You never met a stranger. Some people ease into a room, but you? You belonged the second you stepped in. No hesitation. No half-measures. Just all in. You gave this rodeo thing your heart. I watched you move through the tension that dims most people’s light balancing providing for your family while chasing white lines down the highway to do what you loved. And through it all, you were present. Fully there. The two-steps at the zydeco after the Easter rodeo, the laughter, the way you rode with freedom at the trail rides. All the miles you put in on that single cab Dodge, chasing something bigger than yourself.

You fought for your last name. Wore it like a badge, carried it like a weight that never bent you only made you stronger. A name isn’t just given; it’s built, protected, passed down. And you carried yours with certainty, like a well-worn hat that just fit.

In my photography journey, I’ve learned something about devotion. That thin line between delusion and dedication the kind that makes a man push past exhaustion, past reason, just because he believes. Devotion belongs to the ones who show up, who keep riding, who give everything because they don’t know how to live any other way.



Something about you was familiar. You felt like family, and I’ve only known you for three years. Who you were and what you left behind is why I do this. Thinking about your life makes my own path my why make more sense.



You were a cowboy through and through. The comfort, joy, and familiarity you carried remind me of home and what I aspire to always bring with me.

Thank you, bro.