After the Negenmaandenbeurs in Amsterdam 2026, what stayed with me

I have just come back from the Negenmaandenbeurs in Amsterdam 2026, and it feels different writing now that I have actually walked those halls.

Last year, I was freshly postpartum. The year before, I did not even know such a fair existed. Family planning was still a quiet conversation between two people, not a visible reality. This February was my first time stepping into it as a mother. Not pregnant. Not preparing. But carrying a whole year of lived experience in my body.

There was a strange thought that stayed with me as I walked in. I wished I had been able to attend when I was expecting. To see the products. To ask the questions. To listen to the talks with that specific mixture of anticipation and uncertainty.

And yet, maybe I needed to see it now.

A relaxed Saturday, and space to observe

For a Saturday towards the end of the day, the atmosphere was surprisingly calm. Not frantic. Not overwhelming. There was movement, of course, but it felt measured. Conversations unfolded without rush. People stood at stands without being pushed from behind.

I found myself observing more than shopping. Watching how couples leaned towards each other when reading information. How a hand instinctively rested on a belly during a talk. How someone sat down simply because standing had become heavy.

These gestures say more than any product description ever could.

I also captured several images, but not of people. I avoided the crowd deliberately. Instead, I photographed baby bed layouts, carefully styled displays, and close ups of fabrics. Cotton muslin folded with intention. Tiny blankets arranged under soft light. The textures were honest and tactile. In many ways, those details felt more intimate than photographing faces in a busy hall.

The quiet presence of photographers

What struck me most was how small the presence of photography felt at the fair. There were two fellow photographers with booths, carving out their space among larger brands. And there were two foundations whose work moved me deeply.

One foundation offers free photography services for families with prematurely born babies. Another supports parents who have lost their child too early. Their presence was not loud. It was steady. Compassionate. Necessary.

I stood there for a moment longer than I expected. It takes courage to make this kind of work visible in a public space. It takes even more to volunteer your craft in moments where time feels fractured and fragile.

I deeply admire the photographers who give their time in those situations. In those hours, memory can be blurred by shock, exhaustion, or grief. Images become anchors. Proof that this life, however brief, was here.

This subject touches me personally. It sits quietly in my heart. I left the fair considering something that had been forming for a while. For every maternity and newborn session at OLA LAB, I am thinking of donating a small amount to support this kind of work. It feels like a way to extend the circle. Not loudly. Just consistently.

Heirlooms, in many forms

One of the strongest impressions I carried home was how powerful physical heirlooms still are.

Beyond albums and print boxes, there were makers offering 3D belly sculptures. Casts of pregnant torsos, capturing the exact curve and volume of that temporary shape. I remember standing in front of one and thinking, I should have done this too.

There is something almost archaeological about it. A preserved form. A tangible record of a body that was carrying life.

There were also delicate 3D sculptures of baby hands and feet. Some small enough to fit in the palm. Others mounted in frames. Even full family hand casts, where several hands intertwined and were preserved together. They were undeniably adorable, but also deeply symbolic.

A baby’s hand changes so quickly. Within weeks, the softness shifts. Fingers stretch. The reflexive curl disappears. To hold a cast of that stage feels like holding time itself.

Heirlooms are not about nostalgia for its own sake. They are about continuity. About giving the future something solid to touch.

Wooden boxes, and supporting local makers

For those who have seen my heirloom range for maternity and newborn sessions, you know how much care I place on what happens after the gallery is delivered.

At the fair, I found a local supplier “Houtenherinnering” who creates premium wooden heirloom boxes, engraved and printed with exceptional precision. The quality was stunning. The wood felt substantial. The engraving was refined. The print finish was beautiful without being overly glossy.

It was grounding to see these boxes in real life and to speak with the owner directly. To understand the craftsmanship. To ask questions about sourcing and process. Supporting local entrepreneurs in this way feels aligned with how I want OLA LAB to evolve.

I am genuinely looking forward to adding these boxes to the newborn heirloom range. Not as an upgrade, but as an extension of intention.

Analog traces and why I still print

It was unexpectedly joyful to see Fujifilm with their Instax booth. The small instant prints. The familiar sound of a photo sliding out.

I regularly take analog photos of my daughter. She already has her own album. A simple one. She can flip through it and see her own changes. Her own expressions. Her own growth.

There is something important in that act.

In a digital world where thousands of images disappear into folders, holding a physical print creates a trace. It says, this happened. You were this small. You looked at me like this.

This is the essence of why I photograph.

Not for perfection. Not for performance. But for continuity. For a child to one day open a box, a sculpture, or an album and recognise themselves in a moment they cannot consciously remember.

Looking back differently

Attending the Negenmaandenbeurs in Amsterdam 2026 as a mother, rather than as a pregnant woman, shifted my perspective. I was less focused on what I might need and more aware of what I wish I had known.

I wished I had seen more about recovery. More about slowing down. More about memory keeping beyond milestone cards.

And yet, fairs reflect what we collectively value at a given moment. The presence of remembrance foundations shows that space is being made for difficult stories. The presence of heirloom makers shows that depth still has a place among convenience.

As I stepped outside into the February air, I felt grateful that I went now. With lived experience softening the noise.

When is the right moment to photograph this season

Walking through the fair, seeing belly sculptures and tiny hand casts, I kept thinking about timing.

Pregnancy feels long while you are inside it. Then suddenly it is over. The body shifts again. The curve softens. The sensation of carrying life becomes memory.

For maternity photography, I often find the most comfortable and visually present window sits between week 28 and week 34. The belly is beautifully defined, but movement is still natural. Energy is usually steadier than in the final weeks. It is a moment where anticipation is visible, but not yet overtaken by physical heaviness.

Newborn photography carries a different rhythm. The first two to three weeks after birth hold a very particular softness. Hands still curl instinctively. Sleep drifts in and out. The scale of everything feels almost unreal. Later sessions are equally meaningful, but those early days carry a fragile stillness that never quite returns.

None of this is rigid. Babies arrive on their own timeline. Bodies recover differently. But having a gentle sense of these windows can help you leave space in your calendar before life fills it for you.

Whether through a maternity session, a newborn session, a wooden heirloom box, or even a small analog print tucked into an album, what matters most is this: you chose to keep a trace.

Because one day, these fleeting details will feel astonishingly small.