Learning to Develop Presence Through Meditation

“The present moment is brimming with joy and happiness. If you pay attention, you will recognize it.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

A couple of years back, I relocated to a different country with two kids under two years old.

The thought was thrilling at the beginning—a new beginning, a different location, a life by the ocean. However, that thrill evaporates swiftly when you realize you’re unfamiliar with anyone. No friends to contact. No family close by. No one to share a difficult day with and simply listen.

I wasn’t ready for that level of solitude. The profound, subtle kind that sneaks in gradually—not overt, not visible to others, just a faint murmur of disconnection that accompanies you throughout the day. I had two wonderful children who depended on me entirely, and I appreciated them daily. But gratitude and loneliness can coexist in the same heart simultaneously. I was learning this the hard way.

The toughest moments weren’t the significant events. It was the little things. The instances when I yearned to see a friend and remembered there was no one to contact. They all resided in another country. The occasions when one of my kids fell ill and I lacked support. The times I observed other mothers enjoying laughter at the park and felt unseen, even in a crowd.

Forming new friendships demands time. Genuine ones—the type that run deep, where someone truly knows you—those don’t materialize quickly. So I waited. And in that waiting, I began to fade away a bit from myself.

I attempted to meditate. Everyone claimed it would be beneficial. I downloaded the applications, sat in silence, and endeavored to follow my breath. And I failed, time and again, in the most typical manner. My mind refused to quiet. I would sit there seeking peace and instead find a running tally of everything I hadn’t accomplished yet.

I still lack proficiency in meditation, to be honest. For a long while, I believed that indicated something was amiss with me.

What I comprehend now is that I wasn’t failing at being present. I was merely trying to access it through a door that didn’t feel natural for me at that time. I needed movement prior to stillness. I required color, air, curiosity, and something gentle to focus on.

Photography has always brought me joy. Even before I grasped why, there was something about lifting a camera that transformed my mood—like a quiet reminder that beauty existed and I had permission to search for it. So one day, amidst all that loneliness, I picked up my camera once more.

Not to produce anything remarkable. Not to create a portfolio or share something beautiful online. Just to step outside, roam, and see what caught my attention.

I began breaking the established rules I had learned about photography—the composition, the lighting, the ideal shot. I became, in my own subtle way, a photography maverick.

I aimed my camera at anything that piqued my interest, no matter how flawed or minor. A shadow on a wall. The hue of the ocean on a specific afternoon. The texture of something ordinary I had passed countless times without noticing.

And something unexpected occurred.

My mind quieted.

Not because I forced it. Not because I adhered to any technique or program. But because creativity, I realized, allowed less room for my worries to dominate. When you genuinely observe—truly noticing what’s in front of you, deciding how to frame it, feeling curious about the light—your mind is too engaged in being alive to be anxious. Too involved in play to be melancholic.

I term it entering the joyful zone. That place where you temporarily forget about the loneliness, the fatigue, and the guilt. Because there was also guilt—the specific guilt that arises when someone relies entirely on you. The sensation that you aren’t entitled to take time for yourself. That stepping away, even for a quarter of an hour, feels like a betrayal.

Yet I kept returning. Because I came back different every time. Lighter. More engaged. More like myself. Prepared for the next day, the next minor demand, the next instance of everyday beauty that I might have overlooked if I hadn’t trained myself to see.

Mindful photography restored something I hadn’t realized I had lost—my own attention. Not just attention to the world around me, but attention to my own self. The practice of noticing external beauty gradually taught me to recognize my own internal state. To check in. To ask: what do I require today? And to respond honestly: fifteen minutes outside with my camera and the openness to be playful.

You don’t need to be a photographer. You don’t require an expensive camera or a stunning location or any technical skill whatsoever. You just need your phone, fifteen minutes, and the readiness to seek one thing — one color, one shadow, one tiny detail that captures your eye today.

Allow yourself to be curious about it. Let yourself be a bit rebellious with it. Disregard the rules. Forget the flawless shot. Just observe. Just have fun.

Because sometimes what reconnects you with yourself isn’t stillness. Sometimes it’s the straightforward act of looking up and perceiving what has always been there.