These are the questions I hear most often, and the answers might surprise you.

There’s a moment I see in almost every inquiry.

It’s not about the location or what to wear—it’s the hesitation.

“My dog doesn’t sit still…”
“What if they don’t behave?”
“I’m not sure they’ll cooperate…”

And the truth is—those concerns are exactly why these sessions matter.

Because the goal was never a perfectly posed dog.

It’s to capture who they are… the way they move, the way they look at you, the small, unspoken things that make them yours.

“My dog won’t sit still… can you still get good photos?”

Yes—and honestly, that’s where the best images come from.

Dogs aren’t meant to move in straight lines or hold perfect poses. They shift, they watch, they wander, they react. That energy is part of their personality.

I don’t try to stop that—I work with it.

Some of my favorite images happen in between the expected moments… when a dog pauses for just a second, turns toward their person, or moves through the landscape in a way that feels completely natural.

That’s where the story lives.

“What if my dog doesn’t behave perfectly?”

They don’t need to.

There’s no expectation of perfection in my sessions. In fact, the idea of a “perfectly behaved dog” often works against what we’re trying to create.

What matters more is comfort.

When a dog feels safe, familiar, and unpressured, their true personality starts to show—and that’s what we’re after.

A curious dog.
A loyal dog.
A playful or watchful or steady presence beside you.

That’s what makes an image meaningful.

“My dog isn’t a specific breed… does that matter?”

Not at all.

Some of the most meaningful images I’ve created have been of dogs without a defined breed—because what makes a photograph powerful isn’t pedigree, it’s presence.

It’s the way they look at you.
The way they move through the world.
The quiet bond you share that doesn’t need explanation.

There’s something especially honest about dogs who are simply themselves, without expectation or label.

I’m not looking for a certain kind of dog—I’m drawn to the connection between you.

Because this isn’t about photographing a “type” of dog.

It’s about photographing your dog.

“Where do sessions take place?”

Where the story feels most like them.

For some, that’s home—on the porch, in the yard, in the spaces they know best.
For others, it’s a trail, open land, or somewhere they run free and fully themselves.

Many of my sessions take place across Montana, from quiet ranch land to open trails near Helena and Bozeman.

The land matters.
The space matters.
Where the photograph is taken shapes how it feels.

“What makes your sessions different?”

My approach is unhurried and observant.

I’m not focused on directing every movement or creating a checklist of poses. Instead, I pay attention—to how your dog moves, how they respond to you, where they naturally settle.

That allows moments to unfold instead of being forced.

There’s a rhythm to every session. Sometimes it’s quiet and steady. Sometimes it’s full of motion and energy.

Either way, the goal is the same:
to create images that feel honest—not staged.

If this approach resonates with you, you can learn more about the experience or reserve your session here.

“How do you capture my dog’s personality?”

By giving them space to be themselves.

Every dog has a different presence. Some are expressive and outward. Others are subtle—found in the way they stay close, or watch quietly from just a step behind.

Capturing that isn’t about commands—it’s about awareness.

It’s noticing the small shifts.
The way they look at you.
The moments they return to you without being called.

Those details are easy to miss in everyday life—but they’re everything in a photograph.

“What should I do to prepare?”

Keep it simple.

There’s no need to overtrain or rehearse. In fact, the less pressure you place on the situation, the better the experience will be—for both of you.

Bring what feels familiar:

• a favorite toy
• a well-worn leash
• something that helps them settle

And beyond that—just show up.

I’ll guide the rest.

“When is the right time to book?”

There’s never a perfect time.

But there is a right time—and it’s usually sooner than we think.

Dogs change quickly. Not always in obvious ways, but in the small things… the way they move, the way they carry themselves, the way they stay close.

Those are the moments worth preserving.

Not someday.
Not when everything feels ideal.

But now—while it’s still them as you know them today.

A Final Thought

The images people hold onto the most are rarely the perfectly posed ones.

They’re the ones that feel like something.

A glance.
A quiet moment.
A connection that doesn’t need explanation.

If you’ve been thinking about capturing your dog in a way that reflects who they truly are, I’d be happy to talk with you about what that could look like.  

Have any questions I would love to hear from you! Reach out on my contact page. Every question matters!

Stay tune for my next blog: What It’s Really Like to Work With Me from a clients experience. 

It tells you.

-25 degrees.
The kind of cold where your breath hangs in the air… and your fingers start questioning your life choices.

