What If the Secret to Falling in Love With Photography Again Is Just… Slowing Down?

In a world that worships speed—where hustle is a badge of honor and rest feels like a weakness—can you dare to pause? Can you slow down, not to fall behind, but to truly feel, to create just for the joy of creating, with no thought of outcomes or applause?

The answer is not an easy one, because your mind will always push you to hustle, recalibrate actions to gratify it with the ‘reward’ of the hard work put in. After all, as kids, we have always been taught by parents to be goal-oriented, study for the marks more than actual knowledge gain, play sports to score a win, not to lose.

Because somewhere in this hustle to prove our worth as a meritorious student, good player and the like, we forget live our life, be our true self and just enjoy the ‘act’ itself – the process, the journey.

Do you remember making a drawing in school? Sitting cross-legged on the floor with crayons scattered around you, maybe a little blue sky and a lot of imagination on paper. Did you do it for praise? For likes? For gallery shows? Never. You did it because it made you happy. You created not to prove anything to anyone, but because it was play — joyful, messy, personal.

The process was the point.
The art was the byproduct.

It is not about the pursuit of happiness, but the happiness of pursuit…

Dominik Vanyi

Ever feel like your creative spark is getting lost in the rush? In this post, we’ll explore how slowing down—with intention and mindfulness—can help you reconnect with your true self and tune in to the quiet, authentic voice that defines your creative identity.

You’ll also discover what slow photography is all about, why it’s worth trying (pun intended), how to practice it, and where to find inspiration—from legendary photographers to thought-provoking books that dive deeper into this mindful approach.

You are not in a Race. You are on a Journey.

For many of us who create — whether through photography, writing, painting, or music — there’s often a silent pressure lurking in the background. A voice whispering: “Create more. Compete. Don’t slow down. Stay visible or risk being forgotten.” The fear of invisibility can feel all-consuming. And I get it — especially if this is how you make a living.

But if you create for something deeper — for healing, self-discovery, truth-telling — let me remind you: you are not in a race.
You are on a journey.
And everyone’s journey is different.

Let’s understand this with a story. Imagine a simple scene: you’re sitting on a train. Only you know where you’re headed. Now look around — do you have any idea where the person next to you is going? Where they came from? Whether they’re as hungry as you are right now, or why they’re even on this journey? Maybe they’ll change trains midway, maybe not. Truth is, you don’t know.

So why compare your journey with theirs? Your path, your pace, your needs — are uniquely yours. Following others’ path can only lead you to their destination, not yours.

Now think of two kinds of trains.

The bullet train — sleek, efficient, fast. It gets you there first, no doubt. But you barely notice the view. No time to watch sky changing its color. No pause for the sound of wind between tunnels. No space for reflection.

Then, there’s the mountain railway — slow, winding, deliberate. It stops often. Sometimes it waits for fog to lift. But in that time, you see waterfalls, you wave to strangers, you breathe in pine-scented air through the windows. The journey itself becomes a memory, not just a means to an end.

Moral of the story?

Going fast might get you there first — but going slow lets you arrive fuller, wiser, with something real to hold on to. One’s a blur, the other’s a memory.

To sum up, you’re not late. You’re not behind. You’re not failing because your pace doesn’t match the world’s algorithm. You’re just on a different train.
And that’s perfectly okay.

My Photography Journey on Fast and Slow Track

Having spent over a decade immersed in photography — with more than my fair share of mistakes along the way — I’ve lived through both ends of the creative spectrum: the quiet, soulful days of making images simply for the love of it, and the fast-paced, deadline-driven chaos of client work.

As someone who’s always been a learner at heart, I followed my curiosity — creating, experimenting, learning by doing — without any clock ticking in my head. Time didn’t matter. The process did. It was just me, my camera, and the unadulterated joy of making something real.

But then came the tidal wave of social media.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to create for yourself. You had to be seen. Constantly. You had to prove your presence, justify your worth, and—perhaps the hardest part—wait for external validation to feel like your art mattered. The rhythm of art-making shifted from intuition to algorithms.

It started to feel like sitting in an exam hall — the timer ticking, and you racing to complete the test paper within the allotted time. Only this time, the ones assessing your work weren’t mentors or guides — but strangers, peers, followers, having no idea about your journey, let alone your vision. And in the rush, I lost something irreplaceable: My love for photography.

It turned into work.
Into performance.
Into an endless chase for numbers.

I felt painfully disconnected. Each photograph felt less like a piece of me and more like a product designed for either applause or money.

Somewhere in the middle of all this noise, I began to realize that I need to get back to my roots – the very reason for which I picked the camera for the first time. I realized, I need to embrace the same old carefree approach to photography, where the process mattered more than the results. A mindful approach allowing me to pause, observe, feel, compose with meaning and intent, before I click. Something we now call “slow photography”, slow in the way trees grow, or rivers carve their way through rock.

Now I know, not every frame that I shoot need be tied to a paycheck or garner social media likes. Sometimes, it can be just me, my camera, and the world — where I consciously slow down — to breathe, to notice, to create from a place of presence, not pressure.

And with this realization, my photography became what it was always meant to be — honest, alive, and deeply human. A way to return to myself. To my reasons. To the kind of art that feels spiritual upliftment.

Everything in the world is invisible, except that which we make semi-visible. By the introduction of awareness, all things can become visible.

Rumi