A few years ago, a woman moved to a new country with two children under two years old.
The idea had felt exciting at first. It was a fresh start, a new place, a life by the sea. But that excitement faded quickly when she realized she did not know a single person. She had no friends to call. No family nearby. No one to sit with her on a hard day and just listen.
She was not prepared for that kind of loneliness. It was the deep, quiet kind that creeps in slowly. It was not dramatic or visible to anyone else. It was just a low hum of disconnection that followed her through the day. She had two beautiful children who needed her completely, and she was grateful for them every single day. But gratitude and loneliness can live in the same heart at the same time. She was learning that the hard way.
The hardest part was not the big moments. It was the small ones. The times she wanted to see a friend and remembered there was no one to call. They all lived in another country. The times one of her children got sick and she had no one to help. The times she watched other mothers laughing together at the park and felt invisible, even in a crowd.
Making new friendships takes time. Real ones, the kind that go deep, the kind where someone actually knows you, do not happen quickly. So she waited. And in the waiting, she started to disappear a little from herself.
She tried to meditate. Everyone said it would help. She downloaded the apps. She sat quietly. She tried to follow her breath. And she failed, repeatedly, in the most ordinary way. Her mind would not be still. She would sit there trying to find peace and instead find a running list of everything she had not done yet.
She still does not know how to meditate well. For a long time, she thought that meant something was wrong with her.
What she understands now is that she was not failing at presence. She was simply trying to enter it through a door that did not feel natural to her at that time. She needed movement before stillness. She needed color, air, curiosity, and something gentle to place her attention on.
Photography had always made her happy. Even before she understood why, there was something about picking up a camera that shifted her mood. It was like a quiet reminder that beauty existed and she was allowed to look for it. So one day, in the middle of all that loneliness, she picked up her camera again.
Not to create anything impressive. Not to build a portfolio or post something beautiful online. Just to go outside, walk, and see what she noticed.
She started breaking the rules she had been taught about photography. The composition. The light. The perfect shot. She became, in her own quiet way, a photography rebel.
She pointed her camera at whatever caught her eye, however imperfect, however small. A shadow on a wall. The color of the sea on a particular afternoon. The texture of something ordinary she had passed a hundred times without seeing.
Something happened that she had not expected. Not because she forced it. Not because she was following any technique or program. But because creativity, she discovered, gave her worry less room to take over. When you are truly looking, really noticing what is in front of you, deciding how to frame it, feeling curious about the light, your mind is too busy being alive to be anxious. Too busy playing to be sad.
She calls it getting into the happy zone. That place where you forget, temporarily, about the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt. There was guilt too. The particular guilt that can come when someone depends on you completely. The feeling that you are not entitled to take time for yourself. That stepping away, even for fifteen minutes, is somehow a betrayal.
But she kept going back. Because she came home different every time. Lighter. More present. More herself. Ready for the next day, the next small demand, the next moment of ordinary beauty that she might have missed if she had not trained herself to look.
Mindful photography gave her back something she did not know she had lost. Her own attention. Not just attention to the world around her, but attention to herself. The practice of noticing outward beauty slowly taught her to notice her own inner state. To check in. To ask: what do I need today? And to answer honestly: fifteen minutes outside with her camera and the willingness to be playful.
She says you do not need to be a photographer. You do not need an expensive camera or a beautiful location or any technical skill at all. You just need your phone and fifteen minutes and the willingness to look for one thing. One color. One shadow. One small detail that catches your eye today.
Let yourself be curious about it. Let yourself be a little bit rebellious with it. Forget the rules. Forget the perfect shot. Just notice. Just play.
Because sometimes the thing that brings you back to yourself is not stillness. Sometimes it is the simple act of looking up and seeing what was there all along.
Maja Kerin is an award-winning fine art photographer and founder of Your Daily Pause, a mindful photography practice that helps people slow down, notice, and reconnect through simple creative pauses.
