We were lucky to catch up with Chantalle Fiscus recently and have shared our conversation below.

Chantalle, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today We’d love to hear about when you first realized that you wanted to pursue a creative path professionally.

When my first daughter was about four months old, I received my first “nice” camera, a Nikon DSLR. Like many new moms, I wanted a way to document her life in a meaningful way, to hold onto every fleeting expression and soft curl, to make sure nothing slipped through my fingers. Photography had always been this quiet pull in my life. As a kid, I’d stage little photoshoots with my friends on disposable cameras, and in high school, I’d wander around with my first digital camera, taking everything in. I even took a photography class where I learned to develop film, standing in the dim red light of the darkroom, watching images bloom on paper. But it wasn’t until I became a mother that I felt this art form dig roots deep into my heart.

When I started capturing life with my camera, I found myself less drawn to the posed, smiling shots and more to the quiet, in-between moments, the ones where it was just her and me. The soft hum of ordinary life. The way the afternoon light touched her eyelashes as she napped. The smudges of sweet potato on her cheeks at lunchtime. I began to see life through a different lens, one that focused on the rawness and beauty of real moments.

The truth is, motherhood hadn’t been an easy transition for me. I struggled with postpartum depression and anxiety. I often felt isolated, like I was standing on the other side of a glass wall, watching life move forward while I stood still. I was learning how to be a mother, but also how to be myself in this new chapter. And in those long days and longer nights, my camera became both an anchor and a lifeline. Photography gave me a way to tell my story when words felt too heavy. It let me capture the mess and the magic, to see beauty in the chaos, and to remind myself that both could exist at the same time.

By the time my second child was about two, I felt a shift. It wasn’t just about my story anymore. I wanted to do this for other moms. I wanted them to feel seen, not just in the big, highlight-reel moments, but in the ordinary, unfiltered ones too. I wanted them to know that I saw them, the tired, the tender, the joy, the ache. Because motherhood is all of it, tangled up together.

And so, I started this journey as a family and motherhood photographer. Not just to capture smiles and milestones, but to hold space for the real, the beautiful, the in-between. To create a space where mothers could exhale, where they could be exactly as they are and know that it is more than enough. Because those moments—the ones that often go unnoticed—are the ones that truly tell our stories.

As always, we appreciate you sharing your insights and we’ve got a few more questions for you, but before we get to all of that can you take a minute to introduce yourself and give our readers some of your back background and context?

Hi, I’m Chantalle, and I’m a family and motherhood photographer with a deep passion for capturing the beautifully raw and tender moments of life. My journey into photography started long before I even realized it, as a kid, really, when I’d rally my friends for little photo shoots with those click and go disposable cameras. My love for photography evolved in high school, where I took my first real photography class, learning to develop film in a darkroom and exploring the world through the lens of my first digital camera. But the moment I truly found my purpose as a photographer came after I became a mother.

When my first daughter was about four months old, I received my first “nice” camera, a Nikon DSLR. Like so many new moms, I wanted to document every coo, every sleepy smile, every chubby hand grasping at the world. What I didn’t expect was how this camera would become more than just a way to capture milestones; it became a lifeline.

Motherhood, for me, was not an easy transition. I struggled with postpartum depression and anxiety, often feeling lost and isolated as I tried to navigate this new role. While I had always envisioned the warm glow of motherhood, the reality was sometimes messy and overwhelming. My camera became a way to process those feelings. I found myself drawn not just to the picture-perfect smiles but to the quiet, in-between moments, the softness of my daughter’s eyelashes as she napped on my chest, the quiet chaos of toys scattered on the floor, the way the morning light wrapped around us as we settled into a new day. These were the moments that felt real, and these were the stories I wanted to tell.

As my second daughter grew into a wild and wonderful toddler, I began to understand that this wasn’t just about my story. I wanted other mothers to feel seen too. Motherhood is often portrayed in a haze of perfection, but what about those imperfectly perfect moments that make up our days? I wanted to offer a space where mothers could exhale, where they could show up exactly as they are, no pressure, no expectations, and know that their story, in all its honesty, was worthy of being documented.

That’s why my approach to photography is about connection over perfection. I specialize in family and motherhood sessions that capture the unscripted, the real, and the beautifully ordinary. Whether it’s a mom nursing her baby on a well-worn couch or a family tangled up in giggles during a backyard picnic, I want to freeze those fleeting moments that, years from now, will bring you right back to the heartbeat of that day.

What sets me apart is this: I’m not just a photographer. I’m a mother who gets it. I know how chaotic, exhausting, and utterly beautiful this season of life can be. My sessions aren’t about forcing smiles or stiff poses, they’re about telling your story as it is, with all the love and complexity it holds.

One of the things I’m most proud of is the trust my clients place in me. Many of the mothers I’ve worked with have told me they didn’t expect to feel so seen, so validated, just by being in front of the camera. That, to me, is everything.

If you’re a mother who feels like life is moving too fast, if you want to hold on to not just how things looked but how they felt, I would be honored to capture those moments for you. This is my passion, and I pour my heart into every session, knowing that these images will become part of your family’s story, a story that deserves to be told with love and authenticity.

