The Day My Camera Broke — A Lesson in Slowing Down

It happened mid-filming

I had been rushing through the morning, trying to squeeze in a bit of filming before the light changed. I set up my tripod quickly — too quickly — and just like that, it tipped.

Again.

But this time… it didn’t just wobble and land with a light scratch.

I stood there in the silence that follows a crash.

My camera, the one I’ve filmed with for years, the one that’s quietly captured my slow mornings, my laundry folding, my plant watering, my imperfect little corners of life. Lay there with a sharp crack across its side.

And I knew in my heart, this time was different.

The lens chipped. The audio jack cracked. My entire setup was suddenly.

Gone.

I Should Have Known

The truth is, this wasn’t the first time my tripod had fallen over. It’s happened before.

Little scares. A dent here, a mark there.

Each time I brushed it off, telling myself I got lucky. That I could just keep going.

But I wasn’t listening.

I rushed through filming because I wanted to get ahead of my schedule.

I was worried about lighting. About time. About staying consistent. And yet, in the pressure to stay ahead, I skipped over what I already knew:

Rushing never leads me where I want to go.

This time, the lesson came with a price tag.

Creating Content Takes Everything

Behind each video I share is a quiet process that most people never see. It starts with ideas, scribbled in notebooks, mapped out in planners.

Then comes the filming: adjusting angles, re-shooting small scenes, capturing light just right.

After that, hours of editing, cutting, colour correction, subtitling, sound.

My videos are quiet on the surface

but it takes a storm of effort to create calm.

And I love it. I truly do.

I feel at home when I’m creating. I feel grounded, even in the imperfections.

But that love comes with its own pressure: to keep going, to keep improving, to never miss a beat.

That pressure is what had me rushing through setup that morning. It’s what had me ignoring the warning signs from my wobbly tripod. And it’s what brought me to that moment on the floor, staring at a cracked lens, wondering what I had just done.

Is this a sign for me to quit?

Gratitude in the Grief

When I posted about the broken camera, the messages poured in.

So much kindness. So much support. So many of you reminding me that it’s okay to pause. That taking care of myself matters more than content. That you’re here for the journey, not just the uploads.

I’ve been given so much love through this work. More than I ever imagined when I uploaded my first video.

That love has carried me through the slow growth, the self-doubt, and now, through this little moment of loss.

And in that support, I was reminded

A sign, Yes

but maybe not the one I thought.

The Lesson

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason but I do believe every moment has something to teach us.

This was my reminder: If I’m going to keep creating, I need to protect the process. I need to slow down. I need to respect the tools that help me do this work, including myself.

It’s not sustainable to keep pushing through exhaustion or pressure. Creativity can be tender. So can routines.

The very videos I make are about softness, quiet, and care and I want my process to feel that way too.

This camera breaking wasn’t just about gear. It was about permission: to stop rushing, to start honouring the pace that feels right.

What Happens Now

I’ve sent the camera in for a repair quote. I’m not sure what the cost will be yet, or if it can even be fixed. In the meantime, I’ve decided to pause my uploads. Just for a bit (I really have no other camera).

It’s hard to do that. To step back.

But I want the next video I share to be made with presence, not pressure. I want to return with more than just footage. I want to return with perspective.

Moving Forward

In the time away, I’ve been rethinking the way I approach my content. Not just the logistics but the heart of it. I’ve been asking myself:

• What do I want my videos to feel like to me, and to you?

• What rhythms support my creativity instead of rushing it?

• How can I simplify my setup so I’m not always fighting my tools?

  
  

Sometimes we don’t know how fragile something is until it breaks. But fragility isn’t failure.

It’s a form of clarity.

So I’m planning slower days. Calmer filming windows.

Maybe a new tripod.

Maybe a lighter approach.

And a deeper commitment to protecting the kind of content that means something to both of us.

To You

Thank you for being here.

If you’ve ever broken something important or made a decision you weren’t sure how to recover from I hope you know: it doesn’t define you.

I’ve learned that progress isn’t always forward.

Sometimes it looks like stillness.

Sometimes it looks like waiting for a repair quote.

Sometimes, it looks like letting go of the timeline you had in mind and trusting the rhythm of something slower, truer, and more sustainable.

That’s where I’m headed.

And I’m so grateful you’re walking with me.