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The Terrible Creative is a storytelling podcast for photographers, designers, and creative professionals working through the parts of the creative process no gear review or business course ever covers.
Each episode is 30 to 40 minutes. Solo. Story-driven. Built around mental health, artistic identity, and what honest work costs in a career rewarding performance over truth.
This is not a photography podcast about cameras, presets, or client strategy. This is a podcast about the inner experience of being a creative professional, made for the mid-career photographer or designer who has mastered the technical side but lost the thread.
Hosted by Patrick Fore, commercial photographer, author, and former lead photographer and brand designer for Taylor Guitars. His work has appeared globally for clients like Nike, Petco, and Verizon. He built this show because none of the podcasts he found addressed the real problem.
If you are a photographer or creative professional who feels competent on the outside and quietly lost on the inside, you are a Terrible Creative. This is your podcast.
It's number 30, friends.
I did the math, and I've spoken about 110,000 words over the course of these episodes. That's a lot of words.
I'm at the point now where it's a thing that I do. I've slowly started to adopt it into my professional identity—which is weird, right? Patrick Fore: photographer, graphic designer, podcaster.
I had a conversation with a friend recently. Her name is Leslie, and Leslie has her own podcast. It's called Niche to Meet You—you should check it out. She tells stories from people who are doing really weird and interesting things. If you ever wanted to hear about wild turkey conservation or speed puzzling, you might dig this. I'll put the link in the show notes. She’s such a good story teller, I think you’ll might like it.
Anyway, we had a call this past week. I haven't talked to her in almost 20 years. We were both kids the last time we spoke. And here we are, speaking again—but now we're podcasters. She's really good. She's been doing this for a while.
We were talking about podcasts, because that's what podcasters do. We sit around and talk about podcasting.
One of the things we talked about was authenticity and voice. I've been thinking about that a lot lately.
Now, hear me—I work hard at not putting too much veneer on this podcast. That's what The Terrible Photographer is, after all. No bullshit, you know?
But Leslie and I were talking, and I mentioned another conversation I had with a guy who works for an NPR station. Big deal. He listened to the show and gave me some feedback. I asked for the feedback, by the way. He wasn't a prick who just sent me notes I didn't ask for. I asked for them. Because out of respect for you guys, I want to make the show better. I want to improve. And if I'm doing something shitty, I want to know about it.
He gave me notes. And one of the things he said—something that's been fucking with my head ever since—is that he thought I was trying too hard. He just asked the question: Is how I'm presenting on this podcast really me? Or am I just trying to be something else? And what would this show be if I didn't try to be anything else?
That's the kind of feedback that fucks with your mind a bit. Where you go back and listen to your own episodes with a different set of ears.
And he wasn't full of shit. He was right. To some extent.
So I've been on a quest—an epic quest—to peel back more of the layers, you know? To present episodes that are more me. More human.
Authenticity is just a word people throw around these days. Marketing guys in chinos like to use that word a lot when they talk about "authentic content" or how "authentic content drives more engagement." Maybe that's true. Maybe not. But perhaps the very act of performing authenticity means you're no longer being authentic. All you're doing is, well, performing.
Maybe a better way to say it is human. I want to be human on this podcast. And being human isn't a strategy. It's just true.
So I'm making some tweaks. Trying to make this podcast more human. It only took me 30 episodes to figure that out.
(pause)
Anyway, I wanted to say thank you for listening. For supporting this thing.
It's such a big deal to me, and I am so appreciative of every listener—especially those who have taken the time out of their day to comment on Apple Podcasts or Spotify, or to share it with their friends. It's a big deal. And I'm honored that you would allow me, once a week, to spend 40 minutes in your ears.
(pause)
And look, I'm going to do something that makes me a little uncomfortable. I'm going to talk about money for a second.
This show costs money to make. Not a fortune, but enough. Hosting fees, software, the time it takes to research and write and record. And I've been covering it myself because, honestly, I didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to turn this into a "support my Patreon" thing.
But some of you have asked. "How can I support the show?" And I kept saying, "Just listen. Just share it."
And then I realized—that's me avoiding the uncomfortable part. Because asking for money feels gross. Feels like I'm selling something. And I hate that.
