From Cancer Scare to Wildlife Lens How One Bad Photo Sparked My Photography Journey

I did not pick up a camera because life felt calm. I picked it up because too many feelings arrived at once, and I needed somewhere for them to go.

Shilinia Hassin a photographer, writer, fashion blogger, website founder & owner, business woman in London, UK.

There was the cancer scare, the kind of moment that makes time feel strange. One appointment, one test, one waiting room can make the life you have been postponing suddenly feel very close. Then there was a photograph. A professional photograph, if we are being honest, taken at a time when I had trusted someone else to show me what I could look like.

Instead, I looked like a gremlin.

Not in a funny, silly, harmless way. In the way that makes your stomach drop. In the way that makes you wonder if that is how the world sees you. I had handed over trust, hope, and vulnerability, and I got back an image that made me want to disappear.

That sounds dramatic until it happens to you.

Between the health fear and that photograph, something shifted. I kept thinking, what if I do not just go for it? What if I keep waiting? What if I spend years wanting to try photography but never let myself begin?

So I began.

Not with a perfect plan. Not with the best camera. Not with a polished style. I began with curiosity, fear, frustration, and a strange pull towards wildlife.

The first step was not confidence, it was showing up with a camera.

The photograph that hurt more than I expected

A bad photo can feel like a small thing from the outside. It is only a picture, people say. Take another one. Move on.

But some pictures land deeper than that.

This one came after I had trusted a professional photographer. I did not expect magic. I did not expect to look like a different person. I only hoped to see a version of myself that felt recognisable, perhaps even kind.

Instead, the image felt careless. The angle was wrong. The timing was bad. The expression was caught in that dreadful half-second where no human looks fully human. The lighting did not help. Nothing about it felt considered.

What upset me most was not vanity. It was the break in trust.

When someone points a camera at you, there is a quiet agreement. You are vulnerable, and they are responsible for looking properly. Not perfectly, but properly. They need to see the person in front of them, not just press the button.

That photograph made me realise how powerful a camera is. A lens can flatten someone or honour them. It can catch a person at their worst split second, or wait for the moment when their face softens and their real self appears.

That thought stayed with me.

At first, it came with anger. Then it turned into a question.

Could I learn to take photographs that felt kinder? Could I learn to notice the moment before someone becomes self-conscious? Could I make images that helped people, and later animals, look alive rather than awkward?

I did not know it yet, but that question would become the root of my photography.

The cancer scare that changed the size of fear

A cancer scare has a way of making ordinary excuses sound thin.

Before it, I had so many reasons not to start. I did not know enough. I did not have the right gear. Other photographers were already better. I was too late. I would embarrass myself. People might judge me.

After the scare, those reasons still existed, but they lost some of their power.

When your body becomes a question mark, even for a short while, your priorities change. The future no longer feels like an endless storage room where you can put all your dreams. It feels more like something you should not take for granted.

I am careful when I talk about this because a health scare is not a neat plot twist. It is not a motivational poster. It is frightening, messy, and deeply personal. This is only my experience, and nothing here is medical advice.

But I can say this honestly: fear did not disappear. It changed shape.

The fear of trying photography started to feel smaller than the fear of never trying. The fear of taking a bad photograph felt less painful than the thought of leaving all that curiosity untouched.

So I started where I was.

I learnt the basic settings. I made mistakes. I overexposed skies. I missed focus. I photographed birds that turned away at the exact wrong moment. I came home with memory cards full of almosts.

Almost sharp. Almost well-framed. Almost interesting.

But even the failures made me feel awake.

Early mistakes still taught me where to look next.

Wildlife taught me how to look without interrupting

Wildlife photography surprised me because it gave me the feeling I had wanted from portraiture, but in a quieter way.

With animals, there is no posing. No forced smile. No one asking where to put their hands. No performance for the camera. There is only behaviour, light, movement, patience, and luck.

I found wonder in that.

A bird landing on a branch does not care whether I am ready. A mongoose pausing in the grass will not wait while I adjust my settings. A buck lifting its head at sunrise gives you one chance, maybe two, and then the moment is gone.

That taught me to pay attention before pressing the shutter.

I began to notice small changes:

• The way ears angle towards sound

• The tightening of a body before movement

• The pause before flight

• The comfort of an animal that does not feel cornered

• The difference between looking and intruding

  
  

Wildlife photography taught me that a good image often comes from restraint. Move slowly. Stay quiet. Watch first. Let the subject exist without demanding something from it.

That lesson softened my whole way of seeing.

