Creativity In Motion
This post feels a little different from what I usually share, but it comes from what I know to be true. It’s something that’s been with me for a long time—steady and constant—and I know it’s not just in thought, but in a way that feels deeply rooted in who I am. I’ve never been drawn to the technical side of photography. I’ve always followed a different rhythm—one shaped by curiosity, intuition, a sense of wonder, and deep appreciation for beauty. And while I find inspiration in breathtaking landscapes and exotic new travels, the place where I feel most creatively free isn’t always behind the camera. For me, it’s in motion, specifically when I’m running.
Running is a form of communion for me—a way I return to myself. It’s how I move through feelings that don’t always have words, how I make sense of things when the path ahead feels unclear. With each step, the static begins to clear. I breathe more deeply and move through sticky, negative thoughts or creative blocks. And it’s in that quiet meditative space that something opens. Something shifts and settles, and I feel more grounded in myself and the present.
In many ways, it reflects what I experience through photography—both are practices rooted in presence and fluidity, requiring a deep awareness of what’s unfolding in the moment and a sensitivity to the rhythm and energy of your surroundings. Photography, by its very nature, requires presence. It requires you to notice the little things, the details, the way the light shifts, the colors, compositions, shapes, forms, and fleeting moments. And I believe movement teaches us the same thing: how to stay open, how to listen inward, how to create from a place that is honest and a reflection of how we move in the world.
According to experts, the most efficient running form begins with your center—your core. And while that’s true biomechanically, there’s also something more subtle and profound about it. When you move from a grounded, centered place, it unlocks a deeper level of creativity. Our creative chakra lives in our center, and it makes sense that when we move from that place—when we create, connect, or express ourselves from within, it feels aligned, grounded, and true. It’s not always dramatic, but the shift is real. The breath deepens, the heart begins to open and soften, and you move forward with clarity, intention, and a sense of purpose with ease. That creative energy, which may have felt distant or stuck, starts to flow again with your breath—not because you pushed or forced it, but because you created the space, both physically and emotionally, for it to return. You begin to naturally move through the world with an open heart. There’s something to be said about watching the world rush past as you move through it—each step rooting you more deeply in your place, your presence, and your purpose.
Research suggests that watching the world move past you as you run or move can create a powerful sense of momentum, offering both spaciousness and the feeling that you’re drawing closer to the vision you hold in your mind. Unlike staying static on a treadmill or stationary bike, moving through an ever-changing landscape engages your senses, your mind, and your imagination, reinforcing the feeling that you’re actively moving toward something, both physically and internally. Running becomes a vessel for visualization; as you hold your intentions or vision in your mind, the forward motion makes it feel as though you're closing the distance between where you are and where you’re going. It’s almost instinctual—something ancient or primal in us that understands the rhythm of the chase, the clarity of pursuit. The world softens into a blur, your focus sharpens, and with each step and breath, you move with quiet determination toward your vision, creating space for clarity and allowing creative ideas to rise and take shape, guiding that vision into form. Even though you may not have made progress yet or have the answers, you have the sensation and feeling of moving toward it.
And in that movement—from the inside out—you begin to feel a clearer sense of yourself. You realize that your worth, your creativity, and your expression don’t need to be validated by praise, permission, or anything external. The very act of showing up, of making space for yourself and the present moment, becomes enough. More than enough. There’s a quiet kind of power in that—a knowing that what you create, how you move, and who you are in that moment is already whole, already worthy simply because you’re a divine soul.
I’ve come to believe that our creativity isn’t confined to our tools or our output. It lives in how we move through the world. In how we meet ourselves in the quiet moments, in how we care for our energy, in how we give ourselves permission to be in process. And when we move, we begin to trust more deeply—not just in our creativity, but in our body and our way of being.
There have been so many times when I’ve felt stuck or uncertain, and a simple walk or run has helped me return to myself. Not because it gives me immediate answers, but because it clears enough space for something new to arise or alter my perspective. Movement helps me shift the energy, loosen the grip, work through emotions, and find clarity. It’s become a way of gently untangling the knots I didn’t know were there.
Running has been one of the most steady, rewarding gifts in my life. It has supported me through seasons of doubt, held me through uncertainty, and reminded me—again and again—of who I am beneath the mental chatter and what may be currently happening in my own personal world. It’s not purely a physical act, but a returning. A way of remembering that I am already whole, already connected, already capable of creating from a place of truth and authenticity. It brings me into flow—not only in my body, but in my creative work, my thoughts, and the way I relate to the world around me. It helps me be calmer and present with the world and myself. To be present is to feel connected —to ourselves, to nature, to the world around us—and in that, we’re reminded we’re never truly alone.
Even on the days I don’t feel like it—when I’m tired or weighed down—I still run because there is always something it unlocks. It’s second nature to run, so I don’t even question anymore. It’s never about motivation; it’s about trust. I know, without fail, that it will help me clear my mind and open the inner channels that may feel blocked by the noise of daily life. And every time, without exception, it offers a release—one that moves through me physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
It’s not the classic runner’s high, but a release in my spirit. There were many times, and I vividly remember each one, when I cried after a run, not from sadness but an emotional release from moving through stagnant or swirling energy within. Even if my body feels sore, or I’m running an easy pace, or I feel heavy-footed, there’s a sense of lightness that arrives after. A feeling of inner flow, anchored by a deep sense of groundedness. That same flow and fluidity from which creativity springs forth.
A kind of inner exhale that brings me back to myself. It’s a way of being present, not just with my body, but with my inner landscape—and with the world around me.
If this resonates with you and you’re a photographer, a creative, or someone simply longing to feel more connected to themselves, I gently encourage you to find your own rhythm of movement. Not as a performance, not as something to check off a list, but as a way of coming home to yourself. It might be an early walk in the morning light, a stretch on the floor as you breathe through something heavy, a swim in the ocean, or maybe it is an easy jog if you’ve never run before. Whatever it looks like for you, trust that your body holds wisdom and that movement can be a powerful doorway into your creativity, your clarity, and your intuition. When you move from a place of care and curiosity, you create space—not just in your body, but in your life—for something new to emerge. And that, too, is a creative act.
