There should probably be a warning label on Instagram for creatives.
Something small and honest.
“Caution: You are about to compare your middle to someone else’s highlight.”
I didn’t build my photography career through connections. I didn’t have a friend in the industry. I didn’t assist anyone famous. I didn’t grow up around cameras or creative circles.
I had no network.
I had no blueprint.
I had a camera, a stubborn streak, and Google.
That was the setup.
So when I first stepped into the world of professional photography, it felt a bit like turning up halfway through a race without knowing where the start line was.
Everyone else seemed to know each other.
They used words casually that I had to look up later.
They referenced venues I’d never heard of.
They tagged suppliers who seemed to be in some secret group chat I wasn’t part of.
And then there was social media.
Social media is where comparison goes from background noise to surround sound.
You open the app intending to post a photo.
You leave questioning your entire existence.
I would scroll through beautifully curated feeds — perfect light, immaculate compositions, behind-the-scenes reels with assistants adjusting reflectors like it was a film set.
Meanwhile, I was balancing a camera bag on a chair in someone’s living room and praying the light through the window held for another ten minutes.
And I’d think, “Right. So clearly I’m behind.”
Behind in what, exactly?
I wasn’t sure. But it felt official.
There’s something about seeing dozens of photographers online that creates the illusion that they all started together.
Like there was a memo you missed.
Like everyone attended the same orientation day and you arrived late, clutching your camera and asking where the registration desk is.
The truth is, I started from zero.
No safety net.
No inherited client base.
No industry mentor sliding opportunities across the table.
Just cold emails.
Trial shoots.
Learning through mistakes.
And when you’re building from zero, every other timeline feels like a head start.
I remember one evening clearly.
It had been a long day. Editing backlog. A couple of enquiries that didn’t convert. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those slightly deflated days where your confidence is thinner than usual.
I made the fatal mistake.
I scrolled.
Within minutes I’d convinced myself that every other photographer in the country was:
- More technically skilled
- Better connected
- More consistent
- More established
- More confident
I wasn’t even just scrolling casually.
I was zooming.
Zooming into images like I was conducting a forensic investigation.
What lens is that?
How sharp is that edge?
Is that natural light?
Wait… how is their skin tone that clean?
I once zoomed so far into someone’s lighting setup that I could see the reflection of a softbox in a spoon.
A spoon.
That’s not research.
That’s insecurity with WiFi.
And here’s the subtle emotional punch of comparison: you don’t just admire someone’s work.
You quietly subtract your own.
It doesn’t feel like envy. It feels like inadequacy.
You start thinking things like:
I should be further by now.
Why don’t I look that polished?
What am I missing?
And the most dangerous one:
Maybe I’m just not built for this.
That thought lands differently when you didn’t enter the industry through a traditional path.
Because when you don’t have credentials, you lean heavily on proof.
And social media is very good at making your proof feel small.
What you don’t see on the scroll is the beginning.
You see someone’s 300th wedding.
You don’t see their first five.
You see their refined brand.
You don’t see the experimental logos and awkward colour schemes.
You see the finished project.
You don’t see the abandoned drafts.
Social media hides everyone’s starting line.
It flattens time.
It presents ten-year journeys as if they unfolded in a month.
And if you’re not careful, you compare your Chapter Two to their Chapter Twenty.
I did something once that quietly saved me from spiralling further.
I scrolled all the way back on a photographer’s feed.
Years back.
Past the polished highlights.
Past the clean presets.
Past the confident captions.
And I found early work.
Not bad.
But not perfect.
Inconsistent.
Searching.
Developing.
It was human.
It was growth.
And suddenly, the timeline reappeared.
They hadn’t always been there.
They’d built it.
Just like I was building mine.
The problem wasn’t that they were ahead.
The problem was that I assumed we started at the same time.
We didn’t.
Some photographers grow up around art.
Some assist professionals in their teens.
Some have financial stability that allows them to experiment freely.
My early years were about rebuilding stability.
That matters.
Comparison ignores context.
It pretends everyone began with equal footing.
They didn’t.
And I didn’t.
There’s a particular sting that comes from feeling behind before you’ve even properly begun.
That’s the emotional core of this chapter.
Not jealousy.
Not bitterness.
Just that quiet, heavy feeling of:
Am I late?
When you start something later than others, or from a different place, you carry that question around like background static.
Am I catching up?
Am I already too far behind?
Is there even space for me?
But here’s what I slowly realised.
There isn’t one timeline.
There are thousands.
The industry isn’t a single conveyor belt moving at one speed.
It’s a collection of individual paths.
Some sprint early.
Some build steadily.
Some pause and pivot.
And the only timeline that truly matters is the one you’re actually living.
When I stopped treating other people’s progress as a scoreboard, something shifted.
I could admire work without using it as a weapon against myself.
I could learn without shrinking.
I could see excellence and think, “Good for them,” instead of, “What’s wrong with me?”
That didn’t happen overnight.
Comparison is addictive.
It feels productive.
It feels like motivation.
But most of the time, it just drains focus.
There’s a difference between inspiration and comparison.
Inspiration says, “What can I learn?”
Comparison says, “Why aren’t you them?”
One expands you.
The other compresses you.
And compression is familiar when you’ve spent parts of your life trying to minimise yourself.
So now, when I feel that old tightening in my chest while scrolling, I pause.
I ask myself one question:
Am I learning, or am I measuring?
If I’m measuring, I close the app.
Because measuring myself against someone else’s hidden timeline never helped me shoot better.
It never helped me serve clients better.
It never helped me build meaningful work.
It only made me feel behind.
Different timelines are not failures.
They’re stories unfolding at different speeds.
The fact that I started from zero without networks doesn’t disqualify me.
It shapes me.
It means I understand what it feels like to build slowly.
It means I value progress differently.
It means when something works, I don’t assume it was inevitable.
I built my career one booking at a time.
One project at a time.
One conversation at a time.
That doesn’t look dramatic on a scroll.
But it’s solid.
And solid beats flashy over time.
I still use social media.
I still see incredible work.
I still occasionally zoom in further than necessary.
Old habits.
But I no longer treat someone else’s Chapter Twenty as evidence that my Chapter Three is a failure.
Because it isn’t.
It’s just earlier.
And earlier isn’t inferior.
It’s simply where you are.
And where you are is enough to begin.