Between Control and Surrender

Before sunrise, the rainforest is already awake.

The air hangs heavy with moisture. Distant calls echo through layers of unseen canopy. Light doesn’t rise gently here — it pierces. It breaks through leaves in sharp, electric beams that last only seconds before disappearing again.

This is not a place that waits for you.

And yet, the idea of coming here didn’t immediately excite me.

It began quietly — a suggestion, a thought that lingered longer than expected.

Where can I go to photograph birds unlike the ones I see every day at home?

Costa Rica is one of the most biodiverse places on earth. Scarlet macaws blaze across the sky like embers in flight. Keel-billed toucans perch with impossible color. Hummingbirds hover like suspended fragments of light. For bird photographers, it’s a dream location.

But my hesitation had nothing to do with the destination.

It had everything to do with control.

I have always photographed on my own terms — at my own pace, in my own rhythm. I like staying longer than planned. I like circling back when the light shifts. I like abandoning a subject when something unexpected unfolds just beyond the frame.

The idea of a structured photographic tour — fixed times, designated shooting perches, photographers lined up shoulder to shoulder capturing the same subject — felt foreign to the way I create.

Photography, for me, has always been quiet. Intentional. Personal.

Letting go of that autonomy felt uncomfortable.

And yet growth rarely lives inside comfort.

So I went.

And Costa Rica immediately reminded me of something important:

The wild does not care about your plans.

Birds appear without warning and vanish just as quickly. Clouds swallow the sun. Rain arrives in sheets and disappears just as fast. Even within a guided structure, the rainforest moves on its own schedule.

You adjust.
You anticipate.
You miss moments.
You catch others.

There were mornings when we stood together photographing the same scarlet macaw. But no two frames were identical. A wing lifted at a different angle. A head turned into the light. A cloud softened the contrast. The difference wasn’t in the subject.

It was in the seeing.

Somewhere between the humidity, the early calls of howler monkeys, and the rapid flicker of hummingbird wings, I realized something:

I wasn’t surrendering my voice.

I was refining it.

The structure didn’t diminish creativity — it sharpened awareness. It forced decisiveness. It strengthened instinct. It reminded me that artistry isn’t defined by isolation. It’s defined by perspective.

Costa Rica didn’t change how I photograph.

It deepened why I photograph.

It reminded me that preparation and patience are not opposites. That control and surrender can coexist. That sometimes the most powerful images come not from perfect freedom — but from responding fully to the moment as it unfolds.

This journey wasn’t about collecting species or checking birds off a list.

It was about trust.

Trust in the environment.
Trust in the process.
Trust in the fact that even when standing beside others, your vision remains uniquely your own.

And in that trust, something shifted.

Because sometimes, the beauty of photography lies not in the perfect shot…
but in the journey that leads us there.