There are days when I cannot see tomorrow. When I cannot imagine how I will make it through the week, let alone the month. The weight of unanswered questions gathers like storm clouds, thick and unrelenting, pressing in from all sides. The uncertainty coils around my chest, heavy, suffocating.
If I’m lucky, the first warning bell—like a distant rumble of thunder—shakes me out of my paralysis. And then, I go. I grab my camera, my shoes, fumbling to pull on my jacket as I reach the door. I barely manage to zip it up before the cold air seeps in. Not that I know exactly why I’m leaving. Not that I have a clear destination.
I don’t bring the camera because inspiration struck, because some creative vision is demanding to be captured. No. On days like this, my camera is not a tool—it’s a compass. It leads, pulling me forward when I don’t have the strength to do it myself. It drags my heavy thoughts into motion, guides me somewhere—anywhere—until the swirling fog in my mind begins to thin.
Slowly, the relentless "how" questions in my head start to fade. And in their absence, space opens for something more important: my "why."
Because that is always the real problem, isn’t it? The accumulation of unanswered "how" questions. How will I fix this? How will I move forward? How will I make it work? But the truth is, if you want something deeply enough—if your soul truly calls for it—the "how" is not your burden to carry.
The "how" is a distraction. It drowns out the "why." And yet, the surest way to move toward something, to manifest it into existence, is not by obsessing over how to make it happen. It is by knowing, with unshakable clarity, why you need it. Why it matters.
That is why I step outside. That is why I let my camera lead me into the quiet of the trees, where the wind moves through the branches like a whisper of reassurance.
As I step deeper into the forest, my pace slows. My thoughts slow. They fall away like autumn leaves, shedding from the weight of my mind. I let them go, unburdened. If they are important, if they belong to me, they will return. And if they don’t, then perhaps they were never truly mine to carry.
I breathe deeper. I see clearer. The smallest details—the rustling branches, the distant birdsong—begin to pull my attention away from the noise in my head. The world’s chaos fades into the background.
And in that stillness, in that sacred quiet, I remember: clarity does not come from chasing answers. It comes from making space for them to find you.
I don’t always take a photograph. Sometimes, I don’t even lift the camera. Some moments are meant to be captured by the soul, not by the lens. A fallen acorn, a withered leaf, a flower just beginning to emerge—some things are not meant to be framed but simply witnessed.
And that is enough.