Letting Time Do Its Work

Some things don’t reveal themselves right away.

Not because we aren’t working hard enough, or wanting them badly enough, but because we simply aren’t ready yet.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about time. About what it changes, what it softens, and what it quietly builds when we’re too busy looking ahead to notice.

I don’t mean time in the sense of waiting passively, but time paired with intention, repetition, and presence. The kind of time that slowly shapes who you become, almost without you realizing it.

I don’t often stop to look back. I tend to move forward, project to project, idea to idea. But every once in a while, it feels important to pause, to turn around and really see the path behind you. Not to judge it, not to romanticize it, just to acknowledge it. To recognize that you didn’t arrive where you are by accident.

In photography, as in life, the things that matter most usually take longer than expected. They ask for patience, humility, and a willingness to stay with the process even when progress feels invisible. And over time, you begin to understand that this slowness isn’t a weakness. It’s what gives depth to what you build.

The image I’m sharing with you today is a quiet reflection of that realization.

A few years ago, this image would never have existed. Not because I lacked ambition, or ideas, or even technical curiosity. It wouldn’t have existed because it would have asked too much of me.

Too much cold, too much physical exhaustion, too much mental load, too many variables to manage at once. The shooting itself, the patience required, the editing, the complexity of bringing everything together, it would all have felt overwhelming.

What has changed since then isn’t only skill.

It’s the way I approach the process.

With time, I’ve learned to accept what is, instead of constantly trying to force reality to match a very specific outcome. I’ve learned to work with the conditions instead of fighting them. That shift alone has transformed how I experience photography. There’s more flexibility now, more room to adapt, and far less pressure to make everything perfect.

And with that came resilience.

Resilience isn’t about pushing harder or enduring more at all costs. For me, it grew out of understanding my own limits, and learning how to navigate them with kindness rather than resistance. It’s knowing when to stay, when to adjust, and when to let go of an expectation without feeling like you failed.

This image was captured during a cold night on a summit in the Swiss Alps, during the peak of the Geminids meteor shower. I spent hours outside, mostly standing by the cameras, watching the sky, capturing as many meteors as possible while photographing the winter Milky Way arch in parallel. The landscape itself was photographed after sunset, once darkness had fully settled, and my dad is standing inside the tent, lighting it from within.

I stayed outside for four to five hours that night without ever going inside the tent. And strangely enough, it never felt long. I had never seen so many shooting stars in my life, and every new one brought the same quiet excitement. That simple sense of awe, of being fully present, is where so much of the joy in this process lives for me.

Technically speaking, the image isn’t perfect. I ran into gear issues that limited what I could do, and I’m fully aware of what could have been improved. But I’m still deeply satisfied with it. Because I know what went into it.

Not just that night, but years of showing up, learning, adjusting, and slowly becoming more comfortable with uncertainty.

And that’s something I think we often forget to acknowledge.

We tend to measure progress by results alone. By what’s visible, by what can be compared, by what looks finished. But so much of the real work happens quietly, underneath. In the way your judgment sharpens. In the way your reactions soften. In the way you stop rushing moments that were never meant to be rushed.

Looking back from time to time allows you to see those invisible changes.

It reminds you that the effort wasn’t wasted, even when it didn’t immediately pay off. That the nights that felt hard, the days that felt slow, and the phases where nothing seemed to move forward were all doing their work in the background.

For me, accepting this has made the entire experience far more enjoyable. It removed a lot of unnecessary pressure. The pressure to perform, to produce, to arrive. That pressure has a way of stealing presence. It narrows your focus so much that you stop seeing what’s actually unfolding in front of you.

Flexibility, on the other hand, opens things back up.

When you allow yourself to meet reality where it is, instead of where you wish it were, something shifts. The challenge becomes less about control and more about interpretation. Less about forcing a result and more about responding to what’s there. And often, that’s where the most meaningful outcomes come from.

This isn’t only true in photography.

If I had to translate what this process has taught me into something more practical, something you could carry into your own work or life, it would look something like this:

• Looking back helps you build confidence grounded in reality. Not the loud kind, but the quiet assurance that comes from knowing what you’ve already navigated.

• Improving your skills over time reduces pressure. The more experience you gain, the less every single moment has to “count.” You trust yourself to adapt.

• Accepting slowness makes experiences richer. When you stop rushing outcomes, you become more present for the process itself.

• Flexibility creates space for creativity. Letting go of rigid expectations allows unexpected solutions and ideas to emerge.

• Resilience grows naturally when you stop fighting reality. It becomes less about endurance and more about alignment.

• Consistency matters more than intensity. Showing up regularly, even imperfectly, compounds over time in ways you can’t always predict.

All of this doesn’t mean lowering your standards or caring less. Quite the opposite. It means caring deeply enough to give things the time they deserve. To allow meaning to accumulate instead of trying to manufacture it.

For me, photography has been a long teacher in this. Going outside in the mountains, night after night, season after season, has taught me patience in a way few other things could. It has shown me that presence is often more valuable than perfection, and that fulfillment usually comes from engagement, not control.

I’m proud of this image not because it’s flawless, but because it reflects that journey. It represents a version of myself that couldn’t have existed years ago, not due to lack of effort, but due to lack of time. And that feels important to acknowledge.

Before closing, I also want to share something more practical with you.

I know I haven’t been very active with writing here this year. A lot has been happening in my life, some of it visible, much of it not. And while I haven’t always been present online, I want you to know how grateful I am for everyone who is still here, reading, responding, and taking the time to engage with these words.

I’d like to slowly return to writing more regularly, ideally at least twice a month, and if it feels right, eventually back to once a week.

At the same time, I want to be honest about how I approach these newsletters. When I sit down to write, it’s never something I rush. It’s a moment I take to really think about what I want to share, what’s been on my mind, and what feels meaningful enough to put into words.

I could easily increase quantity, especially in a time where AI can generate content endlessly, but that’s not what this space is about for me. I want each letter to carry intention, depth, and something that can genuinely be useful or resonate with you, even if that means writing less often.

That time matters to me, and I hope it’s also what makes these newsletters feel different, more reflective, and not just promotional or strictly about photography.

Thank you for your patience this year, for being here, and for valuing this kind of slower, more thoughtful exchange as much as I do.

Every message I receive, every thoughtful reply, reminds me why I started sharing in the first place. It’s never something I take for granted.

If you feel like it, I’d genuinely love to hear from you. Whether it’s topics you’d like me to write about next year, reflections sparked by this letter, or simply a note to say that something resonated. Knowing that these words land somewhere, that they accompany someone for a moment, already means a lot to me.

Thank you for being here, for your patience, and for allowing me to share these reflections with you.

Wishing you all clear skies and happy end of the year,

Angel