I'm a photojournalist. My mother is a journalist. My husband, Billy, is a photojournalist. His brothers are journalists. I know something about being related to a journalist.

I write today not as a photographer, but as a photographer's wife. When we married, Billy figured he was getting a huge break- surely a fellow photographer would understand the demands of his job.

Although I understand, I still complain.

Plans are always at risk. Vacation is frequently tentative. We can have company - but there is no guarantee that we'll be around to entertain them.

Every year, we wonder if we will spend the holidays with family.

Then there is the worrying. As a photographer, I say "How soon can I get there."

As a wife I say, "Why are you running toward it, when everyone else is running away?"

Last year it seemed like Billy was being sent from one dangerous place to another. Bloody border-town drug war? Hurricane? Flood? Billy is on his way.

He covered Hurricane Rita "on his way home" from covering Katrina.

He had so many hazardous assignments that we wondered if his editors were trying to knock him off.

He goes through the same thing.

Last June, Billy was sent to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, after the police chief was assassinated and the federales had a gunfight with the local cops. I was nervous.

But a week later, I was there. He was more than a little nervous when my car broke down, was stolen and then seized by the feds.

Photographers play martyr with stories about missed birthdays, holidays, etc. The truth is, it's our choice.

It is our families who have no choice. When we go to a hot spot to make the images of a lifetime, our spouses, parents, and kids spend hours imagining the worst.

On my 16th birthday three kids drowned on my mother's beat. She agonized over missing my birthday, but someone else's 16-year-old would never have another birthday, so she pushed those regrets aside to make sure that his story was told properly.

Looking back, I don't remember her being late to my party. I only remember being proud of the work she did.

We owe our families gratitude for putting up with all the chaos that we bring them. They make immense sacrifices so that we can have careers we enjoy.

My hat goes off to the families of all photojournalists.

You are our rock.