby won't sleep?

And I always want to answer it honestly — because the worry behind it is real, and you deserve better than a reassuring non-answer.

First, the truth about sleeping babies

Newborn sessions work best — the classic posed portraits, the curled hands, the wrapped and peaceful images — when babies are deeply asleep.

That's not a secret.

And yes, some babies arrive already settled, feed beautifully, and drift off within twenty minutes.

But many don't.

Some babies are unsettled that morning for no reason anyone can find. Some are going through a growth spurt. Some have wind. Some simply decide that today is not a sleeping day.

After eighteen years and more than a thousand newborn sessions across London and Bromley, I have seen every version of this.

And I have never once left a family without photographs.

What actually happens

We slow down.

That's all.

If your baby needs feeding — we stop, and you feed them. If they need winding — we wait. If they need skin-to-skin with you for twenty minutes before they'll settle — that's exactly what we do.

I'm not watching the clock. I'm not sighing quietly in the corner. I'm not making you feel like your baby is somehow failing the session.

I've been doing this long enough to know that babies set the tempo. My job is to follow it.

The sessions I remember most

Some of the most beautiful photographs I've ever taken have come from sessions where the baby barely slept at all.

An awake newborn has something a sleeping one doesn't.

They look up. They find your face. They make the tiny expressions that last about three days before they change completely.

Those images — a wide-eyed baby looking directly into the camera, or turning toward their mother's voice — are the ones parents often come back to most.

Not because they're what anyone planned. But because they're completely, unmistakably real.

What you can do

A few things genuinely help — though none of them are guaranteed, and none of them are your fault if they don't work.

Feed your baby about thirty minutes before I arrive, if the timing allows. Keep the room a little warmer than usual. Try not to let the morning feel rushed — babies absorb the energy around them more than we realise.

And if none of that works?

We work with what we have. We always do.

One last thing

Please don't spend the night before your session lying awake worrying about whether your baby will cooperate.

You have a newborn. You are already doing something incredibly hard.

I will bring the calm. I will bring the patience. I will find the photographs — whatever the day looks like.

That's my job. And I love it.

Thinking about booking a newborn session in London or Bromley? You're welcome to get in touch — I'm always happy to answer questions, whatever stage you're at.

Please Be In The Photograph With Your Children

One of the things I say most often during newborn sessions is:

“Please, you need to be in the photographs too.”

And almost every time, mothers answer the same way.

“No… not today.”
“I look exhausted.”
“I still haven’t lost the baby weight.”
“My hair is awful.”
“I haven’t done my nails.”
“I’ll do photographs when I feel more like myself again.”

And honestly?

I understand all of it.

Because early motherhood can feel brutal sometimes.

You are sleeping in fragments.
Your body no longer feels fully yours.
You barely recognise yourself in the mirror.
You are giving everything to another tiny human being every single day.

But here is the thing mothers almost never realise:

your baby does not see any of that.

Your baby does not care whether your hair was coloured.
Whether you wore makeup.
Whether your stomach was still soft from pregnancy.
Whether you looked “perfect”.

To your child, you are quite literally the most beautiful thing in the world.

You are home.
You are safety.
You are the person whose heartbeat they already knew before they were even born.

And one day, these photographs will not really belong to you anymore.

They will belong to your children.

It is their history.

One day they will look at these photographs and think:

“That was my mother.”
“She was there.”
“She held me like this.”
“She loved me.”

And I promise you — not a single child will ever look at a photograph and think:

“I wish my mum had lost five kilos first.”

They will only see you.

Sometimes I almost force mothers into the frame.

Not because I want perfect portraits.

But because I know how quickly life moves.

The newborn days disappear.
The tiny hands disappear.
The sleepy weight of a baby on your chest disappears.

Everything changes so quietly and so unbelievably fast.

And later, photographs become proof that this little moment once existed.

That you existed inside it too.

So please.

Be in the photographs.

