At the beginning of 2018, we were disembarking after an 18-hour flight when Steve Hartman appointed. He had an idea: to photograph the still-intact bedrooms of children who had been killed in school shootings.

It’s a head. And six years later, I still don’t have an “elevator pitch” for the project – but then, I don’t talk about this project often. It’s by far the most difficult I’ve ever worked on.

When Steve, my friend of about 25 years, asked me if I wanted to be involved, I said yes without hesitation – even though I didn’t think we’d get any families to agree. There is no way I would have said no to partnering with him on this.

Emotionally, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through it. Within months I was on my way to Parkland, Florida. Single. I’m not sure I realized I’d be on my own.

But here I was. A commercial on location photographer focusing on people and pets to create compelling, candid, textured and connecting moments for big brands, according to my professional LinkedIn profile, on a project where there is no one to photograph them – for the most brutal of reasons.

How do you portray a child who isn’t there?

In each of these rooms for children — the most sacred of places for these families — had the feeling that the child had just been there and was coming right back. It was as if they had just left their room like that when they went to school in the morning and returned in the afternoon.

I wanted to capture that essence.

Most children’s bedrooms are their special places, and this one was no different. I looked everywhere, without touching anything. I photographed inside trash cans, under beds, behind desks. Their personalities shone through in the smallest details—hair ties on a doorknob, an uncapped tube of toothpaste, a torn ticket to a school event—allowing me to discover who they were.

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But there was an emotional challenge in addition to the creative one. Over the course of more than six years, I visited many families across the country. The parents I spoke to seemed grateful to be there. But every time I got a call or text from Steve about a new family, my heart sank.

It meant another family had lost a child.

I find it incomprehensible that children killed at school is even a problem. It doesn’t make sense. It is impossible to process. The night before each family visit, I didn’t sleep. And I knew I wasn’t going to get into the project. It is not a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s nerves. And empathy. And sadness. And fear.

In my notes from the beginning of the project in 2018, writing in seat 6H on the return flight from Nairobi, I reflected on the emotional toll ahead.

“This is going to be one of the hardest things ever, emotionally, for me, and not just work-related. As I read my research papers, I become visibly emotional,” I wrote, noting my gratitude that the dark cabin prevented other passengers from seeing me.

The prospect brought my own fears to the fore, both for me — “I can’t help thinking about Rose,” about my daughter, “what if. I lost sleep imagining what would be long before Parkland” — and about meeting the families in the project: “When I read about the plight of April & Phillip and Lori, I sort of, from -some reason, in their emotional position, although this is impossible, I have no idea, it’s beyond understanding, I don’t know what they feel, I don’t know what I’ll tell them, I’m scared everywhere.

But just a few days later, I was photographing the first assignment for the project: Alyssa Alhadeff’s camera. She was just 14 years old when she left that room to attend Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I was shaken by the meeting with the family friend who welcomed me home. Her daughter was Alyssa’s best friend, and a photo of the two girls was on the table.

According to my notes, “The room was the messy room of a handsome teenager. My emotions were kept in check as they usually are; hiding behind the camera. I took off my shoes before entering. My heart was pounding and it reverberated through my body and soul, I felt like I was in one of the most sacred and special places on Earth, I was so careful not to touch anything.”

I left feeling ready to explode with sadness and anger.

Later that day, I photographed Carmen Schentrup’s room. Her younger sister had survived the Parkland shooting, but Carmen, 16, was killed in her AP psychology class. Meeting her parents, April and Phillip, was what I dreaded the most.

“I feel so much pain and compassion for them and I don’t want to say the wrong thing, throw out clichés, etc.,” I wrote at the time. “I talked to Steve for guidance. He said, be you. That’s all I can do. Just be me. He was right, those three words got me through the whole project. Just be me.”

April let me in and I worked quickly, meeting only Phillip as I was leaving. “The conversation felt like all three of us trying to hold it together. I can’t imagine what they are going through, my heart aches for them. This was/is such a painful project, and reconciling it will be impossible.

“Thinking about how anything can happen to any of us at any time. Literally. You never know,” I wrote.

After only about 16 hours on the ground in Florida, I was done with the first portion. I felt the project was a must, but I also dreaded the next call from Steve about the next family. I didn’t know when that call would come – many years later, or even the next day, maybe never.

But last month, we – and the documentary crew that filmed us working – completed this project. Although I haven’t seen it yet, I know that Steve’s piece will not be a typical Steve Hartman segment. How could it be? I know he struggled too and we both spent a lot of time processing that.

I remember one evening in August I was devastated when I left the house of one of the families. Within minutes, we passed an ice cream shop crowded with other families – seemingly carefree, full of joy and laughter. The juxtaposition, just a few minutes apart, broke my soul.

I hope that in some way, somehow, this project can facilitate change – the only possible positive outcome that I could fathom. After the news cycle ends, these families will continue to live with an incomprehensible nightmare.

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