Have you ever had to pivot?

There are moments in life when everything shifts, when the world around you feels like it’s folding in on itself, and nothing looks the same again. For me, that moment came as I sat in a nail salon, the sharp smell of polish in the air, surrounded by the mundane hum of everyday life.

The phone rang, and I answered, never expecting that the voice on the other end would deliver news that would change everything. The person spoke clinically, her words spilling out without pause, as if she were reading from a script. My son’s genetic test results were in. SYNGAP1, she said, a diagnosis so rare that she or I had never heard of it. As she continued to speak, I felt the ground beneath me give way. I sat there, hands under the UV light, and the world around me blurred.

I remember frantically searching the internet, trying to make sense of this diagnosis. But page after page only amplified my fear, there was so little information, and what I found was steeped in unknowns. I was living every mother’s nightmare, realizing that not only did I not have answers, but no one else seemed to, either.

Telling my husband was like breaking the news of a storm we hadn’t seen coming. The tears came, and they wouldn’t stop. I saw the same fear reflected in his eyes, the hopelessness, the weight of a future that felt like it had been rewritten in a language we didn’t understand. It was as if all the light had drained from the room, leaving us suspended in the ache of not knowing what came next.

In the days and weeks that followed, I tried to carry on. I kept photographing families, kept showing up with my camera and my practiced smile. But the joy I had once found in my work was gone. I couldn’t bring myself to act as if life was all sunshine and giggles when my own world felt heavy with grief. I knew I needed to step back, to pause and give myself the space to grieve and to find a new way forward.

During those months away from my business, I began to see motherhood through a new lens. I learned that true beauty isn’t always found in the polished, picture-perfect moments. Sometimes, it’s in the messiness, in the resilience it takes to face the unknown, in the quiet strength that keeps us moving forward when we don’t have all the answers.

When I returned to photography, I knew my work had to change, too. I no longer wanted to focus solely on posed perfection. I wanted to capture the real, raw, beautifully imperfect stories of families, of mothers who, like me, had walked through fire and still found a way to carry love and hope forward. I wanted my sessions to be a refuge, a space where mothers could exhale and let themselves be seen, not just for their smiles but for their strength.

My son’s diagnosis taught me to look deeper. To see beyond the surface. To honor the full spectrum of life’s emotions, not just the joy, but the struggle, too. Today, when I photograph a family, I am looking for the quiet moments of connection, for the truth that lives in the shadows as much as in the light.

This pivot was more than a business decision, it was a transformation. It allowed me to create from a place of authenticity, to build a brand rooted in empathy and truth. I’m so grateful for the families who trust me with their stories, and for my son, who opened my eyes to a world where every moment matters, even the ones shaped by the unknown.

Do you think there is something that non-creatives might struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can shed some light?

I think one of the most challenging things for non-creatives to understand about the creative journey is how deeply personal and vulnerable it can be. When your work is an extension of your heart, when it’s not just a product you make but a piece of your story, your perspective, your soul, it feels incredibly exposing.

For me, as a motherhood and family photographer, my creative process is intertwined with my own experiences as a mother. It’s not just about taking beautiful pictures; it’s about capturing real, honest stories. It’s about holding space for the messy, raw, and unfiltered moments of life. It’s about showing up with empathy, knowing that every family I work with has a story layered with love and struggle, joy and hardship, just like mine.

What many people might not realize is that the work doesn’t end when the session is over. There is an emotional weight to what I do. I go home, upload the images, and relive those moments as I edit. I find myself reflecting on my own journey, on my children, on my son’s diagnosis, on the countless ways motherhood has stretched and transformed me. Sometimes, an image will bring tears to my eyes because it’s not just a photograph, it’s a mirror to my own experiences and emotions.

Another part of the creative struggle is balancing the heart with the hustle. As a creative, you want to stay true to your vision, to create work that feels authentic and life-giving. But there’s also the business side: the emails, the marketing, the need to make a living. Sometimes, those pressures can feel like they pull you away from the joy of creating. There’s this constant tension between nurturing your art and managing the realities of running a business.

And then there’s the vulnerability of putting your work out into the world. When I share an image or a story, it’s like offering a piece of myself up for judgment. There’s always that whisper of doubt; Will this resonate? Will people understand what I’m trying to say? Will they see the beauty I see? It takes a lot of courage to keep creating, to keep sharing, to keep showing up even when the fear of rejection or misunderstanding looms.

But despite all of this, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because for every hard moment, there are those beautiful connections, the mothers who tell me they felt seen, the families who cherish their photos, the moments of light that shine through the work. Those are the gifts that keep me going.

So, if I could offer any insight to those who might not fully understand the creative journey, it would be this: Creatives aren’t just making things, they’re offering pieces of themselves. They’re navigating a world where their heart and their work are so tightly woven together. They’re showing up, imperfectly and honestly, hoping to connect, to inspire, to bring a little more truth and beauty into the world. And that’s a brave, sacred thing.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://tillylanephotography.com
• Instagram: https://instagram.com/tillylanephotography
• Facebook: https://facebook.com/tillylanephotography

Image Credits

Chantalle Fiscus, Tilly Lane Photography