The Image that chaged Everything

I’ve been asked a few times: What got you into photography?
Was there a moment it really began? A turning point?

Sunrise at Glencoyne Bay, Ullswater, Lake District.

I took it on April 22, 2021, at 5:52 AM. It was a Thursday morning, a lovely spring morning. This was my secong morning in a row standing on the edge of Glencoyne Bay, looking out across Ullswater, waiting for the sun to rise as the previous days never appeared.

And in that moment, I knew I’d found something that mattered.

But this post isn’t about chasing likes or attention. This is just my story—so far. A bit of where I’ve been, and how I got here.

Backtrack a few years.

In 2018, I lost my dad.
In 2019, I lost my mum.

It’s strange how quickly life shifts when the people you’ve been caring for are no longer here. From 1994 onwards, my world revolved around raising our three kids. Then, as they got older, I stepped into the role of carer again—this time for my parents.

When my mum moved into a care home, I visited her two or three times a week. She had dementia and Parkinson’s, which meant those visits were often hard. They were important, but not easy. Still, I kept showing up, because that’s what you do for the people you love.

Then one day, there was no one left to visit. No one left to look after.

Except my husband 😊.

And there I was, standing in this big, strange space called time. For the first time in decades, I had to ask myself:
What now?

That’s when I remembered photography—an old love I’d put aside when the kids came along. I dusted off my camera. At first it was something to fill the space. But very quickly, it became something else entirely.

The Lake District has always had a pull on me. There’s something about it—the light, the water, the stillness between the hills. It's not just beautiful, it's grounding.

I went out more often, camera in hand. The days I used to spend visiting Mum became the days I went out walking, waiting for the light, watching the landscape shift. Not to escape, but to find peace. To think. To heal.

Photography gave me that space. Nature gave me that quiet.

There’s something deeply therapeutic about standing alone with your camera, listening to birdsong, hearing nothing but the ripple of water at your feet or the breeze through trees. It doesn't fix everything, but it gives you room to breathe. Room to feel something other than grief.

And then came that morning at Glencoyne Bay.

I’d set the alarm early, packed the camera, and headed out in the dark. By the time I reached the water, the sky was starting to shift. Soft pinks. A wash of orange over the fells. That moment when the sun starts to lift and everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

I stood there, watching it unfold. Just me, the lake, the silence. And something in me clicked. I realised I was okay. Maybe not all the way healed, but definitely healing. I felt calm. I felt present. And I cried.

Not from sadness. From relief.

Because I knew, standing there, that this—being outside, chasing light, creating something—this was my new chapter. This was my therapy. My space. My way forward.

That photo might not be technically perfect.
But it’s mine. I took it.
I was there to see that sunrise.
And it felt damn good.

So no, this isn’t some polished post to show off a pretty picture. It’s just a story. A quiet thank you to the places that held me when I didn’t know how to hold myself.

Photography didn’t save me. But it gave me something to reach for—and that made all the difference.

Joy.