Even if you are exhausted.
Even if your hair is unwashed.
Even if you do not feel beautiful yet.

Because one day your children will not care about any of those things.

They will simply be grateful that you were there.

Five Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me Before My Newborn Session

After eighteen years and more than a thousand newborn sessions across London and Bromley, I've noticed a pattern.

There are things families wish they'd known beforehand. Not big things. Small things. The kind of things nobody thinks to mention — until you're in the middle of the session and suddenly wish someone had.

So here they are.

1. You don't need to have the house ready

I mean this.

I have never once walked into a family home and thought: this is too messy.

I have walked into homes with laundry on every surface, dishes in the sink, a dog bed in the middle of the room, and baby paraphernalia covering the sofa.

And I have taken beautiful photographs in every single one of them.

Newborn days are not tidy days. Nobody expects them to be. Least of all me.

The only thing I need is a room with a window and a little warmth. Everything else I bring with me.

Please don't spend the morning before I arrive cleaning. Spend it resting, or feeding the baby, or drinking a cup of tea while it's still hot.

That is a much better use of your time.

2. The session will take longer than you think — and that's fine

Two to three hours is a guide, not a promise.

Some sessions take longer. A baby who needs two long feeds and a full settle before they'll sleep deeply — that session might be four hours.

I have never once rushed a family to finish on time.

The session ends when it ends. When your baby has been photographed. When the family portraits are done. When everything feels complete.

There is no clock on the wall that I'm watching. There is only your baby, and the light, and however long it takes.

3. You are allowed to stay in your pyjamas

For the first half of the session at least.

While I'm working with your baby — wrapping, posing, settling — you don't need to be dressed, made up, or ready for anything.

Rest. Feed if you need to. Sit nearby in whatever you slept in.

When it's time for the family portraits — usually toward the end — that's when you change into whatever you've chosen to wear. Not before.

Many of my favourite family images have been taken with a mother in a soft dressing gown, hair undone, holding her baby the way she holds them every morning.

Those are often the realest photographs of all.

4. Your baby does not need to perform

Babies cry during newborn sessions. They need feeding. They need winding. They need a twenty-minute cuddle before they'll settle.

This is not a problem. This is Tuesday.

A baby who is unsettled is not ruining your session. They are being a newborn.

I have never left a family without photographs because the baby was difficult. I have simply waited, and settled, and tried again — as many times as it takes.

Your only job is to be there. Everything else is mine.

5. You will forget this faster than you think

This is the one I wish someone had told me before my own children were born.

Those first weeks feel endless when you're in them. The exhaustion. The feeds. The strange slow days and long nights.

And then one morning — months later, sometimes years — you look at a photograph from that time and you can barely remember what they looked like so small.

The weight of them. The smell of them. The way they fit into the crook of your arm.

It goes.

Not all at once. Quietly, gradually, the way all the best things do.

That is why these photographs matter. Not because life looked perfect. But because one day you will want to remember exactly how it felt.

And the photographs will be there.

Thinking about a newborn session in London or Bromley? You can see full collections on my investment page or simply get in touch.

What to Expect from a Newborn Session in Bromley

If you've never had a newborn session before, it's completely normal to wonder what actually happens. Here's an honest account of what a session with me looks like — from the moment I arrive at your door to the sneak peek you'll receive that evening.

When to book

Most families book during their second trimester, and we hold a flexible date around five to ten days after your due date. That window — the first one to six weeks — is when babies sleep most deeply and curl most naturally. Earlier is gentler, but every baby finds their own timing. I've photographed many babies up to six weeks old, and the images are always beautiful.

The morning of your session

You don't need to prepare much. A room with a window — south or east-facing is ideal, but any daylight will do. A slightly warmer room than usual, because your baby will be undressed for some of the session. A feed about thirty minutes before I arrive, if the rhythm allows.

That's genuinely it.

I arrive quietly, usually with everything loaded into two bags. I find the right corner of the room, set up while you settle the baby, and we begin when your baby is ready — not when the clock says so.

