Chasing Real Light in an Artificial World

This week, I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I spent some time photographing my world just because it brought me joy.

Last night, I finished two back-to-back sessions. They were the best kind of sessions, where I completely enjoyed the people in front of the lens and I felt my creative muscles stretching instead of snapping. I felt so happy and light and wanted to hold onto that feeling before jumping back into all the to-dos and should-dos.

So instead of heading home, I took the long way.

The sunset was ridiculous. One of those big, bold November skies we don’t usually get, mostly because November isn’t supposed to be seventy degrees. I’m worried about the drought, the lack of snowpack, the long-term effects. Because of course I’m worried. That’s who I am. But tonight, I tucked all that away and let myself just…look.

I pulled over, climbed popped open the lift gate of my dusty Subaru, and breathed.

The sagebrush quivered in the evening breeze, humming its little desert song under the sky. A couple of pheasants ducked and dodged through the grass. Tumbleweeds tumbled. And for the first time all week, I felt my whole body settle. Shoulders down. Jaw unclenched. Nervous system finally taking its foot off the gas.

Sunsets have been doing that for me my whole life.

At sixteen, I watched them from the back of a horse, sweaty and happy and convinced I knew it all. At forty-eight, I watch them from the ground, a camera in hand, marveling at how much I don’t know and fighting a brain that doesn’t always know how to slow down. But the feeling? Same exact medicine.

There’s a kind of silence only nature can make, not empty, just uncomplicated. No chatter. No buzzing phone. No mental spreadsheet running in the background. Just wind. Grass. Birds shouting their evening plans. And then that one deep breath where your brain finally whispers, “My God…look at this.”

So I did what I’ve always done.

I raised my camera.

Not for Instagram.

Not for a client.

Not for a paycheck.

Just because the light was beautiful and I wanted to remember what the world felt like in that moment.

And that — that — is why I still love photography.

It hits even harder when the whole internet is busy trying to convince us that pixels made in a lab can replace actually being alive.

People talk about AI like it’s about to replace photographers entirely. And sure, AI can spit out a “perfect” image in twelve seconds. It can give you a sunset with colors Wyoming has never actually produced. It can give you 1,000 words to slap on a blog that don’t mean anything because you never actually felt them in your chest.

But there will always be a difference between creating something and simply clicking a button to generate it — whether it’s a picture or a paragraph.

Because life isn’t just about the final image.

It’s about being there.
It’s presence, standing in a field with the wind tugging at your jacket.
It’s truth, real light hitting real land in a real moment.
It’s connection, between you and the world you’re witnessing.
It’s voice, yours, shaped by your life, your memories, your heart.

AI can fake a photo, it can fake a caption, but it can’t give you the experience itself. The stuff that MATTERS.

My love for photography started on the sidelines of a Wyoming Cowboys football game in college. One game was all it took, the roar of the crowd, the smacking of helmets, the rush of being close enough to taste the adrenaline. I was hooked not because the photos were perfect, but because the experience was. Being behind the camera made me feel alive and awake in a way only riding ever had.

That’s still true.

Whether it’s athletes, wildlife, sunsets, insects, patterns, shadows, or anything in between, it’s the attempt to bottle a feeling that lights me up. It’s the challenge of saying, “How do I make this image or these words feel like what’s happening in my chest right now?”

It’s joy.
It’s peace.
It’s contentment.

And no algorithm in the world can give me that.

So yes, AI will help. It’ll make some things easier. It might even make some things prettier. But it will never replace the soul in art, the part that comes from being a human standing in a place that made you feel something.

And honestly, before we share another AI-generated sunset or a fake moon or a mountain that doesn’t exist, maybe we owe ourselves something better. Maybe we owe ourselves a little real-world wonder. The kind you can only get by stepping outside and letting the wind hit your cheeks and the sky hit your heart.

This week standing under the empty, breath-snatching Wyoming sky reminded me of that.

And honestly? I needed it. Maybe you did too.

So here’s your little nudge:

Go stand in the sunset sometime.

Not for the picture.
Just for the peace.

Your soul will thank you.