Every love story has an origin, and it turns out studios do too. Ours starts, appropriately enough, with a client.
I'm Allie. I'm a wife, a mother of two, and (evidently) a person who cannot go more than a few days without dirt under her fingernails, a new trail to wander, or something growing in a garden bed. A few years ago, I moved to Washington state, and one of the very first people who booked me for a session was a woman named Georgie. She showed up, we hit it off immediately in that way you only get with a handful of people in your whole life, and somewhere between the first session and the late night chats together, I found out she used to work as a second shooter for another wedding photographer.
I would love to tell you I thought it over carefully. I did not. I knew, the way you sometimes just know things, that we were supposed to build something together. Not a "hire an assistant" kind of together. A real, equal, two-lead-photographers-on-every-wedding kind of together. So Moon and Palm was expanded, and Georgie, who spends her non-camera hours quilting, editing, beading, and (like me) losing entire afternoons to a garden she loves, became not just my business partner but my family.
Over the next two years, that's exactly what happened. We built a studio. We built a client list full of people who became genuine friends. And somewhere in there, without either of us quite noticing the exact moment it happened, we became each other's family too.
Which brings me to last April, and the trip that changed everything.
 
 
I grew up in South Carolina. My husband's military career took us all over, Virginia, Ohio, Washington state, a full decade of moving every few years to wherever the orders sent us. I'm not complaining. It gave us an incredible life and a front-row seat to more of this country than most people get. But last spring, I flew back home to visit family still living here, and something happened that I genuinely did not see coming. I got hit with a wave of homesickness so strong I could barely breathe through it. I called my husband from my parents' porch and told him, with zero room for negotiation, that we absolutely had to move home.
As it turned out, the timing could not have been better. My husband had just gotten out of the military. Ten years of moving, and for the first time, we actually got to choose where we landed. There was never really a question of where that would be.
I came home from that trip and told Georgie before I'd even fully unpacked my suitcase. Her response, and I am quoting this exactly, was: "When are we leaving, and can we share a U-Haul?"
That was it. That was the whole negotiation.
In under two months, we packed up two houses, wrapped up every last Washington session on the books, and said goodbye to the friends, clients, and family who had become our whole world out there (if you caught our last Washington post, the fairytale tea party, you already know just how hard that goodbye was). And then, because apparently we don't do anything the small way, we decided the move itself needed to be an adventure. So it became a full summer road trip: me, Georgie, our husbands, my two kids, my dog, and eleven national parks between Washington and South Carolina. We chased waterfalls, we got hopelessly lost at least twice, we ate gas station snacks in some genuinely stunning parking lots, and somewhere along all those miles, this move stopped feeling like an ending and started feeling like exactly what it was: the start of our next chapter.
 
 
Georgie, ever the plot twister, decided Washington wasn't the only thing she was leaving behind for good. She's now renting my mother's townhouse, and her husband works at the very same company my mother does. My best friend did not just move states with me. She moved into my hometown's life with me, roots and all.
As for me, I didn't just come home, I went further than that. I bought a homestead. After years of suburban life, we're now the kind of people who talk about blueberry yields and honey timelines over dinner, which is a genuinely funny turn of events for someone who used to consider a balcony herb garden ambitious. The transition from suburbs to farm life has been equal parts chaos and joy, and if you follow along, you'll be seeing plenty of it.
We've spent the last several months getting settled, unpacking boxes, learning the roads, figuring out where the good coffee is, and giving ourselves a little grace to land before diving back into work. But that season is over now, and we are so ready for what's next.
 
 
We miss our Washington clients fiercely, the ones who let us grow up alongside them, one wedding and one newborn session at a time. We miss those mountain views more than we expected to. But we are so unbelievably ready to meet the people of this state, this new (to Georgie, anyway) home, and to build the same kind of relationships here that we were lucky enough to build there.
So, South Carolina: hello. We're Allie and Georgie, two lead photographers, best friends, and now your neighbors. We can't wait to meet you.
 
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