Strange Times But I'm Happy Because...
Modern love and coping with quarantine
Not all hope is lost in New York City. While everyone is quarantined, the earth is healing. It brings me such joy hearing that the water in Venice is running clear, the mountain line around LA is visible and global pollution levels are down significantly. But most of all, good people are keeping me happy these days...
On April 20, 2020 Alex Norling and Sara Schipani got married and had a social distancing wedding. How, you may ask? Instead of explaining, I’ll show you the moments I captured as their photographer (from at least six feet away, of course).
Alex and Sara could not obtain a marriage license in New York; their closest option was Hoboken, New Jersey. Since all public parks are closed they were married in a lovely area in between two parks with the NYC skyline as a backdrop. I had my digital camera with me and a roll of black and white film for my Leica M6. With no traffic the drive from Brooklyn was a breeze. I had a tough time deciding if this was ok to do during quarantine, but those feelings were wiped entirely once I arrived.
Alex and Sara’s closest family members were there, and an iPad brought about 50 people to attend via Zoom. Everyone respected all rules, wearing masks (unless smooching) and keeping a distance. The ceremony itself was incredibly romantic. The sky was cloudy but provided a beautiful natural light for photos. And if that's not special enough, to everyone's surprise the local news got word and came to cover the wedding! It was such an unforgettable event and I’m so happy for the Norlings. <3
In New York, we're all living in boxes stacked on top of and beside one another. It's easy to get claustrophobic, and quarantine is making us more shack-happy than ever. Jeremy Cohen started an Instagram series capturing beautiful moments of his neighbors on their rooftops exercising, dancing and enjoying the weather in the only safe outdoor space they have. The series is playful and heartwarming; it shows that we're all in this together, trying to find different, creative ways to cope. While working on these videos, Jeremy developed a relationship with a neighbor he saw dancing on the rooftop across the way. He waved to her, she waved back. He taped his phone number to his drone and flew it over to her roof. They started texting and...well, tune in to the other episodes to find out more. Their relationship developed into a modern love story and picked up buzz in the news. Even with this lockdown in effect Jeremy and his "Quarantine Cutie" found love from a social distance.
Besides my weekly dose of Some Good News with John Krasinski, rewatching the office for the 100th time and checking out camera reviews on YouTube, tuning into Yoga with Adriene has brought happiness and structure to my quarantine routine. I started a 30 day yoga video series with Adriene and her dog Benji the Blue Heeler. Yoga has been an incredible activity for both my body and mind. Her videos have been so helpful for my mental, physical and emotional health. This has helped me establish a healthy daily routine and has allowed me to stay positive, productive and happy.
As a bonus here is my favorite subreddit that you have to check out /PeopleFuckingDying The title might sound a bit scary. But I promise you it's not what you think and it will bring a lot of smiles and laughs.
About the Creator
Christian Johnson
My name is Christian Johnson and I am Brooklyn-based freelance photographer, cinematographer and camera collector intrigued by film.
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Looking back: 2025 was a beast
It's difficult to know how to start this. I've suggested that it's been a tough one from my title and in many ways, it has; however, there is an argument that it's not been that extraordinary at all, merely this wonderful thing we call "life" with all its climaxes and pitfalls.
By Rachel Deeming19 days ago in Motivation
“One Day, I Realized Nobody Was Coming to Save Me—So I Saved Myself”
For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. Every day felt heavier than the last, like I was carrying a weight that kept growing while no one was looking. I woke up tired, went to bed tired, and spent the hours in between pretending I wasn’t. There was a quiet exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch—a tiredness that came from constantly hoping for relief that never arrived. I thought suffering had to be loud to be real. I thought pain needed witnesses to matter. Mine had neither. There was no dramatic breaking point, no single moment when everything fell apart. Instead, it unraveled slowly. Almost gently. Like a thread pulled so gradually you don’t notice the fabric weakening until it’s too late. I kept telling myself, Just hold on a little longer. Surely someone would notice. Surely someone would step in. Surely life wouldn’t let me keep feeling this way forever. But life did. And then one day—an ordinary day that didn’t announce its importance—I realized something that changed everything. Nobody was coming. That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. No montage-worthy transformation. Just small decisions that felt enormous at the time. Getting out of bed even when my body begged me not to. Choosing one task, then another, then another. Letting myself admit—quietly—that I was not okay. Some days, saving myself meant setting boundaries that made other people uncomfortable. I learned how often my exhaustion came from overextending myself to earn love, approval, or relevance. Saying no felt selfish at first. It felt wrong. But it also felt like oxygen. Other days, saving myself meant sitting alone with my feelings instead of numbing them. No distractions. No pretending. Just honesty. That was harder than any physical effort I had ever made. Facing your own thoughts can feel like standing in front of a mirror that refuses to lie. I began to understand something no one had taught me: healing is not linear, and it is rarely beautiful. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Frustrating. Some days feel like progress, others feel like failure. But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. I learned that being alone while growing is far healthier than being surrounded while shrinking. Strength, I discovered, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand recognition. Strength shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices you make when no one is watching. It shows up when you keep going even though the results are slow. When you forgive yourself for falling back into old habits. When you choose patience with yourself instead of punishment. There were setbacks—many of them. I stumbled. I doubted myself. I wondered if I was doing everything wrong. But this time, I didn’t collapse and wait for someone else to fix the damage. I picked myself up. Again and again. And something unexpected happened as I kept choosing myself: the world didn’t suddenly become easier, but I became stronger. Problems that once felt unbearable became manageable. Pain that once consumed me became something I could sit with without losing myself. I stopped asking, Why is this happening to me? I started asking, What can I do with what’s happening? That question changed everything. Today, my life is not perfect. I still have days when old fears resurface. I still feel tired sometimes. I still wish things were easier. But I no longer wait for rescue. I trust myself now. I trust that even if things fall apart, I will be there to put them back together. I trust that my worth doesn’t depend on who shows up for me. I trust that I am capable of building a life that feels like my own. And maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is this: realizing nobody is coming to save you is not a sentence. It’s an invitation. An invitation to stop shrinking. An invitation to take responsibility for your healing. An invitation to become the person you’ve been waiting for. If you’re reading this and you feel stuck—if you feel invisible, exhausted, or quietly breaking—I want you to know this: you are not weak for waiting. You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq4 days ago in Motivation
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