I wasn’t always this version of myself.
The "feral" woman in a field of sunflowers, the wild one photographing love like a quiet storm, growing flowers with dirt under her nails and spells in her breath… she didn’t always exist.
Once, I was quiet.
Shy.
The kind of girl who dressed to please someone else.
The kind who worried about being “too loud,” “too opinionated,” “too emotional.”
The kind who was taught to second guess... always - her abilities, her thoughts, her feelings, her choices ...
Herself.
I wore what was safe.
I kept my voice small.
I made myself less, so others could feel more.
I wasn’t pretending. I truly thought that was who I had to be.
Before all that, I was 16. I had a spark. I wasn't perfect by any stretch of the word, stubborn as hell, with high expectations, but I had creativity. I had a mind full of ideas and a heart full of too many feelings. And, I was lucky. I was loved - by a gentle, patient boy who saw me. Who didn’t try to shrink me. Who gave me space to be soft and a little strange. The kind of safe that makes you believe love can be soft forever. I still think of him sometimes. Not out of longing, but out of gratitude. He saw an early, truer version of me - a version I’d eventually have to fight my way back to.
Over time, in other hands, I lost myself.
Somewhere between “good girlfriend” and “don’t rock the boat,” I disappeared.
I twisted myself into knots to be liked.
I dimmed my light to keep the peace.
I let go of art and creativity, of instinct, of wildness - bit by bit, until I couldn’t even recognise my reflection anymore.
But it wasn’t growth. It was survival.
It also got worse before it got better. Way worse. And, there were moments when I thought I’d stay lost forever.
That being “easy to love” meant being less of who I really was.
That the wild girl inside me was too much. Too strange. Too inconvenient.
But eventually, the ache to be myself got louder than the fear of rocking the boat.
So I began again.
Tiny acts of rebellion, at first, like wearing what made me feel alive. Speaking up even when my voice shook. Capturing beauty the way I saw it - not perfectly, but truthfully.
And then, one day, I stopped asking permission to exist.
Every person who said I was too much…
They were right.
I am too much - too sensitive, too wild, too opinionated, too emotional, too everything.
Too much for people who prefer women to be quiet, pretty, and easy to control.
Too much for the boxes they wanted me to fit in.
Too much for the shallow versions of themselves they hadn’t grown out of yet.
But I am just right for a life that feels like mine.
I met my husband in that space of becoming. A man who doesn’t just tolerate my “muchness” - he celebrates it. Who holds space for my softness without needing to fix it. Who builds the fire with me instead of standing back in fear of the flames.
He didn’t save me.
But he saw the wings I was growing.
And said, “Fly, babe. I’ve got the ground covered.”
And somewhere along the way… The Wildstyler was born.
Not as a brand.
As a reclamation.
Of story.
Of soul.
Of every part of me I’d once been told to hide.
This journey, losing myself, and then clawing my way back - paved the way for everything I do now.
I don’t photograph weddings like everyone else.
I’m not here for posed perfection - I’m here for truth.
That crinkled laugh, that nervous hand squeeze, that muddy dress hem from dancing barefoot under stars.
That’s what I chase as a storytelling wedding photographer.
If you’re after raw wedding photography that captures the real stuff - not just the Pinterest version - I’m your girl.
A real wedding candid moment in true Wild Style. Bre & Manu’s wedding. Tatum. 2025
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I also don’t grow flowers for show.
I grow them because they remind me that wild things bloom exactly as they are. That softness can be powerful. That beauty doesn’t need perfect symmetry - it needs soul. I’m drawn to the little weirdo’s of the floral kingdom.
A wedding bouquet in my true Wild Style. Made for Dee & Marks wedding. Palmerston North. 2025
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I’m still not perfect.
I’m sitting here now, wondering if this blog is too much.
Still fighting the urge to “tone it down.”
Still wondering if I should ask someone… anyone… for permission.
But I won’t.
Because this… this messy, raw, real reclamation of self - is exactly what shaped everything I’ve built.
The photography.
The flowers.
The magic.
The Wildstyler.
The Feral Flower Farm.
If you’ve ever been told to tone it down…
To smile more…
To not make a scene…
I hope you find something in this that feels like home.
You don’t have to bloom quietly.
You don’t have to shrink to fit.
You are not too much.
You are a whole universe.
And you don’t need anyone’s permission to shine.
🌸