Rediscovering My Passion for Photography in the Wake of Grief

My mother-in-law loved photography. She didn't think she was very good at it, but she was. She refused to edit her photos, and she wouldn't take any classes or watch any videos to help herself improve, but she had plenty of natural talent. When she discovered that we shared a love of photography, it became a thing we could do together. We went on photography outings and had a great time getting lost in forests, meadows, and gardens together. We'd compare photos and share each other's work. We encouraged each other and cheered for our accomplishments. Two years ago, she passed away. A few weeks before, I found out I was getting my first photography show. I didn't tell her. I'm not sure why, but I think I was trying to spare her from the guilt I knew she'd feel that she would clearly be missing it.

A few months later, as I packed up my show, I also tucked away my love of photography. As much fun as the show had been, and as proud as I was of how it turned out, it was also a lot of work. Between everything I had to do to get ready for it, and dealing with the grief of losing the one person I shared this love of photography with, I found that picking up my camera felt damn near impossible. So I put my camera on the shelf and didn't touch it for the better part of the next year. I focused on my writing. I started a Substack newsletter. I wrote a course on intentional living, and taught it both live at my job and virtually on Substack. I began sharing my poetry more on Instagram. I grew a vegetable garden. I improved my cooking. I did all kinds of creative things, but I did not pick up my camera. I felt guilty about it, but I couldn't do a single thing about it. Every task related to taking photos felt like too much work. I had no motivation to even find the time to take it on.

And then this last summer I went on vacation with my family, my best friend, and her family. We went to the Smoky Mountains, a place I've been wanting to go for as long as I can remember. I threw my camera bag in the trunk along with my suitcase almost as an afterthought, just on the off chance I decided to use it. I mean, it was the Smoky Mountains, after all. You never knew, I might just maybe want to take a photo of something.

Three days into the trip, and I could barely put the camera down. I was awestruck by the beauty surrounding me, and I couldn't take the photos fast enough. With each one, I dug up another piece of the passion that I had buried the previous year.

By the time we got home, I had made a promise to myself to get back to photography, in whatever way I could. If going on photography outings felt too hard, then I would take photos around my house, in my garden, on walks around my town. I'd learn about food photography, and take photos of the food I was learning to cook. I'd do whatever I had to in order to return photography to my life.

This wasn't new to me. When I first got into photography, I did it as a way of seeing the beauty in a life that felt far removed from what I had envisioned for myself. Between getting lost in my various roles and letting my inner people-pleaser make my decisions for me, I couldn't find myself in my own life. Photographing my life and the world around me helped me to see my world differently, and over time this allowed me to approach my life from a place of gratitude instead of resentment. Everything changed after that, because I could now more clearly see what was working, what wasn't, and most importantly, step actively into my life again.

It's funny how the thing that brings us to life can also be the thing that we most run from. Grief made keeping that connection to my mother-in-law feel too raw, and I couldn't bear to get that close to the flame. Too much potential for pain. But eventually it became the thing that returned me to myself, just as it had when I got into it originally.

And so I decided to focus this blog not just on intentional living and creativity, but on how photography helps me to do that. It's been a rough couple of years, and I could use a little help finding the beauty and joy again. Let's see if we can discover it together. I can just about hear my mother-in-law cheering us on.