But here's the thing: if this show is valuable to you, if it's helping you think differently or feel less alone or just giving you something to chew on during your commute—then it's worth supporting. Not because I need it to survive. But because it helps me keep doing this without it becoming the thing I resent.
So I set up a page. terriblephotographer.com/support. You can buy me a coffee. You can chip in a few bucks. You can do nothing and keep listening for free. All of those are fine.
I'm not putting episodes behind a paywall. I'm not doing tiers or exclusive content or any of that bullshit. The show's free. It's staying free.
But if you want to help cover costs, or just say "hey, keep going"—it's there.
(pause)
Okay. That's done. I feel gross. Let's move on.
(pause)
So this week, we're going to do something a bit different. I wanted to make us all a little uncomfortable today. Because, I think that's kind of fun.
I want to talk about the shit you've probably never heard on a photography podcast before.
Good thing I'm not a typical photography podcast, you know?
(beat)
Okay. So.
A few weeks ago, I sent an email.
To about thirty photographers I know personally. Some are friends. Some are acquaintances. Some are people I've met once or twice at various events or through this podcast.
And I asked them one question:
"What's your dirty little secret? The thing you'd never admit publicly. The thought that lives in the back of your brain at 3 AM. The thing that makes you feel like a fraud, or a failure, or like you've made a massive mistake."
I told them it would be anonymous. I told them I wouldn't share their names. I just wanted the truth.
(pause)
And I got... a lot of responses.
Some came back within minutes. Just a few sentences. Raw. Unfiltered. Like they'd been waiting for someone to ask.
Others took days. Longer emails. Paragraphs of context and justification and "I can't believe I'm telling you this."
Some were expected. Some were brutal. Some made me laugh. And some made me realize I'm not the only one carrying this shit around.
(pause)
So today, I'm going to share eight of them. The most interesting ones. The ones that cut the deepest.
I'm not going to tell you which ones are mine. Maybe none of them. Maybe all of them. But I will say this: at least two of these hit a little too close to home.
They're all real. And if you've thought any of them, you're not alone.
(pause)
Let's call this one "Dirty Little Secrets."
SECRET 1: THE GATEKEEPING
Secret number one came from a commercial photographer. Mid-career. Shoots for brands, agencies, the occasional editorial piece.
Here's what they said:
"I resent wedding photographers. Or family photographers. Or anyone who shoots 'lifestyle' work that I consider beneath me. I think I'm better than them because I shoot for brands instead of brides. And I know that makes me sound like an asshole. But I can't stop thinking it."
(pause)
When I read that, my first reaction was, I admit, oof, butthen after I thought about it for about 30 seconds I said out loud, “Yeah. I get it”.
Not because I agree with it. But because I've felt it. Maybe not about wedding photographers specifically, but about someone. Some genre. Some style of work that I've quietly decided is "less than."
And here's the thing—this person knows it's bullshit. They said as much in their email. They know they sound like an asshole. But the judgment is still there.
(pause)
So what is this really about?
Because if you're secure in your own work, you don't need to tear down someone else's. You don't need to build a hierarchy where you're at the top and everyone else is beneath you.
So when you catch yourself thinking "I'm better than them because I shoot X and they shoot Y," ask yourself:
What am I actually defending?
(pause)
Are you afraid that your "prestigious" commercial work is just as replaceable as their wedding photos? Are you jealous that they have consistent income while you're hustling for the next gig? Are you mad that they found their lane and you're still trying to figure out yours?
Because that's what gatekeeping is really about. Fear. Insecurity. The need to feel special in an industry where everyone's just trying to survive.
(pause)
And here's the uncomfortable truth: there is no hierarchy guys.
Photography isn't a pyramid with editorial fashion at the top and headshot work at the bottom. It's not a ladder. It's a spectrum.
The photographer who can capture a cryng bride with honesty—who can freeze a moment of genuine emotion in chaotic, uncontrollable light—has the same skills as the one lighting a product for a brand campaign. Just applied differently.
The value isn't in the genre or the budget or the size of the production team. It's in the execution. In the storytelling. In the ability to see something and make it matter.
(pause)
So if you've ever caught yourself thinking this way—if you've ever felt superior because of what you shoot instead of how you shoot it—I want you to sit with this question:
Why do you need to be better than them?