I started to understand that taking a good picture of someone without them knowing it, whether a person or an animal, is not about sneaking or stealing a moment. It is about noticing them when they are unguarded. It is about respecting the truth of that second.

There is a kind of honesty in an unposed image. A warthog trotting with purpose. A bird ruffling its feathers in the wind. A person laughing before they remember the camera is there. These moments feel real because they are not trying too hard.

That became the kind of photography I wanted to chase.

Not perfect. Real.

The camera became a way back to myself

At some point, photography stopped being only about the final image.

It became a practice.

When I went out with the camera, I had to be present. I could not spiral too far into what-ifs while tracking a bird across the sky. I could not stay trapped in shame while watching light move across a field. The camera gave my attention somewhere to land.

That mattered.

After feeling betrayed by one photograph of myself, I slowly learnt that the camera was not the enemy. A careless image had hurt me, but photography itself could also heal something. It could help me reclaim the act of looking.

I was not only looking at myself anymore. I was looking at the world.

The more I photographed wildlife, the more I found pieces of myself in the process. Patience I did not think I had. Courage I had not given myself credit for. A love of quiet places. A pull towards small details. A stubborn willingness to keep trying after missing the shot.

Self-discovery can sound grand, but for me it happened in ordinary ways.

It happened when I chose to wake up early instead of doubting myself in bed. It happened when I went out even though I might come back with nothing. It happened when I stopped asking whether I was allowed to call myself a photographer and simply kept making photographs.

That word, photographer, felt too big at first.

I thought I had to earn it through equipment, praise, or paid work. Over time, I realised I was earning it through attention. Through repetition. Through care.

A photographer is someone who keeps looking.

Wildlife photography gave me quiet, patience, and a reason to keep looking.

What that bad photo taught me about taking better ones

The photograph that hurt me still matters because it taught me what I do not want to give other people.

Whether I photograph animals, people, or simple details in nature, I try to remember the feeling of being misrepresented. I remember what it felt like to trust someone and feel unseen.

That memory has become a guide.

I want to wait for the better second.

A face changes quickly. So does an animal’s posture. One second can look tense, odd, or unflattering. The next can feel natural. Waiting matters.

I want to notice dignity.

Every subject has a way of being that deserves respect. Even a scruffy bird on a fence post can be photographed with care.

I want to avoid forcing the image.

Some moments cannot be bullied into beauty. If the light is harsh, the animal is stressed, or the person is uncomfortable, the better choice may be to pause.

I want honesty without cruelty.

A real photograph does not need to expose someone at their worst. Truth and kindness can exist in the same frame.

This is where wildlife and portrait thinking meet for me. Animals do not ask to be photographed, so my job is to keep distance, avoid harm, and let their behaviour lead. People may agree to be photographed, but they still deserve patience, kindness, and care.

The best images I hope to make are not the loudest ones. They are the ones that feel quietly true.

A bird mid-flight. A dog glancing back on a dirt path. A person laughing before they have time to arrange their face. A pair of eyes, human or animal, caught in a moment that feels alive.

Those are the photographs that remind me why I started.

Going for it before I felt ready

The panic that pushed me into photography was uncomfortable, but it was also useful. It asked a hard question: what exactly was I waiting for?

I had been waiting for confidence. Confidence did not arrive first. Action did.

I had been waiting for permission. Nobody handed me any. I had to begin without it.

I had been waiting to feel ready. Readiness, I learnt, often grows after you start.

That is the part of the journey I keep returning to. The beginning did not look graceful. It came from fear, anger, sadness, wonder, and a desperate need to do something with all of it. Yet it still became a beginning.

There is no clean line between pain and passion. Sometimes one leads you to the other in a way you never would have chosen.

I would not ask for the cancer scare. I would not ask for that awful photograph. I would not ask for the feeling of looking at an image of myself and wanting to hide.

But I can be grateful for what I did next.

I picked up the camera.

I went outside.

I looked for life.

The moments that matter most often appear when no one is performing.

The journey is still unfolding

I became a photographer because my life squeezed me hard enough to make waiting feel impossible.

A health scare reminded me that time is not guaranteed. A bad professional photograph taught me how painful it feels to be captured without care. Wildlife showed me that beauty often appears when no one is performing for it.

Together, those things shaped how I see.

Now, when I lift the camera, I am not only trying to make something pretty. I am trying to pay attention. I am trying to honour the moment in front of me. I am trying to catch the living thing, person or animal, as it really is for one small second.

Photography started as a panic. Then it became a question. Then it became a practice.

And somewhere along the way, it became mine.