But more than that, I’ve found myself thinking about what photography actually means to me.

It may sound a little self-indulgent, but bear with me.

Google’s latest update has just shaved roughly 40% off my traffic and, in turn, a significant chunk of my income almost overnight. It’s reminded me just how fragile a website can be when so much depends on decisions made by a company on the other side of the world.

More importantly, it’s forced me to stop and think.

Not just about traffic.

Not just about income.

But about what I actually want from photography.

Where do I see myself in ten years?

What kind of photographer do I want to become?

How do I balance the desire to create meaningful work with the responsibility of paying the bills and giving my daughters the life I want for them?

Those aren’t easy questions to answer.

And if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure I’ve found the answers yet.

The answer used to be much simpler.

I started photography because I enjoyed it.

Then it became a creative outlet.

Then it became a career.

Then it became a way of preserving memories.

Today it’s all of those things at once, and if I’m honest, those different reasons don’t always sit comfortably together.

Part of me wants to spend my time exploring emotions, thoughts and places through photography. To work on projects like Witness, The Land and As We Grow. To make photographs that say something about how I see the world and what matters to me.

But the reality is that photography is also how I pay my bills.

Photography isn’t just my passion. It’s also my business.

And that creates a tension that I suspect many photographers understand but don’t often talk about.

Because if I could choose purely with my heart, I’d spend more time thinking about ideas.

I’d spend more time making photographs.

I’d spend more time exploring the things I find meaningful.

The problem, of course, is that meaningful work doesn’t automatically pay the nursery fees or Sofia’s horse-riding lessons.

And if I’m completely honest, money isn’t the only thing holding me back.

Like a lot of creative people, I carry around an enormous amount of self-doubt.

Is my photography actually good enough?

Do people care enough to follow along?

Is there really an audience for the kind of work I want to create?

I’m quite a boring person, at least in the way the internet seems to value people these days.

I enjoy peace and quiet.

I enjoy walking in nature.

Nothing about my life really screams for attention.

In social situations I’m usually the person happy to let someone else lead the conversation. Not because I’m shy or socially awkward, but because I’ve never been particularly comfortable being the centre of attention.

Which makes the whole idea of inviting people to follow my journey feel slightly absurd.

Why would anyone want to watch my videos, read my essays or follow my projects?

I’m not travelling to exotic destinations every week.

I’m not climbing mountains.

I’m not chasing dramatic adventures.

Most days I’m simply walking through the countryside with a camera, watching wildlife, observing the landscape and trying to make sense of the world around me.

And yet, despite all of those doubts, there is another part of me that feels increasingly drawn in that direction.

Not towards fame.

Not towards followers.

Not towards another camera.

But towards work that feels meaningful.

The problem is that I don’t yet know whether meaningful work and financial security can coexist.

A few weeks ago I thought I was building something reasonably secure. Not wealthy. Not extravagant. Just a business that would allow me to support my family, pay my way in life and slowly build a better future for Sofia and Isabelle.

Then, almost overnight, 40% of my traffic disappeared.

The bills didn’t fall by 40%.

The nursery fees didn’t fall by 40%.

The responsibilities didn’t fall by 40%.

That’s the reality of building a life around something you don’t fully control.

And when you’re responsible for children, those worries become very real.

A large proportion of my income currently goes towards nursery fees for Isabelle.

Not because childcare is convenient.

Not because it’s what everyone does.

Because I genuinely believe it is important for her development and long-term outcome.

In fact, concerns about Isabelle’s development were one of the main reasons I sold virtually everything I owned in the Philippines and moved back to the UK.

It wasn’t a decision I took lightly.

It meant leaving behind a life we’d spent years building, but I believed it gave her the best possible chance of accessing the support, education and opportunities she might need.

So when I pay those nursery fees each month, I don’t really see them as optional, they’re essential.

At the same time, I’m trying to navigate a difficult relationship between Sofia and her mother.

I’m trying to make the right decisions for two children.

I’m trying to build a stable future.

And like most parents, I spend a fair amount of time wondering whether I’m getting any of it right.

The funny thing is that when life becomes more complicated, I find myself becoming more attached to photography rather than less.

Not because I need more content.

Not because I need another camera.

Not because I need another photograph.

But because photography gives me something that becomes increasingly valuable when life feels overwhelming.

It gives me permission to leave the house.

A three-hour walk can feel difficult to justify.

There are always things that need doing.

Articles that need writing.

Emails that need answering.

Problems that need solving.

But somehow a three-hour walk with a camera feels acceptable.

It feels like it has purpose.

Even if I come home without a single image worth keeping.

I’ve dealt with anxiety and depression before.

Back in the late 2000s they became overwhelming for a few years.

Like many people who have experienced those things, I learned that they never completely disappear.

You learn how to manage them.

You learn what helps.

You learn what doesn’t.

For me, one of the things that helps is getting outside.

Particularly here in Scotland.

