A lot of my self-portrait work started out of practicality. I had ideas I wanted to try and no one to shoot. I’d be out in nature alone, see something beautiful, and feel like it needed a person in the frame. It wasn’t some big artistic decision—I just didn’t have a subject, so I used myself.

And I had to learn everything that way.

Over the past year, I’ve been figuring out how my work actually fits together. I’m a psychologist, and I’m also an artist. Both are real parts of my life, and for a long time I felt like I needed to either integrate them here, or choose between them.

But the truth is, I don’t want to do either.

For the last three weeks, I didn’t pick up my camera.

Not because I was stuck. Not because something was wrong. And not in that familiar spiral of trying to chase inspiration (we’ve all felt that).

I had just come off a stretch of high output — finishing a project, shooting consistently, moving through a lot of creative energy. Then I felt the natural pull to pause.

Not burnout. Not a rut. Just creative rest.

Many adults organize their lives around a quiet, ongoing question: Is this allowed? Not legally or morally, but practically, financially, socially.

It shows up as waiting. Over-researching. Looking for other people who are already doing the thing, just to see if it’s okay. Scanning for proof that a choice has been approved somewhere.

Is this realistic? Is this irresponsible? Is this something people like me get to do?

This often passes as being careful. It’s actually a safety strategy — one meant to prevent mistakes, rejection, or regret.

It doesn’t work.

This morning I let Rossi off leash. She chased squirrels until she was done. Then she walked over to an oak tree and splooted in the shade, legs stretched out behind her.

When an animal is finished, it stops.

I thought sourdough would teach me slow living. Instead, it showed me how much of what we call “slow” is actually just pressure in disguise.

When I first started making sourdough, it was timers, windows, calculations, alarms, and a constant sense of needing to be on time. I couldn’t leave the house. I couldn’t relax. I might as well have been working an unpaid hourly job.

Yes, the process was long. And slow. And very Instagram “slow living”—at least aesthetically.

But it did not feel slow in my body, and that disconnect made me start questioning the entire slow living movement.

I don’t mean that life doesn’t matter.

Or that time should be wasted.

Or that we should drift through our days without care.

I mean something quieter: Most years don’t matter in the way we’re taught to think they should.

Every so often, reality cracks open.
Not through a ritual, not in ceremony—just in the middle of a normal day.

You might be sitting at the beach, light flickering on the water, and suddenly it hits: What even is this? How is any of this real? How do I exist in the middle of it?

It’s not a thought. It’s an awareness.
Something in you remembers: this isn’t ordinary.
It’s miraculous.