There’s a habit, a ritual, really that keeps my brain from boiling over and my bones from turning into museum artifacts. It isn’t meditation, yoga, or any of that soft-focus wellness nonsense they peddle to suburbanites. No, my joy comes from something far less dignified: grabbing my camera, stomping out the door, and throwing myself headlong into the wild until civilization is nothing more than a sick rumor whispered in the wind.

It’s not the taking of the photo that’s the real high, it’s the hunt. The act of moving through a world that doesn’t give a damn about your deadlines, your bills, or the latest synthetic outrage blasting from a thousand dopamine-dripping devices. Out there, in the tangled underbelly of the woods or the hostile silence of the high desert, there’s no algorithm to impress. No notifications. No curated “vibes.” Just you, the lens, and whatever strange miracle of light and decay you can wrangle into the frame.

The habit starts the same every time, gear thrown into a bag like I’m packing for a midnight getaway from the law. I drive until the gas gauge makes veiled threats. Then it’s boots to dirt, lungs filling with air so clean it feels like a controlled substance. Somewhere in that chaos, the world starts to slow. The jaw unclenches. The blood runs quieter.

Then the camera comes up, and it’s like holding a loaded weapon that only fires truth. Every shot is a little theft, stealing a fraction of a second before it vanishes into the black hole of memory. Sometimes it’s a stag locked in the cathedral light of the pines, sometimes it’s a busted fence post with moss curling up like ancient script. Always, it’s a reminder that life exists outside the human mess.

It’s a habit that drags me back from the ledge more times than I care to count. The joy isn’t giddy it’s the deep, rattling kind that comes from knowing you’ve stepped outside the meat grinder for a while. That you’ve found a space where the noise can’t reach you. And when I come back covered in mud, sunburned, pockets full of pine needles the world still looks like a disaster, but I’ve got ammo. Proof that there’s still beauty worth fighting for.

And so the habit continues. Not for health. Not for art. But because without it, the wolves start circling. And I’ve got no interest in finding out what happens when they catch up.