Why End-of-Life Photo Sessions Matter More Than We Talk About

When I started photographing professionally back in 2014, I never imagined how deeply this work would weave itself into my heart. I was working at a studio in the Brea Mall in Brea, CA, the kind with 20-minute sessions and preset backdrops. It was a cookie-cutter kind of place—but sometimes, life cracks right through those boundaries.

One December afternoon, I was asked to photograph a large family. It was an extended family session for a grandfather at the end of his cancer journey. My supervisor specifically assigned me to the session, knowing it needed something more than the usual setup. One of his daughters pulled me aside and quietly explained the situation. In the studio stood this man, surrounded by his children and grandchildren—creating one final memory together.

The session lasted over 90 minutes. We broke all the rules that day. I captured big family groupings, individual portraits, and quiet moments—like the grandfather pretending to read to his grandkids. It was more than just photos. It was presence. Love. Grief. Anticipation. Joy.

A few weeks later, just after Christmas, his daughter returned to the studio. She handed me a box wrapped in glitter-covered paper and told me he had passed. Through tears, she said those photos meant everything to their family. Inside the box was a Santa Claus cookie jar—an inside joke from our session. Every year since, I set that jar out on my counter, fill it with cookies, and remember him. I remember why I do this work.

That moment wasn’t a one-time thing. I see echoes of it every time I photograph a wedding or elopement where elderly family members are present. I place extra focus on them. I look for those interactions, those embraces that could be one of the last.

At a wedding in Rifle, Colorado, I photographed a ceremony held at a veterans nursing home—because the bride’s father lived there and couldn’t travel. She didn’t want to get married without him. So the family brought the celebration to him. The bride had adult children and grandchildren of her own, so we were able to capture this beautiful, rare moment where four generations came together. We cried, we laughed, and we made sure everyone had time with her dad. After the reception, I quietly documented family members saying goodbye, holding his hand, and sharing one more story. I cried the whole drive home.

And sometimes, it’s not something we know is coming.

A few years ago, I photographed a beautiful adventure elopement. It was filled with joy and laughter, and the best man was full of energy and love for his friends. A few years later, he passed away—unexpectedly and tragically. His death shook everyone who knew him. Afterward, I learned that the photos I took at that elopement were some of the only high-quality, joyful photos his friends and family had of him. He was dressed up, smiling, fully himself—and those images brought his loved ones comfort and peace. They were able to hold on to a version of him that was vibrant and alive. That’s when it hit me again: sometimes, photography is the only thing we have left.

End-of-life photography doesn’t stop with humans, either.

Most recently, I photographed my boyfriend and his cat, Slinky. They’ve been together since the early 2010s, and their bond? It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime things. Slinky is getting older now, and some of the other pets in their home have already passed. I didn’t want time to run out without capturing that love. So we took twenty minutes in the front yard. Slinky rolled in the grass and soaked up the sun while Tyler pet him gently, and I quietly documented the love between them. It was simple. And it was everything.

Here’s the truth: life is precious, and so are our goodbyes. End-of-life sessions aren’t just about capturing faces before they’re gone. They’re about honoring relationships—between grandparents and grandkids, between fathers and daughters, between lifelong friends, and yes, even between humans and their pets. These images become part of how we remember and how we heal. They hold weight. They offer comfort. They remind us of what mattered.

I don’t take this work lightly. I’m not here just to take pretty pictures—I’m here to bear witness. To help preserve a legacy of love in its rawest, most honest form. If you or someone you love is nearing the end of a chapter, and you're considering documenting that time, I would be honored to help.

Because this? This is what photography is for. xo Rachel