Crickets
WHEn your internal shutter speed needs adjusting
I’m cracking open a little bit right now. I’ll just say that upfront.
I’m sitting here in my Charleston rental—a place that has genuinely become a place of healing for me—and I’m scared. Not in a dramatic, everything-is-falling-apart way. More like that low hum of fear that sits right behind your sternum when you’re betting on yourself… and the silence is getting loud.
I submitted a book proposal to a publisher I believe in with everything I’ve got. I know this book belongs in their catalog. I know I belong in their family. I truly know this. And I have heard… crickets. Fucking crickets. Meanwhile, the struggle of staying afloat is quietly becoming a frightening reality, which I suppose is not so uncommon these days sadly.
And here’s the part that messes with my head the most: I wrote a book about this. Literally about exactly this. About fear and trust and navigating the moments when the ground moves. And I’m sitting here doing the same thing you do—the same thing we all do—which is quietly wondering if this time the Universe has forgotten my address.
I’m not a guru. Neither is Gabby. Neither was Wayne. We live this stuff, same as everyone else.
I’ve been listening to Gabby Bernstein and Wayne Dyer for years. And I love them both. But here’s the honest truth—when you’re in the middle of it, the phrase “let go of fear and trust the universe” is a lot easier to say than to feel. Even when you know it’s true. Even when you’ve written chapters about it. Feeling into it becomes difficult.
The trick, I think, isn’t to never feel the fear. It’s to catch yourself before it spins you off the cliff.
Steady the Tripod
So, I did what I talk about in my book. I call it “steadying the tripod.”
I stopped. Planted my feet on the floor. Looked around the room. Took a breath. Just that… nothing heroic. Just… pause.
And then something shifted.
My internal shutter speed needed adjusting, that’s all.
That’s the photography brain kicking in—the way I’ve learned to make sense of what’s happening inside me by understanding what’s happening inside a camera. Shutter speed controls how long the camera’s “eye” stays open. Fast shutter speed and you freeze the moment—every detail sharp, every edge defined. Sometimes far too much detail and sharpness. Slow it down and something else happens entirely. Motion becomes painterly. Streaks of light. A different kind of truth. Again though, sometimes too slow is also bad. It’s finding that balance, isn’t it?
There are moments in life when everything feels like it’s moving faster than your brain can capture it. And your instinct—my instinct—is to speed up. Match the chaos. But that’s not how you get a clear image. That’s how you get blur.
The photographer doesn’t fix a shaky shot by panicking. They plant the camera. They breathe. They choose their settings with intention.
You can do that too. So can I. Even on the days it feels impossible. Especially on the days it feels impossible.
Here’s the thing I keep coming back to today, sitting here in Charleston, waiting on the Universe to check its voicemail:
Our shutter speeds were slow when we were kids. Relaxed.
Think about it. A child has no concept of hustle culture. No inbox. No metrics. They watch an ant carry something three times its size and they’re completely in it—totally absorbed, totally present.
That’s a slow shutter. That’s the whole world blurring softly around one beautifully present moment. That’s what living in the now is truly about.
Society taught us to crank the speed up. Faster. More. Prove it. Earn it. Don’t you dare look like you’re standing still.
And so we did.
And here we are.
And that is that.
What if the slow shutter was never gone?
What if you just forgot how to use it?
That’s the invitation I’m sitting with today. Not to have it all figured out. Not to hear back from the publisher by Friday. Not to fix the bank account by next week. Just to slow the internal shutter speed down enough to see what’s truly there. To remember who I am, and why I’m here.
And… what’s here is a lot, to be honest. A healing city. Morning light. Work I believe in. And the same low hum of knowing—the kind that doesn’t get loud but also never really goes away—that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. At this moment in my life.
I do the work. I do the time. I trust the process, even when the process doesn’t text me back. Do I forget from time to time? You bet your ass I do. But more and more I am able to come back to it—to me—far quicker these days.
The Universe sees it. It always does.
And by you being here, it sees you as well… and so do I.
Cheers,
Your Pal, Kev
DO THE THING
Slow your internal shutter speed today. Pick one moment — a conversation, a meal, a walk — and actually be in it. No burst mode.
Try the "reset the tripod" move the next time you feel that buzzing urgency in your chest: feet on the floor, name five things you can see, one deep breath, you got this. That's it.
Ask yourself honestly: where in your life have you been standing so still that you've gone silent — like the crickets — just waiting for conditions to be perfect before you start again?
This one is tough, so give it some time. Maybe journal about this one for 10 minutes.