The Inner Critic

There’s a particular kind of awkward silence that happens when someone asks,“So what do you do?” It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s just… a pause. A pause where your brain flicks through possible versions of yourself like it’s scrolling a menu. That was me for years. “What do you do?” And I’d say, “Oh… I just take photos.” Just. As if it were a hobby.As if it were something I accidentally tripped into.As if there weren’t exhibitions, books, weddings, community projects, late nights, early mornings, and 500+ ceremonies behind that word. Just take photos. It sounds humble. It sounds safe. It sounds like someone who hasn’t quite given themselves permission to stand fully in the room. The truth is, I didn’t feel like I was allowed to say the word “photographer.” Not properly. Because in my head, photographers were people who went to art school. People who had portfolios

There are rooms I walk into now that still feel slightly illegal. Not illegal in the criminal sense. More in the “are you sure you’re meant to be here?” sense. Cathedrals.Private viewings.Gallery openings where the wine glasses are thinner than my confidence. I’ve stood in some beautiful spaces over the last few years. High ceilings. Stone arches. Proper lighting. My work framed and hanging on walls that have been standing longer than my entire family line. And every so often, while someone is saying something kind about the project, my brain drifts. Not to the next shoot.Not to the editing queue.But backwards. To sofas. To borrowed duvets.To that slightly awkward feeling of not fully unpacking because you’re not entirely sure how long you’re staying. For two years, life was unstable in a way that doesn’t always make headlines. Not dramatic cardboard-box imagery. Just quiet, grinding uncertainty. Housing that wasn’t really

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

There is a very specific sound I’ve grown familiar with. It isn’t a camera shutter.It isn’t applause in a cathedral.It isn’t even someone saying, “This changed how I see things.” It’s the soft, slightly embarrassing tap of my thumb refreshing a screen. Again. And again. And again. If you want an honest confession, here it is: validation is addictive. Not in a dramatic, rock-bottom kind of way. In a subtle, socially acceptable kind of way. The kind where you convince yourself you’re “just checking engagement.” After you’ve rebuilt your life from a place that felt unstable, recognition hits differently. When you’ve come through uncertainty, when you’ve had seasons where you didn’t feel visible or secure, applause feels like oxygen. It feels like proof. Proof that you’re not invisible.Proof that you didn’t imagine the progress.Proof that the work matters. The first time one of my exhibitions drew serious numbers — proper

If you spend more than ten minutes around photographers, someone will eventually say the words: “I’m thinking of upgrading.” Not in a dramatic way. In a slightly hushed, reverent tone. Like they’re considering a pilgrimage. I’ve said it myself. Usually at the exact moment my confidence dips. That timing is not accidental. When I was given a camera in 2015, it wasn’t the latest model. It wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t arrive with a cinematic backstory. It was just… a camera. And at that stage of my life, that was more than enough. I wasn’t thinking about dynamic range or pixel density. I was thinking about focus. About having something constructive to pour attention into. About rebuilding discipline. The camera was a tool. Nothing more. But as the work grew — as weddings came in, as projects expanded, as exhibitions became real — something subtle crept in. Comparison, yes. We’ve covered

There is a particular type of silence that only self-employed people truly understand. It’s not peaceful silence. It’s inbox silence. No new enquiries.No booking confirmations.No “We’d love to go ahead.” Just newsletters you didn’t subscribe to and a receipt for something you forgot you bought. On paper, it’s a slow week. In your head, it’s the beginning of collapse. I have checked my email like it personally owed me rent. Refresh. Nothing. Refresh. Still nothing. Refresh again, as if the act of staring harder will summon a bride, a charity, or an organisation out of thin air. It would be funny if it didn’t feel so real in the moment. The thing about quiet months is this: for some people, they’re mildly inconvenient. For others, they hit something older. For me, slow periods in business don’t just trigger professional concern. They trigger memory. Memory of instability. Memory of not knowing