What I bring

Everything. After eighteen years of newborn sessions across Bromley and South East London, my entire studio comes with me.

Organic wraps in cream, oatmeal, sand, and soft grey. Knitted gowns, bonnets, and rompers. Delicate headbands. Wooden bowls, baskets, and neutral backdrops. A heated beanbag for posing. Studio-quality lighting for darker days. Warm hands and hand sanitiser.

You don't need to buy props, outfits, or anything at all for your baby. If there's something meaningful you'd like to include — a blanket from a grandmother, a tiny outfit that belonged to an older sibling — bring it. Those pieces often become the most treasured images of the day.

The session itself

A newborn session usually takes two to three hours. We work entirely at your baby's pace. If they need to feed, we feed. If they need a long settle, we wait. If a pose isn't working, we move on. There's no timeline and no pressure.

Most of the session is quiet. You're welcome to stay close, make tea, or rest in another room — whichever feels right. Parents are never far from the baby. Every pose that looks unsupported in the final image is fully supported during the session, often by a parent's hand just outside the frame.

Toward the end, I photograph the family together — you holding your baby, siblings if they're there, both parents in the frame. These are often the images families return to most.

After the session

That same evening, or the next morning, I'll send a sneak peek — one or two of my favourite images while the feeling of the day is still fresh.

Your full private gallery arrives within one week. It includes colour and black and white edits, a print release for personal use, and a password-protected link you can share with family.

A note on safety

I am trained in newborn safety and fully insured. Every session I photograph in Bromley and across South East London is treated with the same care I gave my own five children in those early weeks. Your baby is never not held.

Thinking about booking a newborn session in Bromley or South East London? I'd love to hear from you. You can see full pricing and collections on my investment page, or simply get in touch.

Newborn Photography at Home vs Studio — What Nobody Tells You

Everyone has an opinion on this.

Studio photographers will tell you that studios give you control — consistent light, neutral backgrounds, the perfect setup every time.

At-home photographers will tell you that home is warmer, easier, more natural.

Both are telling the truth.

But there are a few things neither side tends to mention.

What studios are actually good at

Control.

A studio is a controlled environment. The light doesn't change. The background is always clean. The temperature is set exactly right for a sleeping newborn. There are no dogs walking in, no toddlers who suddenly need a snack, no postman ringing the doorbell at the worst possible moment.

For a photographer, a studio is genuinely easier to work in.

And the results can be beautiful — classic, clean, timeless.

If you live near a good studio photographer you trust, that matters.

What nobody tells you about studios

Getting there.

You have a baby who is somewhere between five and fourteen days old. You haven't slept properly since before the birth. You need to pack everything — nappies, muslins, spare clothes, a change for yourself, bottles or a nursing cover, the wrap you were told to bring, the outfit you carefully chose at 11pm last week.

Then you need to actually leave the house. On time. With a newborn.

I know this — because I used to work from a studio.

And without exception, families with newborns were late. Not five minutes late. Thirty minutes. An hour. Sometimes more.

Not because they were careless. Because they were exhausted.

A mother who hasn't slept properly in two weeks needs to feed the baby, possibly pump, find something to wear, remember everything, get herself ready — and actually get out of the door.

I remember my own newborn days well enough to know that getting up was hard. Makeup was the last thing on my mind. Getting dressed felt like an achievement.

And that was just one baby.

Arriving at a studio already depleted, slightly stressed, in an unfamiliar place — that energy goes into the photographs. Babies feel it. Parents feel it. The camera sees it.

What at-home sessions are actually good at

Everything that happens between the posed shots.

The way your older child climbs onto the bed to meet the baby for the first time. The feeding pause where your partner holds the baby and you catch their expression. The afternoon light through the curtains of the room where you've barely slept for two weeks. The dog who wanders in and lies down next to the beanbag as if he belongs there.

He does belong there. That's the point.

A studio can give you a beautiful portrait of your baby. Your home gives you a portrait of your family — in the place where your family actually lives.

