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The Terrible Photographer is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative humans trying to stay honest in a world that rewards pretending
Your Brain is the Biggest Dick
Subtitle: Why self-criticism is creative masturbation
Before we start today, I need to be honest with you about something. I hate talking about this stuff. I really do. Because I've struggled with it my entire life, and honestly, I still do.
I'm going to share some things I generally keep pretty close to the chest. But one of the core values of The Terrible Photographer is radical honesty. And I never want to shy away from topics that are usually off-limits in creative spaces.
I want to create a space where mental health is taken just as seriously as business growth strategies. Where we can talk about the stuff that actually keeps us up at night.
With that said, I'm going to give you some strategies and present some research. But I'm not offering that as an expert or someone who's "made it." I'm speaking as someone who's walking this path with you. It might sound like I'm giving advice, but please hear me—I'm talking to myself just as much as I'm talking to you.
This podcast exists because it's the thing I've always been looking for. I wrote the book talking about things I always wanted to know but could never find anywhere else.
So here we are. Let's get uncomfortable together.
There's a kind of fame that doesn't feel like success. It feels like being exposed—like every song, every photo, every brushstroke is a con that someone's about to call you out on.
Kurt Cobain had that kind of fame.
He made Nevermind, sold millions of records, changed the sound of a generation… and hated it. Thought it was too polished. Too fake. He didn't trust what people loved about it. He thought they were being fooled. He thought he was the lie.
And if you've ever looked at your own work and felt a sick pit of dread instead of pride—you know exactly what I'm talking about.
I spent four hours editing a photo last month. Not because it was difficult—because I couldn't stop telling myself it sucked. I pushed shadows, pulled highlights, tried to beat it into being better. Then I walked away. Convinced I was a fraud.
The next morning I opened the file… and it was good. My brain had lied to me. Again.
That's the thing no one warns you about: your inner critic isn't sharpening you. It's using you. It doesn't want better art. It wants blood. And it'll settle for your confidence if it can't have your talent.
Today's episode is about that voice. The one that convinces you misery means you're doing it right. The one that turns self-critique into a ritual of self-harm.
Psychologists call it rumination. I call it creative masturbation.
[Low, slow music fades in]
This is The Terrible Photographer Podcast. I'm Patrick Fore. And today we're talking about the addict in your head—and why it gets off on your suffering.
Let's get scientific. Harvard's Dr. Peter Grinspoon calls rumination "an ongoing attempt to come up with insight or solutions that devolves into counterproductive brooding." Dr. Manju Antil takes it further, calling it "mental masturbation"—excessive mental activity that feels important but leads nowhere.
Sound familiar?
You think you're being disciplined. You're just spiraling. You're wearing out your soul in private, getting high off the idea of being a tortured genius. But the only thing you're producing is exhaustion.
Neuroscience doesn't pull punches. Rumination hijacks your mental bandwidth, wrecks your ability to solve problems, and kills momentum. You think you're maintaining standards. But really? You're grinding your own gears into rust.
Here's what's actually going on in your brain: The amygdala processes negative input five times faster than positive. It takes five positive experiences to counteract one negative one. Your default mode network replays your failures like a greatest hits album you didn't ask for. You know that moment when you're editing and suddenly every photo from the last three years looks like garbage? That's your brain having a field day with your insecurity.
Evolution trained you to remember pain to avoid danger. Great if you're being chased by wolves. Terrible if you're editing wedding photos.
But here's the thing—the critic evolves. It gets smarter. It stops screaming and starts whispering. It doesn't need to torture you anymore because you've learned to torture yourself. It just quietly assumes the worst, and you've stopped arguing with it.
I shot an automotive lifestyle campaign last year. Big budget, great concept, images I was proud of. Delivered them and then... silence. No feedback. No "these are amazing!" email. Just nothing. And instead of following up, I just quietly accepted that they probably hated them. Of course they did. Why wouldn't they?
I lived with that assumption for over a year. Just this quiet resignation that I'd failed somehow. It wasn't dramatic torture—it was worse. It was learned helplessness wearing a mask of maturity.
Finally, last month, I got the balls to reach out. Asked how they liked the images. Turns out they loved them. One of my photos is hanging in their executive conference room. They were thrilled. I'd spent a year assuming failure based on absolutely nothing.
Sometimes we choose misery because it's familiar. Because if we fail while already hating ourselves, at least we saw it coming. But that's not wisdom—it's just the critic wearing a more sophisticated disguise.
Here's something nobody talks about: self-doubt isn't equally distributed.
Photographers from privileged backgrounds often have the luxury of "finding themselves" creatively. They can afford to shoot for free, say no to bad clients, take time off to "refocus." That's not grit—that's financial insulation.
If you grew up working-class? You carry an extra weight. You're not just trying to be good—you're trying to justify your presence in a field that's often seen as frivolous. Your work isn't just art—it's a defense against being told to get a "real job."
