Kelli Durham shared her story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Hi Kelli, thank you so much for joining us today. We’re thrilled to learn more about your journey, values and what you are currently working on. Let’s start with an ice breaker: What do you think others are secretly struggling with—but never say?
I think many people—especially women and creatives—are silently struggling with their mental health. Whether it’s anxiety, depression, burnout, self-doubt, or grief, there’s often this unspoken pressure to “keep it together” and make life look beautiful and effortless, even when things feel really messy underneath. We live in a culture that rewards perfection and productivity, so admitting you’re not okay can feel vulnerable or even shameful. I see this often in motherhood, in entrepreneurship, and in creative fields where your identity and your work are so intertwined. But behind the curated images and accomplishments, so many people are carrying invisible weight. I believe the more we name that, the more space we create for real connection, compassion, and healing—not just for others, but for ourselves too.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
I’m Kelli—a photographer, creative, and mom. I capture everything from weddings and lifestyle portraits to brand stories, but at the heart of it, I simply love documenting meaningful moments in a beautiful, honest way. I’m passionate about helping people feel comfortable, confident, and truly seen.
I split my time between California and Texas and often travel for work, but no matter where I am, my goal is the same: to tell stories that feel timeless and genuine. After more than a decade in this work, it never gets old—because every person, every shoot, every season brings something new.
Lately, I’ve been exploring ways to blend creativity with wellness, motherhood, and entrepreneurship—things I’m both living and learning in real time. I’m excited about expanding my business to focus not just on beautiful images, but on building deeper connection and purpose through the work I create.
Great, so let’s dive into your journey a bit more. What part of you has served its purpose and must now be released?
O wow—great question. Hmm… I would have to say black-and-white thinking. That need for simplicity—while helpful at one time—no longer serves me.
When we’re younger, we naturally see the world in simpler terms. It’s a survival tool. That kind of thinking helps us feel safe and gives us a framework to navigate life. But as we grow—and experience love, loss, disappointment, and complexity—we begin to understand that things aren’t so clear-cut. Life is layered, and people are, too.
Letting go of that either/or mindset has been one of the most important (and humbling) parts of growing up. I see how often we, as a culture, still cling to this kind of thinking—especially in politics, on social media, and in the quick judgments we make about others without knowing their full story. It’s easy to fall into oversimplified narratives. The harder work is learning to sit in the grey, to ask better questions, and to make room for nuance.
Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward speaks to this so beautifully—the idea that the first half of life is about building identity, structure, and certainty, but the second half is about unlearning, surrender, and embracing paradox. I’m very much in that second half now. It’s messier, but it feels more honest—and far more freeing.
As an artist, and as a human, we have to evolve. We have to learn to hold tension, to tell truer stories, and to see others—and ourselves—in a fuller, more compassionate light.
What fear has held you back the most in your life?
If I’m honest, one of the biggest fears that’s followed me through life is the fear of suffering. Not just pain itself—but the heartbreak, the loss, the moments we can’t control or fix.
Not just physical pain, but the emotional kind—grief, loss, disappointment, watching someone you love hurt and not being able to fix it. I was exposed to that kind of pain early in life, having a close family member with a serious illness. I spent years trying to outrun it—trying to stay strong, hold things together, and find ways to heal or protect others so none of us would have to suffer again.
But the older I get, the more I understand that suffering comes with the territory of being alive. Parents age. Friends get sick. We live through loss, heartbreak, and uncertainty. No one makes it through life untouched.
I see it now more than ever in my home state of Texas—especially with the recent, devastating floods in the Hill Country. Families have lost children. Entire communities are grieving. And it’s a heartbreaking reminder that we don’t get to skip the hard parts. But we can choose how we move through them.
As a mother and artist, I’m learning that suffering doesn’t disqualify you from joy—it deepens your capacity for it. Aging means learning to let pain be a teacher, not just something to fear. It means using grief to sharpen your gratitude. It means choosing to live not in the past or in fear of the future, but right here in the present—fully awake to the beauty and heartbreak of it all.
And when the hard days come (because they always do), I try to remember: this is not the end of the story. There is light ahead. We are more resilient than we think. And we’re not alone.
So a lot of these questions go deep, but if you are open to it, we’ve got a few more questions that we’d love to get your take on. Whom do you admire for their character, not their power?
One person who’s always stood out to me is Mother Teresa. I have always loved her. She was what I’d call a little giant—small in stature, soft-spoken, but with a presence and strength that impacted the world in a profound way.
She didn’t seek power, platforms, or recognition. She simply served. She saw dignity in the most forgotten people, and gave her life to caring for the sick, the poor, the dying—with compassion, humility, and unwavering love. What’s always struck me about her is that she led with presence—not performance. Her influence came not from loudness, but from her deep integrity and commitment to the people right in front of her.
In a world that often celebrates charisma, success, or visibility, I find myself drawn to people like her—leaders who don’t chase power but carry character. People who listen before they speak, who act with quiet courage, and who remind us that true greatness often looks like small, hidden faithfulness.
To me, she was the kind of giant we need more of—one who loved without agenda, served without spectacle, and led through the strength of compassion.
Okay, so before we go, let’s tackle one more area. What is the story you hope people tell about you when you’re gone?
I hope they say I loved really well. That my husband, my son, my family, my friends—all knew how much I loved them, not just because I said it, but because I showed it.
I don’t need people to say I was impressive or successful. I hope they say I was kind. That I tried to be honest, even when it was uncomfortable. That I showed up. That I forgave. That I made people feel seen and safe.
I believe life is a gift—and it’s easy to make it all about ourselves. But the harder, more meaningful thing is to live in a way that costs you something: to choose compassion, integrity, generosity, loyalty. Not perfectly, but on purpose. That’s the kind of life I want to live.
Mother Teresa said, “True love, to be genuine, must cost us something.” I’ve always believed that. The people I admire most aren’t the loudest or most accomplished—they’re the ones who loved quietly, faithfully, and with their whole heart.
If people remember me for that—someone who maybe didn’t get it all right, but who loved big and tried her best—that’s enough for me.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://www.kellidurham.com
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kellidurhamphoto?igsh=MWw4aHp3NDJwMDYyOA%3D%3D&utm_source=qr
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kellidurhamphoto?mibextid=wwXIfr