The forests.

The rivers.

The weather.

The changing seasons.

The feeling of being surrounded by something much larger than myself.

It’s where I feel most at home.

Photography simply gives me a reason to spend more time there.

What I’ve realised over the years is that photography doesn’t solve my problems.

The traffic is still down when I get home.

The nursery fees still need paying.

The difficult conversations still need to be had.

The uncertainty about the future is still there.

But for a few hours, my mind gets a break from carrying all of it.

Instead of worrying about next month, next year or the next problem that needs solving, I start looking at what’s directly in front of me.

The light.

The trees.

The shape of a river.

The way mist hangs over a field.

The relationship between different elements in a frame.

My attention moves away from the future and back to the present.

And that’s a powerful thing.

I think that’s why photography has remained such an important part of my life.

Not because of the cameras.

Not because of the gear.

Not even because of the photographs.

The photographs are often just the excuse.

The real value is what happens while I’m making them.

These days there are many reasons I carry a camera.

To preserve memories of my daughters.

To support my family.

To create something meaningful.

To work on long-term projects.

To satisfy a creative itch that never seems to go away.

All of those things are true.

But if I’m being completely honest, there is another reason.

Sometimes I carry a camera because I need it.

Not for the photograph.

For myself.

Because for a few hours it gives me permission to slow down, pay attention to the world around me and remember that despite all the worries, pressures and responsibilities, there is still beauty here.

Perhaps that’s what I’ve really been trying to figure out since Google’s latest update.

Not whether I should continue taking photographs.

I already know the answer to that.

The real question is what I want photography to become over the next decade.

I think I want to spend less time worrying about cameras and more time exploring ideas.

Less time thinking about equipment and more time thinking about people, places, memories and the things that give life meaning.

I want to spend more time working on projects.

Witness, a project exploring time and mortality through the huge trees in my local area that will no doubt outlast me.

As We Grow, a documentary project recording my daughters as they grow up, preserving moments that already seem to be slipping away faster than I’d like.

The Land, a long-term project documenting rural Perthshire, its agriculture, traditions and wild spaces.

And one other project that is deeply personal to me, one that I’m not ready to talk about publicly yet. Perhaps one day. For now, it remains private.

Most of all, I want to find out whether it’s possible to build something around work like that.

Not a huge audience.

Not fame.

Not millions of followers.

Just enough people who genuinely care about the photographs, the stories behind them and the journey of creating them.

I don’t know if that’s possible.

The truth is, much of this article has been an admission that I don’t know what the future looks like.

I don’t know what photography will mean to me in ten years.

I don’t know whether these projects will lead anywhere.

I don’t know whether the path I’m considering is sensible or foolish.

What I do know is that despite everything that has changed in my life over the last twenty years, photography remains the thing I keep coming back to.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because it’s profitable.

Not because I’m particularly good at it.

But because it helps me understand the world around me and, perhaps more importantly, my place within it.

And right now, that’s reason enough to keep carrying a camera.

Where I’m Heading Next

If you’ve followed this website for a while, you’ll know most of my writing has focused on cameras, lenses and photography advice.

That isn’t going to stop.

But alongside that, I’m increasingly drawn towards longer-term photographic projects and essays exploring photography beyond the equipment itself.

Projects such as:

• Witness — exploring time and mortality through the ancient trees of Perthshire.
• As We Grow — documenting my daughters as they grow up.
• The Land — exploring the agriculture, traditions and wild spaces of rural Perthshire.

I’ll be documenting those projects, along with the thoughts, successes and failures behind them, over at DavidJFleet.com.

Photos that, unless I’d gone digging out of necessity, probably would’ve sat there untouched for another decade. Maybe longer. Maybe until the drives finally failed — and with them, thousands of memories quietly disappeared.

I’m sure I’m not the only photographer with hard drives full of moments that never see the light of day.

That’s why I love to print. It’s why I made a promise to myself to start building printed photo albums with my eldest daughter, Sofia — and to print at least one or two images every month to hang on our walls.

But in a digital age where everything lives on screens, why bother printing at all?

Why Printing Matters

I grew up in the ’80s and ’90s, and I still remember my dad taking pictures on our childhood holidays — and the wait to get the photos back from the local shop.

We’d head into town, do the shopping, and pick up that little pack of 24 or 36 photos before heading home to scan through them. It was as big a part of photography as pressing the shutter. A quick flip through usually revealed a few out-of-focus shots, a photo of the floor, or something badly exposed — but inside that pack were always one or two gems that made it into the family album.

I might not look through that album again for a year or two, but when I did, having a physical print to remind me of the trip or occasion felt real — tangible — like a fragment of time captured forever.

I can look at a thousand images on a screen and rarely feel the same emotions as I do holding a print in my hands. When I was shooting a project in Devon about the places my late father grew up, it was those old family photo albums that brought the memories back — far more than the thousands of digital images stored on hard drives.

