The Day I Learned How Fleeting Life Is
Some moments in life change everything.
For me, it was April 2nd, 2011—the day I lost my younger brother, Robbie.
He wasn’t just my brother.
He was my best friend.
My partner in crime.
The boy who could fill any space with laughter.
If Robbie was nearby, you were either laughing or trying not to. He had this magnetic energy—one of those rare souls who could brighten a whole room with nothing more than a cheeky grin.
There are so many memories I hold close, but one that still makes me laugh, happened when I was in my early teens.
I’d just watched a horror movie (Tooth Fairy—I love scary movies), and Mum asked me to take the rubbish out. It was pitch black outside. As I walked around the car, something charged at me on all fours, growling. I screamed and legged it, convinced I was about to be the next horror movie cliché. But then… laughter. From both sides of the car. Dad couldn’t breathe from laughing, and there was Robbie, rolling on the ground, proud as ever of the scare he gave me.
That was him—mischievous, hilarious, and unforgettable.
Robbie passed away doing what he loved most: riding his dirt bike. It’s a passion that runs through our family—Dad, me, and now Kash too. There’s something freeing about being on a bike, the wind in your face, the roar of the engine underneath you.
It’s where I still feel him most. Sometimes, when I’m riding, I imagine him beside me—cheering me on, keeping me safe.
My very own guardian angel in motocross boots.
And sometimes…
He shows up in more than just memory.
The Sign That Changed Everything
The day Robbie passed, something strange happened. A family of black cockatoos—rare and sacred birds—flew into our yard and took up residence in one of our tall trees. They stayed for nearly a month.
In some Indigenous cultures, black cockatoos are known as messengers. And while we’re not Indigenous ourselves, we have strong ties to families who are. That symbolism wasn’t lost on us.
Since then, the black cockie has become our connection to him. A symbol of presence, of guidance, of love that hasn’t gone anywhere—just changed form.
One day not long after he passed, I was out on the dirt bike, trying to work up the courage to hit a jump. I’d just overshot it and nearly went over the handlebars. I was shaking, frustrated, trying to push through the fear. And then—a black cockatoo flew right over me, squawking loud enough to make me stop. I rode back up to the house, put on some music, and the first song that came on… was one we played at Robbie’s funeral. That was the moment I knew.
He was still here.
Still watching over me.
Still riding with me.
Why This Work Matters
The hardest part, the part that stings all over again some days, is that I don’t have nearly enough photos of him.
There’s one I love—taken when we were kids on a beach in Cairns. We’re wild, free, barefoot, laughing like nothing else in the world mattered. It’s that photo that shaped how I work with children now. It’s why I let them lead. Why I let them be messy, silly, curious, and completely themselves.
Because that’s where the magic lives.
I don’t long for one particular missed photo. I mourn all the ones we’ll never have the chance to take. The birthdays. The milestones. The “just because” moments that never came. I ache for the memories that were never captured—because his life was cut short.
So now, with every click of my shutter, I think of that. I think of Robbie. Of what it means to freeze a moment in time before it becomes a memory.
“Don’t cry for me, I still ride free,
with the wind upon my face,
leather in black, the sun on my back,
a priceless gift of God’s grace.
I’ll never grow old, on these streets of gold,
chasing a majestic sunset,
and I still recall, how I love you all,
sweet memories I won’t forget.
And when your road ends, we’ll meet again,
inside the Pearly Gates,
and we’ll laugh awhile and go ride for miles,
but for now, Heaven can wait.
When you do get here, don’t shed one tear,
and think that I’m in hiding,
just search Heaven’s shore, where engines roar,
and you’ll find that I’ve gone riding.”
In Loving Memory,
Robbie Paul Dunne
12/01/1993 - 02/04/2011
Knees in the Breeze
If You’ve Been Waiting for a Sign—This is It
Book the session.
Let someone photograph your life—not the picture-perfect version, but the real, raw, beautiful chaos of it. The giggles, the grumbles, the muddy shoes and messy buns. Trust me when I say—if the toddlers are tantruming and the big kids are bickering… we’re still capturing something beautiful.
These are the moments your children will want to remember. The way you looked at them. The way they felt in your arms. The way their story began.
Whether it’s with me or another photographer, just book the damn session.
Because time moves too fast.
Because one day, a photo might be all you have left.
Because your story deserves to be remembered too.
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