What nobody tells you about at-home sessions

Not every photographer brings the same setup.

Some arrive with a camera and natural light and call it a lifestyle session. That's a valid choice — but it's worth knowing what you're getting.

When I photograph newborns at home across London and Bromley, I bring everything a studio would have. Heated beanbag. Studio-quality lighting for darker rooms or grey days. A full wardrobe of organic wraps, gowns, headbands, and neutral backdrops. The same classic posed portraits — hands under chin, curled on a soft blanket, wrapped and sleeping — that people associate with studio work.

The difference is that when the session is over, your baby is already home.

You don't pack anything up. You don't drive anywhere. You put the kettle on.

The honest answer

Neither is objectively better.

The right choice depends on what you want from the day — not just the photographs.

If you want a controlled, clean, classic result and you don't mind the logistics — a good studio photographer is a wonderful thing.

If you want the same quality of portraits, but in the place where your family already belongs, without leaving home in those first fragile weeks — that's what I do.

After eighteen years photographing newborns across South East London and beyond, I still believe the most honest photographs happen where people feel most like themselves.

For most families, that's home.

Curious about what an at-home newborn session actually looks like? You can read more on my newborn page, see full collections on my investment page, or simply get in touch — I'm always happy to answer questions.

Why I Photograph Families At Home Instead of Studios

People sometimes ask me why I photograph so many families at home instead of in a studio.

The honest answer is:
because real life happens at home.

Not in front of a perfect paper backdrop.
Not under giant softboxes.
Not in matching beige outfits carefully prepared for Instagram.

At home, children behave differently.

Parents behave differently too.

A toddler hides behind the kitchen chair.
Someone jumps on the bed.
The baby needs feeding halfway through.
The dog walks into the room.
There are cups of tea somewhere in the background.
Laundry on a chair.
Tiny socks on the floor.
Afternoon light moving slowly across the walls.

And somehow all of that feels far more real to me than perfection ever could.

Maybe this comes from having five children myself.

I know what family life actually looks like.

I know that most mothers arrive at newborn sessions already exhausted before the session even starts.
I know that packing a newborn, spare clothes, bottles, muslins, snacks, nappies, and trying to leave the house on time can feel like preparing for an international expedition.

Sometimes mothers apologise to me for the “mess” at home.

And honestly?
I almost never notice it.

Because years later, nobody looks at family photographs and thinks:
“What a shame about that pile of laundry.”

What people actually see is:
the tiny expression their child used to make,
the way the light looked in their first home,
the chair where they fed the baby every night,
the feeling of that season of life.

That is what disappears.

And maybe that is what family photography is really trying to save.

Not perfection.

Just evidence that this little life happened.

That everybody was here.

That this was once your ordinary day — before it quietly became a memory.

What to Wear for Newborn Photos

A gentle guide for your at-home session

One of the first questions I'm asked, once a session is booked, is always the same: what should we wear?

It's a lovely question to be asked, because it means you're already thinking about the photographs the way I do — as something you'll keep. So let me take the worry out of it.

After eighteen years and more than a thousand newborns, here's the honest truth: the simpler you keep it, the more the photographs will feel like you. Babies change so quickly, and these images are about them — their tiny hands, the curl of their feet, the way they fit into your arms. Everything you wear is just a quiet frame around that.

For the baby

For the classic posed parts of the session, your baby will often be wrapped, or photographed bare, with the softest blankets and wraps. I bring a full newborn wardrobe with me — organic wraps, gowns, bonnets, headbands and small props — all in calm, neutral tones that suit my style. So you don't need to buy anything at all.

If there's a special outfit you'd love to include — a christening gown, something knitted by a grandmother, a little something passed down — bring it. Those pieces often become the most meaningful images of the day.

For you and your partner

Think soft, simple, and tonal. The aim is to look like yourselves on a good morning, not dressed up for an occasion.

