The other day I was doing what millions of us do when we should probably be doing something more productive—I was scrolling through Pinterest. Every once in a while, a quote jumps out at me, but most of them are forgotten before I reach the next pin. This one was different. It simply said,
“It’s not about being good at creativity. It’s about creativity being good for you.”
I stopped scrolling and read it again. Then I read it a third time. The funny thing was, it wasn’t telling me something I didn’t already know. It was putting words to something I’d been living for years without ever realizing it.
If you had asked me twenty years ago why I loved photography, I probably would have given you a very practical answer. I enjoy beautiful landscapes. I like learning the technical side of cameras. I love the challenge of being in the right place at the right time. Eventually it became my business, so of course that became part of the answer too. Over the years I’ve sold stock photographs around the world, watched people buy prints of incredible landscapes for their homes, taken beautiful images of new families starting their lives, and now I spend part of my time teaching beginners how to understand the cameras sitting in their closets. Those are all perfectly good reasons to love photography.
But the older I get, the more I realize they were never the whole story.
Photography has quietly been taking care of me for a very long time.
I didn’t really understand that until I looked back over my life. There have been incredible adventures—years of traveling the country with my husband in our RV, standing on mountain overlooks before sunrise, wandering lonely beaches, and discovering little country roads that most people drive right past. Those memories are precious to me, but they’re only part of the story. The deeper truth is that photography has been shaping the way I experience life itself.
Several years ago, I became critically ill with sepsis. It nearly killed me. What followed was open-heart surgery and a long road back to feeling like myself again. Anyone who has lived through a serious illness knows that healing isn’t just about your body. Your confidence takes a hit. Your energy disappears. Even your identity feels uncertain for a while. You begin wondering if you’ll ever be the person you used to be.
Looking back now, I don’t think my camera healed me.
I think it helped me find my way back to myself.
In fact, while I was laying in my hospital bed, scared shitless at my impending open heart surgery, I told my husband to bring me my camera. And I took that camera out to the front of the hospital and took pictures of all the flowers in the containers all over the place by the entrance to the hospital. Are they great pictures – HELL NO! Do I care – nope! They were my therapy at a time when my mind just needed to reset – and it worked. It calmed me down for that short time that I was outside taking photos – my brain shut off for a short while, which was a very good thing at the time, because when I tell you I was TERRIFIED, I’m not kidding. I. was. terrified.
These 2 images are a couple of the ones I took that day. They’re not great, but they’re great to me!
During my recovery, there were days when I didn’t have much energy, but I could manage a slow walk if I had my camera around my neck. Suddenly I had a reason to get outside. I had a reason to pay attention. Instead of thinking about doctor’s appointments or medications or everything my body couldn’t do, I found myself watching the light filtering through the trees or waiting for a bird to land on a nearby branch. My problems didn’t disappear, but for an hour or two they stopped being the only thing I could see. My old, dear friend Teri (Hi Teri) drove out from Colorado a month after my surgery, put me in her car, and off we went on photography adventures for a whole week. The Blue Ridge Parkway, The Smoky Mountains, Babcock State Park in West Virginia. It was all my therapy playground for me, my camera, and my old friend. Thank God for those precious days.
All of these images and many more were taken during that week with Teri. It was so healing…
That became a pattern in my life, and I don’t think I appreciated it until recently. Whenever life feels heavy, my first instinct is often to stay home. Isn’t that funny? The very thing that helps me the most is usually the thing I least feel like doing. But almost every time I force myself to grab my camera and head out the door, something changes.
The world slows down. The pain stops. The brain redirects itself away from all the bad stuff to concentrate on the camera.
When you’re looking for photographs, you can’t rush through life. You notice the way the evening sun catches the edge of a cloud. You stop to admire wildflowers growing in a ditch that hundreds of cars have driven past without a second glance. You hear birds you never would have noticed if you had been staring at your phone. You begin paying attention to little details that have been there all along, patiently waiting for someone to notice them.
I’ve often said that photography teaches us to see, but I don’t think I fully understood what that meant.
It teaches us to see beauty where we once saw ordinary.
It teaches us to see possibilities where we once saw inconveniences.
Sometimes it even teaches us to see hope when life has convinced us there isn’t much to be found.
One of the greatest gifts our years of RV travel gave me wasn’t a collection of photographs from famous places. Yes, I have wonderful images from the Smoky Mountains, the deserts of the Southwest, and beaches all over the country. I’m grateful for every one of them. But when I think back on those years, the photographs aren’t the first things that come to mind.
I remember sitting outside our campsite with a cup of tea before anyone else was awake. I remember our Huskies exploring every new campground as if it were the greatest adventure of their lives. I remember laughing with my husband because we had taken a wrong turn and accidentally discovered a place we never would have found otherwise. I remember standing in absolute silence while morning fog drifted through a valley, not saying a word because neither of us wanted to disturb the moment.
The camera was there for all of it.
But the camera wasn’t the reason those moments mattered.
The camera simply taught me to notice that they were happening.
That’s why I smile whenever someone tells me they’re “not really a photographer” because they’re still shooting in Auto mode or because they don’t own an expensive camera. I understand the feeling. We’ve all compared ourselves to people whose work seems impossibly good. We’ve all wondered if we’re talented enough.
But maybe we’re asking the wrong question.
Maybe the question isn’t whether you’re good at photography.
Maybe the better question is this:
Is photography good for you?
Does it get you outside more often?
Does it help you notice the seasons changing?
Does it quiet your mind for a little while?
Does it make you curious? Peaceful? Grateful?
Does it remind you that there is still beauty in the world, even on days when beauty feels hard to find?
If the answer is yes, then I’d say photography is already giving you something far more valuable than perfectly exposed images.
Don’t misunderstand me. I still love creating photographs that sell. Every stock download makes me smile. Every print hanging on someone’s wall is an incredible privilege. I love teaching beginners because I genuinely enjoy watching that lightbulb come on when camera settings finally make sense. None of that has changed.
What has changed is my understanding of why I keep picking up my camera.
I don’t do it because I need another photograph.
I do it because I like the person I become when I’m looking for one.
So if you’ve been waiting until you’re “good enough” to call yourself a photographer, stop waiting. Take your camera for a walk this afternoon. Photograph your backyard, your neighborhood, an old barn down the road, or the sunset you’ve seen a hundred times before. Go to THIS POST and do my “Week of Beginner Photography Assignments”. Don’t worry about whether the images are worthy of Instagram or whether they’ll ever sell. Just give yourself permission to slow down and notice the world for an hour.
You may come home with a wonderful photograph.
Or you may come home with something even better.
A quieter mind.
A grateful heart.
A little more peace than you had when you left.
I’ve created free guides and beginner-friendly photography resources because I want more people to experience that feeling. Learning your camera is important, and I love helping people do exactly that. But if you’ve read this far, you’ve probably figured out that teaching camera settings has never really been my end goal.
My real hope is much simpler.
I hope photography becomes as good for you as it has been for me.
