“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh
A few years ago, I moved to a new country with two children under two.
The idea had felt exciting at first—a fresh start, a new place, a life by the sea. But excitement fades quickly when you realize you don’t know a single person. No friends to call. No family nearby. No one to sit with you on a hard day and just listen.
I wasn’t prepared for that kind of loneliness. The deep, quiet kind that creeps in slowly—not dramatic, not visible to anyone else, just a low hum of disconnection that follows you through the day. I had two beautiful children who needed me completely, and I was grateful for them every single day. But gratitude and loneliness can live in the same heart at the same time. I was learning that the hard way.
The hardest part wasn’t the big moments. It was the small ones. The times I wanted to see a friend and remembered there was no one to call. They all lived in another country. The times one of my children got sick and I had no one to help. The times I 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—those don’t happen quickly. So I waited. And in the waiting, I started to disappear a little from myself.
I tried to meditate. Everyone said it would help. I downloaded the apps, I sat quietly, I tried to follow my breath. And I failed, repeatedly, in the most ordinary way. My mind would not be still. I would sit there trying to find peace and instead find a running list of everything I hadn’t done yet.
I still don’t know how to meditate well, honestly. And for a long time, I thought that meant something was wrong with me.
What I understand now is that I wasn’t failing at presence. I was simply trying to enter it through a door that didn’t feel natural to me at that time. I needed movement before stillness. I needed color, air, curiosity, and something gentle to place my attention on.
Photography had always made me happy. Even before I understood why, there was something about picking up a camera that shifted my mood—like a quiet reminder that beauty existed and I was allowed to look for it. So one day, in the middle of all that loneliness, I picked up my 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 I noticed.
I started breaking the rules I had been taught about photography—the composition, the light, the perfect shot. I became, in my own quiet way, a photography rebel.
I pointed my camera at whatever caught my eye, however imperfect, however small. A shadow on a wall. The color of the sea on a particular afternoon. The texture of something ordinary I had passed a hundred times without seeing.
And something happened that I hadn’t expected.
My mind went quiet.
Not because I forced it to. Not because I was following any technique or program. But because creativity, I discovered, gave my 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.
I call it getting into the happy zone. That place where you forget, temporarily, about the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt. Because 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 I kept going back. Because I came home different every time. Lighter. More present. More myself. Ready for the next day, the next small demand, the next moment of ordinary beauty that I might have missed if I hadn’t trained myself to look.
Mindful photography gave me back something I didn’t know I had lost—my own attention. Not just attention to the world around me, but attention to myself. The practice of noticing outward beauty slowly taught me to notice my own inner state. To check in. To ask: what do I need today? And to answer honestly: fifteen minutes outside with my camera and the willingness to be playful.
You don’t need to be a photographer. You don’t 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 isn’t stillness. Sometimes it’s 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. Learn more at yourdailypause.com, or find her on Instagram at @majakerinart and @dailypausemethod.
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3 Comments
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DoriAnn Muller
Thank you for this, I was struggling with that myself. The creativity side is a wonderful option.
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Opie
Love that. There are many ways to be present.
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I wonder… if that movement of “looking up” wasn’t the opposite of stillness, but rather a different expression of it.
We often view stillness as static immobility, sitting in a quiet room, trying to force our thoughts to stop. Yet when attention shifted outward and the inner world grew calm, wasn’t that stillness too? A stillness in motion?
Perhaps stillness is not a physical act of trying to be or become present… Instead, a moment we ‘look up’ and the sky opens in presences, whether we are sitting still or running through fields.
“Lifting the eyes, the storm becomes the night sky; the traveler moves, yet never leaves the center.”
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