Held

The start of a new year always arrives with expectations attached to it. Momentum. Clarity. A sense that something should click into place simply because the calendar says it’s time.

But creativity doesn’t recognize dates.

This image, Held, came from the shoreline just after high tide—one of those in-between moments that most people walk past without noticing. The ocean had already moved through and pulled back, leaving the grass pressed into itself, folded and tangled by water that never stopped to consider how it should look. The tide didn’t arrange these lines. It didn’t refine them. It simply did what it does, and left its mark.

Lately, that feels familiar.

There are seasons when creativity flows effortlessly, when ideas arrive fully formed and the work feels inevitable. And then there are seasons like this—quieter, slower, less certain. The camera still comes out. The walks still happen. But the internal response is different. The images don’t announce themselves with the same urgency. They ask for patience instead.

What I’m learning is that growth doesn’t always feel expansive. Sometimes it feels compressed. Held in place. Pressed flat by forces you don’t fully understand yet. And that doesn’t mean nothing is happening—it means something is being shaped.

The grass in this frame didn’t resist the tide. It bent, layered, overlapped. When the water receded, what remained wasn’t damage—it was evidence. Proof of contact. Proof of endurance.

As 2026 begins, I’m trying to carry that lesson forward. To keep working even when the spark feels distant. To keep trusting that learning and expansion don’t require constant affirmation. Some of the most important changes happen quietly, beneath the surface, without spectacle.

This image isn’t about arrival.

It’s about being held in a moment long enough to change.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what’s needed.