What 451 days in Segovia taught me about creativity and life

451 days ago, I thought creativity was about doing more. Segovia proved me wrong.

Mindfulness, Observation and Focus

When I first arrived in Segovia, I thought throwing myself into constant creative activity would help me heal and find inspiration.

I believed that the more I captured, the more I’d create.

So, I did what seemed natural: I grabbed my camera and went out exploring.

On my second day, I spotted hot air balloons floating gracefully above the Eresma river.

I followed them—camera in hand—chasing moments I didn’t want to miss.

The next day, frost covered the grass, glistening under the morning light. Poetically called cencellada—a delicate, fleeting beauty I found myself drawn to.

Then came the mist rising above the river, perfect for framing gliding ducks...

And later, the arrival of migrating storks perched on rooftops.

Storks at the rooftop

Then came the fog serving as a gentle blanket to cover the townscape.

Every morning became a hunt. Balloons, frost, mist, storks, fog—sometimes I tried to capture them all at once. Ironically, the more I chased, the more distracted I became.

My creativity turned into a whirlwind of pressure to “get the shot.” And yet, many days, I returned home with images that felt average.

It wasn’t until I paused that I understood: creativity isn’t about capturing everything. It’s about being present enough to notice something.

Daily walks slowed me down. Daily mindfulness meditations taught me that, like wandering thoughts, the flood of visual stimuli wasn’t something to react to —it was something to observe, breathe through, and gently refocus.

Just as I’d return my attention to my breath during meditation, I learned to return my attention to one scene, one moment, one subject.

The irony? By focusing on less, I noticed more. Creativity, I realized, isn’t about doing more. It’s about seeing deeper.

Resilience

By Day 135, Segovia taught me a different lesson: sometimes, no matter how mindful you are, life throws obstacles you can’t just breathe through.

One day, my knees—usually reliable—decided they’d had enough. Walks that once stretched for hours now ended at my front door. I swapped mountain trails for flat sidewalks and long photo walks for brief ventures supported by crutches.

My balcony transformed from a place for drying my laundry into my new creative perch.

Storks nesting on the neighbouring rooftop became my morning and evening companions.

Hot air balloons floating across the horizon were no longer subjects I’d chase along winding paths—they became fleeting visitors I welcomed from home.

Paraglider appearing in my sight on some evenings reminded me of pursuing my dreams.

Paraglider at sunset

And when the storks and their grown-up chicks migrated south in July, I faced a choice: lament what I’d lost or shift my focus.

I chose the latter. Videos replaced photos. Verbal storytelling replaced the visual one.

I recorded clips for my new IG account, spoke to the camera about overcoming creative blocks (while working through my own), and immersed myself in learning—video editing, copywriting, public speaking.

It wasn’t the journey I planned. But by Day 233, I learned that when one door closes, creativity finds another way in—even if it’s through a balcony window.

Intuition

By Day 247, I stopped looking for answers outside and started listening in.

When you spend enough days with yourself—really with yourself—something shifts.

The external noise fades, and you begin to notice the subtle nudges you used to brush aside. Walk down that street. Pick up that book. Pause for just one more moment.

Turns out, those weren’t random impulses. That was intuition—always there, just waiting for me to quiet down enough to hear it.

Some days, I’d follow a sudden urge to check on the little groceries shop I always ignored —and find fruteria inside, other days - a nudge to go down a different street - and find a small park with exercising machines. Was it luck? Maybe. But after enough “coincidences,” I started to trust that inner pull.

Working smarter, not harder, became my new compass. Less chasing. More receiving. Less planning. More feeling.

Boundaries

By Day 329, Segovia taught me that sometimes saying “no” is how you say “yes” to yourself.

Pain has a way of clarifying what matters. On the days my knees protested, I listened.

I swapped ambition for compassion, trading long treks for short, meaningful steps.

When I felt stronger, I pushed gently—just enough to meet my new edge, not bulldoze past it.

My boundaries extended beyond my body.

Conversations that drained me? I stepped away.

Obligations that felt heavy? I lightened my load—sometimes literally, carrying just one lens instead of a backpack full of gear.

And guess what? Stripped-down shoots led to better images. Simplicity sharpened my focus.

Sometimes less really is more—less weight, less noise, less pushing. And in that space, I found clarity.

451 days.

451 sunrises and sunsets. 451 chances to observe, adapt, trust, and protect what matters. I didn’t just learn about Segovia—I learned about myself.

About how creativity isn’t about having the perfect conditions. It’s about showing up—curious, resilient, open—and letting life surprise you.

Because, as I found out somewhere around day 213 (but who’s counting?), every day holds a lesson—if you’re willing to pay attention.

P.S. 1: Funny enough, this blog post started as what Brené Brown calls an SFD—Shitty First Draft. I had notes scattered everywhere: ideas scribbled in Notion, in my phone, messy paragraphs, random thoughts about hot air balloons, misty mornings, and bill rattling storks. It was chaos. But that’s the point—clarity comes after you start. Just like those daily walks that began with distraction and ended with focus, this post evolved from messy beginnings into something with direction. P.S. 2: Even choosing the images for this post reminded me of what Segovia taught me—less is more. I had 100 images that told pieces of this journey, but in the end, I had to focus on the ones that truly mattered. Just like in creativity—and life.