I traveled up to the Jersey Shore area recently after losing my childhood best friend. I had been there the year before, staying in a small cabin tucked in the Pine Barrens, visiting her, the friend I had cherished since we were twelve.

From the ages of eight to eighteen, that region was home. Even after I moved away, I often stayed with my mother when I wasn’t in school or working in New York City. She was the embodiment of a true Jersey Girl, and I carry a bit of that spirit with me still: I love tomato sandwiches, grew up on the sounds of Springsteen, Hall & Oates, The Three Degrees, and whatever played on WIBG and WMMR. To this day, something stirs in me when I walk the boards in Atlantic City. But what I miss most about New Jersey is its rich, layered history, woven deep, long before the Revolutionary War.

Still, I never truly saw myself as a Jersey Girl, even though I was born there. Part of my childhood unfolded in Topanga, California, where memories run deep—watching mountain lions across canyon cliffs, chasing lizards, catching ladybugs, and breathing in the ever-present scent of eucalyptus. I liked it more there, especially the school culture and the everyday ‘happy’ weather.

When I left New Jersey, it was for good. I built a life elsewhere: New York, Atlanta, Miami. But I always honored my mother with the title. She earned it. So did my best friend, who never left. She lived in the kind of place I would’ve loved to call home, just ten minutes from the shore, surrounded by whispering trees and the old legends of the Pine Barrens. Jersey Devil, anyone?

My roots in the area run deep. My maternal great-grandfather, a full-blooded Native American, farmed tomatoes in the region. His daughter, my grandmother, was a gifted storyteller who spoke of riding the stagecoach from Ong’s Hat to towns that no longer exist, and of skating across frozen cranberry bogs in winter. My great-aunt was a beloved local teacher, and my ex-husband went to the school named after her. We were married in a small country chapel located down the road from his childhood home, which was built on land my family had donated. Maybe I’m more of a Jersey Girl than I thought.

The image I made at Batsto Lake was taken on my best friend’s birthday, the day after her funeral. Saying I was sad doesn’t begin to cover it. I was drained, the summer heat pressing in, but I needed to be at the lake, in that quiet, familiar place on her day. We had gone to Batsto Village as kids on school field trips. It’s a beautiful place; if you ever get the chance to visit, it’s worth it.

I walked straight to the water and waited for the ducks and geese to drift into view. I sat there, remembering our childhood, the silliness, the secrets, the adventures we shared. I am fortunate. I know what it means to have had a true friend: someone who cheered me on, accepted me completely, and loved me without condition. She crossed the finish line first, and though my heart aches, I am grateful. Not everyone gets a friend like that. I hope everyone does, whether they come as a sibling, a partner, or, like mine, a little angel who once stared at me from behind her mother’s delicatessen counter and one day reached out to become my friend. Gosh, I was lucky.

I usually travel with my Hasselblad 907x kit, and it came along for this trip as well. Twilight on Batsto Lake wasn’t difficult to make; it was one of those moments where you simply show up, and nature does the rest. I made only a slight crop and added a warm orange tone to the sky and its reflection on the water. I waited patiently for the ducks to glide across and caught them just as they did. Afterward, I walked back to my camper van, returned to the motel, and began the long journey home at dawn.

Sometimes, photography is not about chasing the perfect shot, but about standing still long enough to let meaning find you. When you show up with openness and intention, even the simplest scene can become a quiet tribute, a farewell, or a beginning. The camera, after all, is just a vessel; it’s our presence that does the seeing.