What Wildlife Photography Taught Me About Patience (and Life)

I’ve spent the better part of the last decade waiting.

Waiting in the cold for a snowy owl to lift off the fencepost.
Waiting in the dust for a lioness to move just enough to catch the light in her eye.
Waiting in silence for a red fox to trust me.

Wildlife photography, more than any other genre, is a masterclass in patience. And not just the kind of patience you pull out for long flights or slow internet. I’m talking about the deep, quiet kind—the kind that changes how you move through the world.

When I first started traveling to photograph wildlife, I was chasing the shot. It was about getting the image, filling the frame, checking the species off my list. And sure, I still want the great shot. But something shifted over the years. Somewhere between Mongolia and Namibia, Newfoundland and Antarctica, I stopped chasing and started observing. I stopped hunting images and started earning them.

The best photographs often come to those who wait—not just with a telephoto lens—but with intention. You learn to watch the rhythm of a place. You learn to read the body language of animals, to predict the turn of the head or the flap of wings. You learn that sometimes the moment doesn’t come until the light fades… and sometimes it never comes at all. And that’s okay too.

Wildlife photography has taught me to embrace stillness.

I’ve had clients on workshops ask, “How do you sit for three hours without moving?” The humorous answer is that I can sleep anywhere, but the actual answer is simple: because something might happen. And when it does, it’ll last five seconds. Maybe less. But those five seconds can change the entire day. Maybe even your whole perspective.

I’ve missed shots. Plenty of them. I’ve fumbled lenses, mistimed exposures, had the wrong settings, or just flat-out hesitated. But I’ve also sat in absolute awe of moments I didn’t photograph—moments I couldn’t photograph. A snow leopard melting into the rocks. A humpback whale surfacing twenty feet from the zodiac in complete silence. A Lynx locking eyes with me across a frozen marsh.

You don’t forget those. They stay with you, even without a file name or a five-star rating in Lightroom.

Over the years, wildlife photography has slowed me down. It’s taught me that presence is more valuable than proof. That being there is sometimes more important than getting the shot. That you can’t force nature to perform, and the best you can do is be ready, be quiet, and be grateful.

So yes—I’ve spent a decade waiting.

And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of it.