We had just stepped out of the van when we saw him—our first sighting of the day. A bull moose, steady and quiet, moving through the frozen landscape like the cold didn’t apply to him.

Everyone moved fast. Cameras up. Gloves on, gloves off. Hands tucked away between shots, trying to hold onto just a little warmth.

And then—mine fell apart.

Not the camera.
The tripod.

Brand new. Never used.
And somehow, in the cold and the rush, I managed to unscrew one of the legs completely off.

I just stood there for a second, holding pieces of it, feeling that wave of panic rise.

There was no time for this.
No room for mistakes.
And definitely no warmth to soften the moment.

I remember thinking I might cry…
although at -25, let’s be honest—that tear would’ve frozen solid before it made it halfway down my face. Not exactly helpful.

For a split second, I thought about it.
Walking back to the van. Sitting in the heat. Giving up on the moment altogether.

But then something shifted.

One of the photographers in the group stepped in—calm, experienced, and kind. He had the same tripod. Without hesitation, he helped me fix it, both of us fumbling with frozen metal and numb fingers.

It wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t graceful.
But it worked.

And just like that, I was back.

Back in the cold.
Back in the moment.
Back in front of something worth staying for.

The moose never rushed.
Never reacted.
He simply moved forward—steady, grounded, completely at ease in a world that felt anything but easy to us.

And standing there, I realized something.

How often do we step away too soon?

When things don’t go right.
When something falls apart.
When it’s uncomfortable, frustrating, or just plain hard.

Nature doesn’t do that.

It doesn’t quit because it’s cold.
It doesn’t turn back when things don’t go as planned.
It adapts. It endures. It continues.

That morning, I chose to do the same.

And this image is a reminder—for me, and maybe for you too:

You don’t have to have it all together.
You don’t need the perfect start.

You just have to stay.

Because sometimes the moment you’re about to walk away from…
is the one that stays with you.

There is a reason my photography business is called Grateful Journeys Photography.

I almost didn’t bring my camera on this trip.
Between radiation recovery and very limited energy, photography felt like more effort than inspiration—until a Yellowstone bison standing in the winter mist reminded me why I never truly stop seeing.

The name didn’t come from a marketing strategy or a branding exercise. It came from life. It came from learning that every day—no matter how easy or difficult—is still a gift. Some days that gift arrives wrapped in sunshine and laughter. Other days it comes wrapped in challenge, uncertainty, and storms.

But it is still a gift.

Photography is one of the ways I live out that gratitude. It allows me to pause long enough to notice the beauty that still exists in the middle of everything.

A deeply rooted passion of mine—whether through my fine art images or my pet photography sessions—is to create experiences where others can step into a joyful moment in time. Whether that moment happens on the back of a horse, alongside beloved pets, or within the rhythm of ranch life, I want people to experience something unforgettable. Moments that feel larger than life itself, yet deeply personal. Moments that remind us just how beautiful life really is.

Over the past few months, my own journey has included a recurring brain tumor and, most recently, six weeks of radiation. Recovery continues, and some days are easier than others. I’ve learned that healing, much like life, rarely moves in straight lines.

Which brings me to this photograph.

I chose a black and white image of a bison standing in the thermal mist of Yellowstone. At first glance, it might seem like an unusual choice to represent gratitude. There’s no vibrant sunset, no colorful wildflowers, no dramatic mountain glow.

Instead, the color has been stripped away.

And yet, there is something beautifully honest about that.

Black and white photography reveals the raw and authentic essence of a moment. Without color, textures become stronger, light becomes more meaningful, and what remains is simply truth.

Now here’s where a little humor enters the story.

The bison happens to be my favorite animal to photograph. They are powerful, resilient creatures that endure some of the harshest conditions imaginable.

And recently, I realized the bison and I might share something in common.

If you look closely, bison only carry thick hair on certain parts of their bodies. The rest can look a little… patchy.

Radiation has given me a somewhat similar hairstyle at the moment.

So you could say we’re both embracing a slightly unconventional look this season.

But humor aside, there is something deeply meaningful about this scene.

In winter, bison often gather near thermal areas because the warmth keeps the ground from freezing completely. That means food is easier to reach. While the rest of the landscape is locked in snow and ice, these areas provide nourishment.

They intentionally seek the place where warmth exists in the middle of winter.

That thought has stayed with me.

