Pinhole Therapy: Peace Found in Wind, Rain and Waiting

Grey clouds rolling in, sudden light bursting through, wind whipping, rain spitting… and my pinhole camera right there in the middle of it all.

This is my happy place — raw, unpredictable, perfectly imperfect. Pure pinhole therapy.

There’s something about standing outside in bad weather with a camera that strips life back to the essentials. No noise. No rush. No distractions beyond the rhythm of the elements and the quiet ticking of time inside a wooden box. The world becomes simpler when all you can hear is wind and the soft hiss of rain on your jacket.

Pinhole photography forces you to slow down. There’s no screen to check, no autofocus to rely on, no instant reassurance. Just patience, instinct and trust. You set your exposure, step back, and wait. And in that waiting something shifts inside you. Thoughts untangle. Stress loosens. The mental clutter fades.

It’s therapy without a chair, without a room — just open space and sky.

Bad weather especially has a strange healing power. Most people run from it. I love it. Storm light, moving clouds, sea mist, long exposures — they carry emotion in a way sunshine rarely does. The unpredictability feels honest. Real. And pinhole loves imperfection. Motion, softness, blur — they remind me that beauty doesn’t have to be sharp or controlled.

Out there, creativity takes over and the weight of everyday life quietly lifts. Bills, headlines, worries, deadlines — they dissolve into background noise while I’m focused on framing something that might or might not work. That uncertainty is freeing. It pulls me fully into the present.

And being surrounded by nature does something deeper still. Even if you’re not religious, there’s a sense that you’re standing inside something bigger than yourself. Vast skies, shifting seas, wild landscapes — they put everything back into proportion. For me, it’s a reminder that creation carries a quiet peace of its own. A stillness that feels restorative in a way that’s hard to explain but easy to feel.

Photography becomes more than making images. It becomes breathing space.

There’s a calm that comes from surrendering control — letting the light decide, letting time stretch, letting the weather shape the final frame. It mirrors life in many ways. Not everything needs forcing. Not everything needs polishing. Some of the most meaningful results come from patience and trust.

I don’t always come home with perfect photos. But I always come home lighter.

And that, to me, is what photography therapy really is.

Not perfection.
Not productivity.
Just presence, stillness, and the quiet joy of creating something in the middle of wind and rain.

Some photos captured with the HOLGA Wide Pinhole Camera is bad weather.