There’s something about holding and studying a physical print that lets you connect with a photo in a deeper way than you ever can staring at a screen.

Now, when I take a photo of my daughters, I print it and put it on the wall. Every day I walk past those images and feel that moment again — a reminder that time is moving, and it’s important (for me at least) to capture it. Not just to remember the places we’ve been, but to remember how this time in our lives felt: the little smiles, gestures, and moments that stir something inside.

I learned to print as a landscape photographer in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. I spent countless hours choosing papers, tweaking settings, calibrating colours, and perfecting museum-grade prints that were sold in galleries and now hang in homes across the world. But none of those landscapes hit me emotionally like the memories I’m printing now.

Family memories. Moments in time, frozen forever and brought to life on paper.

A lot of people get snobbish about printing — especially in the fine art world — and I understand the desire to maintain quality and longevity. But for most of us, the real value in printing is simpler: it’s the act of turning a memory into something you can hold. It’s the final piece of the photographic process — and the one that brings your photos to life the most.

Whether you’re calibrating a 44” printer with beautiful cotton rag papers or printing on a small home printer with standard photo stock, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it means something to you.

When a Photo Finally Feels Complete

For me, a photo isn’t finished until I print it. It’s the final part of the puzzle — the moment that tells me, this work is complete.

Printing feels as essential to the creative process as finding the composition, chasing the light, or editing the image. Not every photo I make is meant to be printed, but for the ones that make me feel something, producing that final print is the culmination of everything I put into it.

When I see the paper rolling off my Canon printer, it reminds me that all the effort was worth it — the physical result of an idea made real, something I can hold, enjoy, and share.

Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe others don’t feel the same.

I’d love to know — do you still print your photos, or do digital albums give you the same satisfaction?

A few years abroad. Some travel. A bit of life experience before I did the “normal” things people like me are meant to do — get a job, buy a house, settle down somewhere predictable.

That was the plan.

Until my first daughter was born in 2016.

Everything changed after that.

Not instantly. But slowly. Subtly.

I’d still look at living abroad as a phase, something I’d grow out of. And every time I travelled or lived somewhere new, I saw it through the lens of a Brit abroad — curious, appreciative, but always with the feeling that the UK was still better.

Less corruption. More freedom. Safer streets. Fewer deadly animals (yes, Australia — I’m looking at you).

It was always the place I’d return to.

⸻

I remember landing in Cebu years ago and hearing Oasis playing in the taxi from the airport.

It filled me with pride. A silly kind of joy. That was my country’s music. A sound from the 1990s that made me feel like home was still close, even from halfway around the world.

⸻

Even as Sofia grew up here in the Philippines, I kept telling myself we’d end up back in the UK eventually.

For the schools. For the NHS. For the opportunities.

In fact, during all the COVID madness, we actually moved back to the UK for two years.

But we didn’t stay.

We came back to our home here in Cebu.

And that’s when things really started to shift.

⸻

As I write this, I’ve just landed at Birmingham airport on what will likely be my final trip to the UK.

My return journey is next week.

So this trip is a kind of goodbye.

You see, I’m not travelling alone this time.

I’m flying back to bring my mum to live with us here in the Philippines.

⸻

We’ve always been incredibly close.

But since my dad passed away so suddenly in 2023, the distance between us has grown harder to live with. She’s getting older, and every year I’d make the trip home to spend time with her — no matter what else was happening.

That annual trip to the UK was my anchor.

It kept me tied to my roots.

To the version of me that never quite let go of the idea of “home.”

But that’s changed now.

She’s coming here.

To live near us. To be part of our daily lives. To be with her granddaughters as they grow up.

And while that brings me an enormous sense of peace and joy — it also brings a very strange kind of sadness.

⸻

Because it means I’m finally letting go of the idea that I’ll ever live in the UK again.

Not just for now.

But ever.

That’s a hard thing to wrap my head around.

To know that the country I grew up in — the place where my memories and friendships and old dreams live — is no longer where I belong.

⸻

The last time I was there, something felt different.

The country I once loved so fiercely just didn’t feel the same.

Maybe it changed. Maybe I did. Probably both.

But for the first time, I didn’t feel like it offered a better life.

Not for me.

Not for my daughters.

Not anymore.

⸻

Letting go of that felt like losing a friend.

Not in a dramatic or angry way — just a quiet sort of mourning.

I’ll never be Filipino. But in some ways, I’m no longer fully British either.

At least, not in the way I used to be.

Isn’t it strange how life twists like that?

How what we thought would be a chapter becomes the whole book?

Read More:

• One Natural Disaster Too Far — Why We’re Moving to Scotland
• The Week That Changed My Thinking — And Why the Nikon Z8 Now Feels Essential
• The One Habit That Transformed How I Photograph My Kids
• My Camera Doesn’t Just Save Memories — It Saves Me
• The Saddest Photo I’ve Ever Taken