Is It Later Than You Think?
Why This Story Matters More Than Ever

I feel compelled to share this story… again.

For years, a simple phrase has appeared on all my studio materials:

“Because it’s later than you think.”

I originally wrote it as a gentle nudge for my clients—a reminder not to wait to capture the moments that matter. But one October afternoon, those words shifted from a professional motto to a deeply personal truth.

An Afternoon of Stories

My father had invited my husband, my son, and me over for a visit. As we sat together, he began reminiscing about the days when he and my husband hunted side by side. The stories were vivid, full of camaraderie and crisp fall mornings. My son, who had never been part of those adventures, listened wide-eyed.

Then my father brought out an old rifle.

It had belonged to my grandfather—“Pop”—a potato farmer in Kansas during the Depression. Times were hard then. Meat was scarce unless you hunted for it yourself. Pop and his friend Buddy would ride in a buckboard wagon and practice shooting as they went. Ammunition was precious; every shot mattered.

Pop once shot a quail clean through the head at 50 yards—a perfect shot that preserved every bit of meat for dinner that night. My father and his brothers would run behind the wagon, collecting the day’s game. That rifle helped feed their family through some of the toughest years in American history.

I don’t hunt, so I didn’t know if 50 yards was impressive—
but quail have tiny heads.
And to me, that detail spoke volumes.

A Legacy Passed Down

My father held the rifle gently as if holding memories themselves. He talked about how he had carved a new wooden butt for it when the original wore down. Then he turned to my husband.

“I want you to have this,” he said.
“And pass it down to Michael when the time is right.”

In that moment, I knew something was wrong. My father would never part with that rifle without a reason.

A few days later, we learned he had cancer.

The Portrait That Never Happened

Not long after the diagnosis, I woke in the middle of the night with an overwhelming need to create a portrait:
three generations—my father, my husband, and my son—with the rifle.

A legacy image. A moment suspended in time.

The next morning, I bought clothing for all three and planned the portrait down to the smallest detail. Then I went to see my dad.

I didn’t yet understand how sick he was. My father had always been strong, tireless, and full of dreams. But cancer had its own timeline. I told him my idea—how quick and easy it would be. I even giggled trying to lighten the moment.

But his eyes filled with tears.

He couldn’t do it. The pain was too much.

I never got to take that photograph.

Six weeks later, my father was gone.

The Photos I Do Have

Though I never created that three-generation portrait, I do have other photographs—precious images of my father with my son. They are priceless to me now. I’m grateful for those moments, for the stories, for the rifle placed gently into my husband’s hands, and for the wisdom my father left behind.

You see, my father is the reason I opened my first photography studio. He believed in what I saw through my lens: the power of preserving the treasures of our lives before they slip away.

That day reminded me in the deepest way that it truly is later than you think.

What My Father Taught Me

My father taught me that true success isn’t about what you have—it’s about what you give.
It’s about using your God-given talents fully, loving without reservation, and leaving behind a legacy of meaning.

That’s what I hope for everyone who walks through my studio doors.
And that’s the kind of success I wish for all of you.

Thank you for reading.
—Cathy