Storms come in many forms—illness, uncertainty, grief, exhaustion. And while we can’t always control those storms, we can choose where we go to be nourished within them.

For me, that nourishment has been my faith.

Just as the bison instinctively move toward the thermals in winter, I have found myself drawn closer to God during difficult seasons. Faith has become a place of warmth, strength, and quiet sustenance when life feels cold, stripped away and uncertain.

The mist in this photograph reminds me of that truth.

It holds both storm and beauty at the same time.

Even in the middle of harsh conditions, life continues. Strength continues. Beauty continues.

Sometimes the journey strips away color.

But what remains is something deeper, something more authentic.

I am grateful for the bison’s appearance in this metaphoric landscape not so commonly seen.

You see, I had no intention of taking my camera out on this trip. It simply felt too difficult—an amount of energy and concentration I didn’t feel I had at the time.

But when I saw this scene and what it reflected to me, something shifted.

The mist, the quiet strength of the bison, the resilience of life in winter—it all felt familiar somehow. It reminded me that even in difficult seasons, there is still beauty waiting to be seen.

Sometimes the moments we think we are too tired to capture become the ones that remind us why we keep going.

And for that moment—and for this journey—I am deeply grateful.

Sometimes gratitude isn’t found after the storm—it’s discovered right in the middle of it

Fine Art Print Availability

Fine art prints of this image are available. If you are interested, please reach out through my contact page.

February is often associated with hearts, flowers, and gestures of love. This year, for me, it carries a deeper meaning.

I am currently walking through a season of radiation treatment. One of the more visible side effects has been losing my hair—something that may seem small on the surface, but represents a very real loss of control, identity, and normalcy. It’s humbling. It’s vulnerable. But it has revealed a deeper purpose behind the work I’m called to do.

This season has reminded me how deeply connected we are—to our stories, to the moments we choose to preserve, and to the quiet companions who walk beside us every day. For so many of us, that companion is a beloved pet.

Why February Pet Sessions Matter

During this time, my own dog has been a constant source of comfort. No questions. No expectations. Just presence. And that presence matters more than we often realize.

That is why, throughout the month of February, I’m offering Pet Photography Sessions with Purpose.

Rather than a traditional sale, I wanted this to reflect what truly matters to me right now:

• Honoring love in its most genuine form

• Giving back during a season of personal challenge

• Creating something meaningful that lasts well beyond this moment

For every pet session booked in February, 20% will be donated to Locks of Love, a nonprofit that provides hairpieces to individuals experiencing medical hair loss. This cause is deeply personal to me, and one I now understand from the inside.

What These Sessions Are Really About

Yes, you will receive thoughtfully created, hand-edited images of your pet. But these sessions are about more than photographs.

They are about:

• Celebrating the quiet loyalty that carries us through life’s hardest seasons

• Preserving a chapter of your story exactly as it is right now

• Choosing intention over discounts, and purpose over promotion

Sessions purchased in February may be scheduled for a future date within six months, allowing flexibility while still supporting this cause during a meaningful time.

A Note from the Heart

This season has taken some things from me, but it has also clarified what remains steady: love, connection, and gratitude.

If you choose to book a session this February, know that you’re not just investing in photographs. You’re participating in something rooted in compassion, resilience, and shared humanity.

Thank you for being here.
Thank you for supporting Grateful Journeys.
And thank you for allowing me to continue creating, even in the midst of change.

With gratitude,

Kim

By Kim Mulholland – Grateful Journeys Photography

There are some stories that don’t just belong to a season — they belong to the heart. As Advent begins and the world enters its quiet weeks of waiting, I find myself reflecting on the one who has taught me more about Hope than any sermon, scripture, or sunrise ever could.

Her name is Hope.
And she quite literally walks behind me.

The Little One Left Unpicked

Nine years ago, when I brought her home, she was the last pup in her litter — unpicked, unnoticed, still waiting. I didn’t know it then, but she wasn’t waiting for just anyone.
She was waiting for me.

Choosing the name “Hope” felt simple at the time, like choosing a word I wanted more of in my life. It wasn’t until much later that I would understand how perfectly it fit her — and how much I would come to lean on that tiny word.

The One Who Never Leaves My Side

If you’ve ever walked a trail with us, you know this about her:
Hope is always right behind me.

Every hill, every winding path, every golden sunrise or snowy Montana morning — I turn to look, wondering where she is, and she is there. Always.