The inner critic hits different when you know the rent is due. When you feel like you have to prove you belong in creative spaces built for people who never had to prove anything at all.
And that kind of pressure? It doesn't make you better. It makes you smaller. It turns every creative risk into a perceived threat. Every imperfection feels like confirmation that you were never supposed to be here in the place.
Let's be honest about money: self-doubt gets worse when you're broke. When you need the client payment, every critique feels existential. When you have savings, negative feedback is just information. A note. Something to adjust.
But when your bank account is low, your nervous system doesn't know the difference between a picky client and a tiger in the bushes. You're not editing with clarity—you're editing in survival mode. The inner critic gets meaner when the rent is due. It doesn't whisper—it screams.
And it's easy to confuse that fear with professional standards. But they're not the same. One is about the work. The other is about staying alive.
You start editing not to elevate your vision—but to survive someone else's expectations. That's not art. That's self-defense.
Let's get into the stuff that makes everyone uncomfortable.
Some of your clients? They're enablers. That art director who wants 47 revisions isn't a perfectionist—they're projecting their own creative paralysis onto your billable hours. They see your self-doubt and exploit it. Misery loves company, especially when it's profitable.
And the "natural talent" myth? Pure bullshit. That's marketing, not reality. The photographers you admire were mediocre for years. The difference? They kept going. They treated bad photos like feedback, not identity. While you were spiraling over one missed focus point, they were shooting the next frame.
Here's something I've had to face about myself: sometimes it feels better to be the victim than to own my fear. It's easier to assume people don't like me than to risk finding out they actually do. Because if they don't like me when I'm trying my hardest, what does that say about me?
So I don't say no. I don't set boundaries. I overextend myself, burn out, get resentful, and then tell myself "I'm so dumb, I deserved this." It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm scared to disappoint people, so I set myself up to get hurt, which validates my fear that I'm not good enough.
I had to hire an editor to make selects for my portfolio because I couldn't trust my own judgment anymore. In my worst moments, I can find flaws with every single image I've ever made. I can't separate how I felt when I shot something from what I actually produced. The anxiety bleeds into the evaluation.
Sometimes the critic in your head isn't totally wrong. Sometimes it sees what you're not ready to face. But instead of using that information to course-correct, you turn it into a weapon. You beat yourself down with it like it's discipline. It's not. It's just cruelty wearing a badge.
And here's the most fucked up part: I sometimes feel like people won't like me until I perform in a way that proves my worth. Like love and acceptance are conditional on creative output. Like I have to earn basic human connection through my camera.
That's not humility. That's a prison you built for yourself.
Alright. Enough doom. Let's talk damage control.
First: catch yourself in the act. When you notice the spiral starting, ask: "Am I solving something? Or just suffering out of habit?" If it's been more than ten minutes and you haven't taken action, congrats—you're masturbating.
Second: run the evidence test. Your brain says the photo's trash, the client's going to leave, your career's over. Ask: "What actual proof do I have?" If it's all vibes and no facts, let it go.
Third: use the 10-10-10 rule. Will this criticism matter in 10 minutes? 10 months? 10 years? Most of what we obsess over doesn't survive the first question.
Fourth: borrow someone else's eyes. Would a stranger notice what you're obsessing over? Or are you micro-picking pixels only you care about?
Fifth: set a suffering limit. Ten minutes, max. Set a timer. When it dings, you're done. Fix it, ship it, or shut up.
Sixth: separate the voice from the truth. That critic isn't you—it's a survival pattern you picked up somewhere between fifth grade and your last terrible job. Acknowledge it. Nod politely. Then move the hell on.
And finally: check the source. Ask: "Is this real creative concern—or is this just me panicking about money?" Those are two different monsters. Don't confuse one for the other.
You're not trying to kill the voice. That's impossible. You're just keeping it from driving the damn car while you're blindfolded in the passenger seat.
Look, I still struggle with this. I still have to remind myself that silence doesn't equal disapproval. That people pleasing is just fear in a prettier package. That my worst assumptions about other people's opinions are usually just my own insecurity wearing their faces.
The goal isn't perfection. It's progress. It's catching yourself sooner each time.
Here's your assignment:
Pick a project you've been avoiding. The one that scares you. The one that whispers you're not ready. Maybe it's a new lighting setup, a different color grade, or reaching out to someone who intimidates you.
Set a timer for one hour. Start working. No judgment. When the critic starts up—and it will—acknowledge it and keep moving. When the timer goes off, stop. Don't evaluate. Don't spiral. Just stop.
Then pay attention to how it felt to make something without bleeding out for it.
Most of your creative problems aren't technical. They're psychological. You're not short on skill. You're short on the courage to suck long enough to get good.
Stop mentally masturbating. Start making things.
And maybe—just maybe—reach out to that client from six months ago who went radio silent. Ask them how they liked the work. You might be surprised by the answer.
That's it for today.
Stay curious. Stay courageous. And yeah… stay terrible.