A few things that always photograph beautifully:

• Soft, muted colours — creams, oatmeal, warm greys, dusty blues, gentle earth tones. These sit quietly against the skin and let your baby be the focus.

• Solid colours over busy patterns — large logos, slogans and bold prints pull the eye away from your little one.

• Comfortable fabrics you can move in — there's a lot of holding, swaying and gentle rocking during a session. You want to be able to forget what you're wearing.

• Layers and longer sleeves — newborn sessions are warm (I keep the room cosy for the baby), but soft long sleeves photograph beautifully and feel relaxed.

And for skin-to-skin images, which are some of my favourites — a simple neutral top that slips off the shoulder, or simply being comfortable bare-shouldered, makes for the tenderest photographs of all.

For older siblings

If big brothers or sisters are joining, keep them in the same soft palette as you — it pulls the whole family together in the frame. But don't fight them into anything stiff or scratchy. A comfortable child is a happy child, and a happy child gives you the real photographs. Soft cottons, simple colours, bare feet. That's all.

A few gentle reminders

• Lay everything out the night before, so the morning is calm.

• Bring a spare top for yourself — newborns are wonderfully unpredictable, and you'll be glad of it.

• Don't worry about being "ready." You won't be photographed in a way that asks you to perform. We work quietly, slowly, around your baby's rhythm.

The most important thing

Please don't lose sleep over this. The families whose photographs they love most aren't the ones who got the outfits perfectly right — they're the ones who relaxed, held their baby, and let the day be what it was.

You'll be holding someone very new and very small. That's all the photographs really need.

Thinking about newborn photography for your little one? I'd love to hear from you. You can see the full collections on my investment page, or simply get in touch — I'm always happy to answer questions, whatever stage you're at.

I Once Said I Wanted Five Children

Sometimes I think it’s a very strange question — and at the same time, a very important one.

Why do we actually want children?

When I was little, my mum once asked me:

“Kate, how many children do you want?”

And I answered:
“Five.”

To this day I have no idea where that number came from. Nobody in my family had lots of children. Maybe some distant great-grandmothers, but that’s about it.

Then I had two children and honestly thought:
“That’s it. Absolutely enough. No more.”

A few years later, I suddenly wanted another baby.

And instead, I had triplets.

I still remember my mum laughing:
“Well… dreams do come true. You wanted five.”

When I photograph newborns now, parents often imagine that newborn photographers must have beautifully documented every second of their own children’s lives.

Perfect little albums.
Perfect sleepy portraits.
Perfect memories carefully preserved from day one.

But my own children sometimes ask me:
“Mum, you’re literally a photographer… why do we barely have any photos from when we were babies?”

And I always answer honestly:
Because I was exhausted.

Completely exhausted.

When you have small children — especially several at once — sometimes you are not creating memories.
Sometimes you are simply surviving between feeds, laundry, tiny socks, sleepless nights, and cold coffee you forgot to drink.

And honestly, that is one of the reasons I love in-home newborn sessions so much.

Because you do not need to pack bags.
You do not need to drive anywhere.
You do not need to pretend you are functioning perfectly.

Sometimes parents simply hand me the baby… and go back to sleep.

I’m not joking.

And I completely understand it.

Maybe that’s also why these photographs matter so much.

Not because life looks perfect in them.

But because one day the whole period starts feeling almost unreal.
Like some strange beautiful fog you lived through half-asleep.

Tiny fingers.
Milk bottles at 3am.
Warm sleepy weight on your chest.
The sound of breathing next to you in the dark.

You are unbelievably tired.
And somehow, at the very same time, deeply happy.

So why do we have children?

Maybe to live a bigger life than the one we could live alone.

Maybe to watch another human becoming themselves right in front of you.

Maybe to heal things quietly without even noticing.

Maybe to experience a kind of love that completely rearranges your understanding of time, fear, exhaustion, and joy.

Or maybe simply to lie there one day, surrounded by your children, and suddenly realise:

this is life.