There are seasons in life when everything seems to move at once. For me, this was one of them.
My children were growing up quickly, reaching that age where the world begins to open up to them in a way that feels both exciting and fleeting. I found myself wanting to give them the same experiences I had as a kid — the simple, physical, joy-filled moments that stay with you for life. One of those experiences was the snow.
Our trip to the mountains wasn’t about photography at first. It was about them.
Tobogganing runs, dragging sleds uphill, brushing snow off gloves, warming cold hands — it was all hard work. The kind of work that leaves you exhausted but completely fulfilled. The kids loved it. That pure, unfiltered joy you only really see in children discovering something new for the first time. And if I’m honest, I loved it just as much.
But as always, there was another pull.
The quiet voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I had a camera with me — and that I was surrounded by a landscape I rarely get to experience. Australia in the snow is something special. It’s subtle, understated, and often overlooked, but incredibly beautiful. Snow gums, with their twisting forms and textured bark, take on an entirely different presence in winter, standing resilient beneath a blanket of snow.
It wasn’t easy to step away.
There’s a tension that comes with being both a parent and an artist. You’re constantly balancing being present for your family while also feeling the need to create. That day, it took effort to pull myself away, even for a short time.
But when I finally did, everything slowed down.
I wandered into the bush, away from the noise of the toboggan slopes, and into something much quieter. As I walked, a light snow shower began to fall. You could hear it before you really noticed it — a soft, almost rhythmic patter against my jacket. Underfoot, the snow crunched with each step, a sound that instantly transports you into the moment.
There’s a stillness in those conditions that’s hard to describe.
No wind. No voices. Just the soft fall of snow and the presence of these ancient, sculptural trees.
Standing there, I realised I wasn’t just taking a photograph.
I was capturing something deeper — a feeling. A moment of quiet within a busy life. A reminder that even in the middle of responsibility, pressure, and noise, there are still these pockets of calm waiting to be found.
This image, Snow Gums in Winter, is the result of that moment.
It holds the contrast of the day — the energy and laughter of my children playing in the snow, and the stillness I found when I stepped away. It reflects that balance I’m still learning to navigate: being present for my family, while also staying connected to the part of me that needs to create.
And in many ways, it captures something uniquely Australian.
Snow in Australia doesn’t shout. It doesn’t overwhelm. It reveals itself quietly — in textures, in subtle tones, in the way light filters through falling flakes and settles on the land. The snow gums embody that perfectly. Strong, resilient, and shaped by their environment, they stand as a reminder of the beauty that exists in even the harshest conditions.
Looking back, I don’t remember that day as a choice between family and photography.
I remember it as both.
The laughter, the effort, the cold, the quiet — all part of the same experience.
And this image is where those two worlds meet.
Purchase a limited edition print of Snow Gums In Winter here.