ABOUT NICHOL

Not long ago I asked one of my best friends of over 25 years if she would just write my new bio for me. She then asked for the truth of myself, the raw, the real—not the polished kind. The kind that tastes like salt and regret. She wanted the dirt under the fingernails, the grief I buried in poems. So here I am. Unfiltered. Unfastened. Unapologetically me. Shattered soft like porcelain and kissed by thunder.

 

I’m from a large farm family in small-town Iowa, where cousins are named Crickett and the town bar answers to Fuzzy’s Place. It’s the soil I grew from—the rhythm of wide skies, stubborn fields, and a grit that sticks to your bones. It’s where I realized I’d have to make my own mark to truly stand out in the world.

My work shows you what I can do, the skill I’ve honed over decades, and my ability to capture the depth of another human being. You can see all of that on the website. But at over a half of a century old now, I’m less interested in a polished third-person bio than I am in speaking plainly about who I am, what I stand for, and how I move through the world.

I am a woman made of scars and silk. A survivor. A midnight storyteller. I believe in equal rights, hard truths, and the kind of karma that comes barefoot and bloodied. I am a missionary of human connection. A photojournalist who’s captured both life and death. A soul-seeker who can’t stand small talk.

I moved 21 times before the fourth grade. I’ve lost four babies, but brought three into this world with warpaint on. Even when storms and secrets rattle the walls, I make my home feel like a sanctuary— the kind where the bed is dressed with care, and the more of my people I have snuggled in the better. And I dance.

I show up for my people. I’ll be there when the tire blows out, or when your world falls apart and you are begging for someone to throw you a life preserver. I throw surprise parties in the form of ding-dong-ditching My Mama’s homemade rice pudding or Zuppa Toscana on a doorstep.

Pazole is my love language. Backyard fires and people who stay late? My altar. Deep connection? My religion.

My favorite kind of date night? Backgammon in bed, charcuterie boards and a good Old Fashioned in hand.  I feel healthier and more vibrant at 52 than I ever did at 20.

I wear words etched across my ribs that speak my truth—“beautifully broken, shaped by the wind.” They are memoirs I honor, the cost of change written in my bones—because silence has never been a sanctuary and it never saved anyone.

Some days my own skin feels like a stranger, but healing is patient—a slow unfolding, a soft unraveling. I’ve learned how fragile life is, so I cradle myself more gently now, even on the hard days.

I’ve worn the weight of goodbye more times than I care to say. I’ve seen the wreckage of earthquakes, tornadoes, and floods—Haiti, Joplin, Katrina—and learned the scent of death and what it steals from you. I’ve helped deliver babies and helped bury them, sometimes in the same day.

I know grief. It has carved my name in every room. I’ve buried parents, lovers, friends, and many versions of myself. Time is a thief and grief is a soul crusher. But I’m still here. Still laughing. Still loving. The world tried to burn me down, and I’m still setting tables for people who don’t even know they’re starving.

I am a professional photographer and artist of 25 years. I’ve been paid to capture the ache, the wonder, and the beauty of when generations collide in one small touch—the kind that makes every scar and sacrifice feel worth it. I freeze time for a living. I bend light to my will.

I am a spunky Ginger who loves life, art, passion, creating, and the kind of humor that sneaks into small moments.

Amor Fati. I embrace it all. I want a life that lingers. I want people who stay. Stories that haunt, not just entertain. I untangle, unlearn, unearth. And somehow, I always find my way back to the fire. 

Oh… and you can call me Niki.