She doesn’t rush ahead.
She doesn’t wander.
She simply stays — steady, quiet, faithful.

And when she looks up at me with those warm brown eyes, they shimmer like little stars. A constellation that seems to say, “I’m here. Keep going.”

A Photograph Taken Before Everything Changed

One of my favorite photographs of us — the one you see here — was taken just three weeks before I was diagnosed with my brain tumor.
Three weeks before my world shifted.
Three weeks before the hardest chapter of my life began.

I look at that image now with a depth of gratitude that words can hardly hold.

Because when the journey became steep and frightening, Hope did what she had always done:
She walked right behind me.
Every day.
Every step.

Her presence became a living reminder of her name — not just a word, but a promise.

The Gift of Advent Hope

As we enter this first week of Advent, traditionally centered on Hope, I’m reminded of something tender and true:

Hope often arrives quietly.

Not in fireworks.
Not in grand gestures.
But in the stillness…

Just like Jesus did — not in a palace, not with fanfare, but in a manger in a humble stable, under a quiet sky.
Hope came softly then, and it still does now.

Sometimes Hope has warm fur and starry eyes.
Sometimes Hope shows up in the form of a dog who walks faithfully behind you on every trail.
Sometimes Hope prepares you long before you know why you’ll need it.

And sometimes Hope chooses you

A Light for the Path Ahead

The scripture guiding this week of Advent holds more meaning for me now than ever:

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” — Psalm 119:105

Hope doesn’t always illuminate the entire journey.
Sometimes it just lights the very next step.
Sometimes it follows right behind you — steady, gentle, and sure.

Thank You for Walking With Me

If this story resonates with you, I’d love to hear who or what has been a quiet source of Hope in your life.

May this Advent season meet you gently, and may Hope — in all the ways it shows up — walk right beside you.

There are moments in life when a photograph becomes more than a photograph—when it becomes a mirror, a reminder, and a companion on our journey. This image of the historic Triple Arch Bridge outside of Asheville, NC, taken in the autumn of 2021, is one of those for me.

My husband brought me to this spot on a morning when I was struggling—emotionally, physically, and spiritually—through the early stages of recovery from brain tumor surgery. I remember feeling hollowed out, exhausted by pain, and unsure of how to rebuild myself. But as soon as I heard the flow of the water and saw those arches rising out of stone and time, something shifted.

The bridge didn’t look quite the same even then, worn and weathered by storms—two hurricanes in recent years had carved their mark into it. Still, it stood. And that mattered to me in a way I wouldn’t understand fully until years later.

Bridges have always held symbolic weight for me:

A symbol of connection.
They link the known with the unknown—places, people, stages of life. They remind us that even when the path ahead feels uncertain, there is a way across.

A symbol of transition.
A bridge is where “before” becomes “after.” It holds the space between what we leave behind and what we are moving toward. In 2021, recovering from surgery, I lived in that in-between more than ever.

A symbol of resilience.
The Triple Arch Bridge was built in 1937, long before I ever walked its edge or photographed its strength. It has endured decades of storms, floods, and time itself. It has changed, but it still stands—different, yet still purposeful. I feel a kinship with that.

A symbol of nostalgia and quiet history.
Old bridges are silent witnesses. They carry the weight of every story that has crossed them. In that moment, standing by the rushing water, I realized I was becoming one of those stories too.

Yesterday, I was reminded of the meaning this photo carries—not just for me, but for others. A staff member at my neurosurgeon’s office told me how much this image means to patients and to the team who see it every day in the waiting area. I hadn’t expected that… but it touched me deeply.

And now, life brings me full circle once more. My most recent MRI scan shows some new growth, and I’ll be returning to NC, that same office soon to begin my next phase of treatment. Thankfully, no surgery is needed this time. I will be okay. I am okay.

But the timing of that comment—the staff member telling me how meaningful this bridge image is—felt like a gentle nudge from the universe:
Remember what this bridge means. Remember that you’ve crossed hard things before. Remember that you are still standing.

Just like the Triple Arch Bridge.

Changed, but strong. Weathered, but still beautiful. Enduring, but never alone.

And perhaps that is the real story behind this photograph: not just a landscape, not just a structure—but a reminder of resilience, transition, and connection that continues to guide me as I step onto the next bridge ahead.

