Goodbye Sweet Studio
Ten years ago, I walked into a tiny commercial studio in Grand Rapids— less than a thousand square feet, tucked away like a little hallway. I photographed headshots there, dreaming about what it might feel like to someday have a full commercial studio of my own.
Eventually I moved into a larger space across the hall, and then the world changed. COVID arrived, and suddenly owning a studio didn’t feel exciting anymore. It felt uncertain. I questioned whether it was practical, responsible, or even possible to keep dreaming that dream. And then this place found me. Acorner studio wrapped in windows inside one of Grand Rapids’ beautiful old factory buildings. It was what I dreamed a space to exist like. Over the years, I poured my heart into every inch of it, creating a space that felt like me—eclectic, colorful, artistic, a little weird, incredibly welcoming. It became more than a studio. It became an oasis.
It’s where families laughed together. Babies were photographed in their first days of life. Seniors celebrated milestones. Businesses built their brands. Artists gathered. Friends became clients, and clients became friends. Thousands of moments passed through and every single one helped shape the photographer—and the person—I am today.
So yes… saying goodbye is heartbreaking, But here’s the truth. Running a small business for twenty years changes you. I’ve weathered recessions, uncertainty, COVID, and what continues to be one of the hardest economic climates I’ve experienced as a business owner. This past year, my business saw about a 30% decline in revenue.
Ironically, that was almost exactly the margin that allowed me to carry this beautiful space. When I finally sat down and looked at everything honestly—not emotionally, but practically—I realized something difficult: The studio no longer serves the life I’m trying to build. And that sentence took me a long time to accept.
For so many years, success meant pushing harder. Hustling more. Sacrificing more. Fighting through the hard seasons because that’s what entrepreneurs do. But somewhere between twenty and forty, I realized I don’t want my life to be measured by how much I can carry.
I want it to feel lighter. Softer. More present. More sustainable.
This isn’t the end of photography. Not even close. It’s simply the reshaping of something I still love with my whole heart. A business that fits the season of life I’m in now instead of the one I built twenty years ago, peace is simply the priority and when something brings more weight than it does reason for growth, it's time to let it go.
So this goodbye isn’t one made because I failed. It’s one made because I listened. I listened to the numbers. I listened to my heart. I listened to the exhaustion I’ve been carrying for longer than I realized. And for the first time in a long time, choosing less doesn’t feel like giving up. It feels like freedom.
I’ll always be grateful for these walls and everything they held. They witnessed some of the greatest moments of my career, and they’ll always be part of my story.
Before I hand over the keys, I’d love to celebrate what this space became. In the coming month, I’ll be planning one final open house—a chance for everyone who’s walked through these doors over the last decade to come back, say goodbye, share a hug, and honor the little studio that quietly held so many beautiful memories.
Thank you for making this place feel alive!
Goodbye, sweet studio. You were everything I dreamed you’d be. And because of you, I’m finally ready for whatever comes next.
