In the spring of 2022, within weeks of losing my grandmother, there was a school shooting that claimed the lives of 19 children the same age as my oldest child, and a Supreme Court decision that stripped away the rights of women. By the end of June I was finding it hard to want to get out of bed in the mornings. And if I’m honest, it’s been a struggle since.

On good days I would find myself wandering my neighborhood contemplating all of it. How did we get here? How can I not feel guilty for bringing children into what feels like such a terrible world? How can I love a place - America, but especially the South - that feels so complicated? One that holds a tremendous amount of beauty and joy, and so much worth celebrating; but at times feels like it will be overwhelmed by darkness. The place I grew up in and gave up on and came back to. I would think about how I wished for the simpler times of my childhood, but also knew that those times weren’t really that much simpler. We’ve always had a lot to be proud of here, and we’ve always had a very long way to go.

On the day I realized that much of my neighborhood is fringed in wild blackberry bushes, I rushed home to tell my boys. The berries weren’t particularly good; a bit sour compared to the ones we could buy. But they still felt like a treasure to find, and with a little sugar and time they became delicious. Those mornings spent picking them were my saving grace; a reminder that tucked into the weeds, if you are willing to brave a few thorns, can be something worthwhile.

These images ultimately are the result of years of work when, without even realizing it, I was slowly documenting all of the beauty and joy, and at times the darkness that felt it would overwhelm. Each image touches back to something I have always known deep within me; this world, this place, is brutal and beautiful and terribly complicated to love. They are the clinging to the hope that somewhere in the weeds there exists something worthwhile.