There’s something about dirt forest roads that has always called to me. Maybe it’s the way they curve out of sight, inviting imagination and quiet wonder. They’re full of promise — a journey of winding turns, stillness, and unexpected beauty.

It was along a road much like this that my photography journey truly began. My first well-known image — the one that made me realize I could tell stories through my lens — was born on such a path. So, standing here once again, umbrella in hand beneath the soft rain, I felt a deep sense of reflection and gratitude. Gratitude for the journey I haven’t given up on, even when it’s been anything but straight.

The larch trees that surrounded me that day were blazing with color — fiery gold against the gray. And yet, I chose to strip away the vibrance, to let the scene fall into tones of shadow and light. Because sometimes, in removing color, we see more clearly into the depths of our own soul — where true color always lives.

I edited this image in a cinematic tone, not to dramatize the moment, but to honor its quiet truth. This was a pause between where I’ve been and where I’m still going — a reminder that beauty exists not just in what we see, but in what we feel.

And maybe that’s something worth pondering:
What road have you been traveling that’s shaped who you are today?
Where might it be leading next, if you keep walking with heart?

Because sometimes, the most meaningful moments find us when we simply let them.

Autumn has always been my season.

Maybe it’s because I married the love of my life, David, in October — when the air turns crisp enough to make you reach for a sweater and someone’s hand. Every year as the leaves begin to change, I feel our vows flicker through my mind like candlelight. Not on a specific date — but in a feeling. A knowing. A gratitude that I get to walk through another season beside him.

But even before that, I think my soul was wired for fall.

It’s the sound before anything else — the rustling shimmer of aspen leaves dancing like tiny brass bells in the breeze. It’s the smell of woodstove fires curling through the evening air, clinging to hair and flannel. It’s the labor and reward — gathering the last of the greenhouse harvest,drying, preparing. There is satisfaction in the work well done, in knowing we will taste summer’s sweetness all winter long.

Autumn is both celebration and preparation. 

Seeing Deeper Than the Color

People often talk about fall in broad strokes — “Look at those colors!” they say. And yes, I see the blaze of orange, the deep reds, the gold against storm-blue skies. And trust me — I took those sweeping landscape shots too. You can’t stand in front of the Tetons and not press the shutter.

But that wasn’t where my heart settled.

While most photographers would have stayed focused on the grand view, I felt something tugging at me to look closer. To go beyond the obvious. So after capturing the classic scene, I stepped away from the postcard and turned my lens downward. Inward.

I searched for what made the landscape feel alive — the texture, the tangle, the tapestry beneath it all. Because autumn isn’t just color. It’s movement. It’s emotion. It’s quiet fire.

That’s how Autumn Tapestry was born — not from the view, but from the feeling behind it.

Wildlife Knows What We Forget

Animals move differently this time of year. There’s a tug in the belly — urgency. Elk call into the dusky air. Bison graze harder, longer. Birds gather in restless congregations. Winter coats begin to thicken on backs that were sleek just weeks ago — a quiet armor growing day by day.

And yet, even in their preparation, there is joy.

On the warm afternoons between frosts, I still see the summer babies — kicking up their heels, bursting into little fits of zoomies as if the world has no edges. It gets me every time. There’s nothing like watching a calf or colt buck and spin with full body joy while its mother keeps grazing, utterly unfazed. It’s impossible not to smile.

The whole world hums with purpose — but not panic. They know winter is coming, and yet they don’t fear it. They prepare for it... and they still dance in the in-between.

There’s a lesson in that.

A Season of Faith and Fire

Spiritually, autumn always draws me closer to God. Maybe because gratitude comes easier this time of year. Not just for the sweetness — but for the challenges too. Because both are teachers. Both refine me. Both remind me I am held — not only in sunshine, but in the lengthening shadow as well.

I think that’s why I photograph fall so fiercely. Because it mirrors us — vibrant, fleeting, imperfect, resilient.

If You’ve Been Waiting for a Sign…

If you’ve been thinking about scheduling an autumn session — with your dog, your horse, your farm or ranch— let me gently say:

Do it.

The grasses will soon turn to frost. The leaves will crumble. The golden light will give way to gray.

But the moments you save now?

They’ll burn warm for years.

You don’t need to know the perfect location or what to wear or whether your dog will cooperate — that’s my job. All you need to do is say yes to this season before it slips away.

Reach out. Let’s make art  — while autumn is still singing.