What would it cost you to just... let them be good at what they do while you're good at what you do?
(pause)
Because I think the answer is: nothing. It would cost you nothing.
And it might actually set you free.
SECRET 2: THE COPYCAT
Secret number two came from someone who's been shooting professionally for about five years. They didn't give me a lot of context. Just two sentences:
"I don't know how to make anything original. Everything I shoot is just based on what I see on instagram or Pinterest.”
(pause)
This one's probably the most universal secret on this list.
Because I don't know a single creative who hasn't felt this way. Who hasn't looked at their portfolio and thought, "This looks like [insert famous photographer]. Because that's what I was trying to do."
(pause)
Here's what I want to say to this person—and to anyone who's felt this way:
You're not a fraud. You're just early.
(pause)
Every artist you admire was once someone else's apprentice. They stole. They borrowed. They imitated. They studied the people who came before them and tried to reverse-engineer what made their work good.
That's not weakness. That's apprenticeship.
The difference between copying and learning is intention.
If you're copying to hide—if you're using someone else's style as a shield so you never have to risk showing your own—then yeah, you're stuck.
But if you're copying to learn? If you're breaking it down, understanding why it works, and then filtering it through your own experience? Then you're not a copycat. You're a student.
(pause)
And here's the thing about style—about "finding your voice"—that nobody tells you:
It's not something you find. It's something you build.
Through repetition. Through failure. Through making a thousand things that don't quite land until one day, without realizing it, they start to.
Your voice isn't buried under all the influence. It's made from the influence. It's the sum of everything you've stolen, digested, and transformed into something that could only come from you.
(pause)
So if you're still in the imitation phase, that's fine. That's normal. That's necessary.
The only question is: are you staying there on purpose?
Are you hiding behind other people's styles because you're afraid to risk your own?
Or are you genuinely learning, absorbing, building toward something that hasn't emerged yet?
(pause)
Because if it's the latter, then you're exactly where you're supposed to be.
And the only way out is through.
SECRET 3: THE PERFORMANCE
Secret number three came from someone who sent me three paragraphs. Just... unloading. I'm going to condense it, but here's the core of it:
"I'm not as busy as I make it look. I've had three paid gigs this quarter. The rest is spec work, favors, portfolio-building. But my Instagram looks like I'm thriving. And I don't know how to stop performing. Because if I admit I'm struggling, I'm afraid the work will dry up completely."
(pause)
I've been there.
Not recently. But I've been there. And I know a lot of photographers who are there right now.
(pause)
The performance of success is one of the most exhausting things you can do as a freelancer. Because it's not just external—it's internal.
You post the win. You caption it with gratitude. "So excited to work with this incredible client." And maybe you are excited. But you're also thinking, "That gig paid $400 and barely covered expenses."
And then you refresh your email for the tenth time that day, hoping for an inquiry. Hoping for something. Anything.
But the feed says you're thriving. So you keep performing.
(pause)
Here's what nobody tells you: almost everyone is doing this.
The whole industry runs on the illusion of momentum. Because if you admit you're struggling, clients might think you're not good. If you admit you're not busy, people might assume you're desperate.
So everyone performs. And everyone believes everyone else's performance. And the cycle continues.
(pause)
But here's the cost:
The performance drains you. It warps your pricing—because you're so afraid of losing work that you undercharge just to keep the appearance going. It isolates you—because you can't ask for help without admitting the performance was a lie.
And worst of all, it keeps you from seeing your situation clearly.
Because you can't fix what you won't face.
(pause)
So here's what I'd say to this person:
Stop performing. Not publicly—fuck Instagram. You don't owe the internet your financial reality.
But privately. With yourself. With your partner if you have one. With your accountant. With the people who actually matter.
Get brutally honest about where you are.
Not where you wish you were. Not where you think you should be by now. Where you are.
(pause)
Because "barely making it" isn't a permanent state. It's a stage.
But it only becomes temporary if you're willing to see it clearly. To name it. To stop pretending everything's fine when it's not.
And here's the wild part: the moment you stop performing, you free up all that energy you were spending on the illusion. And you can redirect it toward actually building something sustainable.
(pause)
You don't have to announce it to the world. You just have to stop lying to yourself.
SECRET 4: THE HOUSE OF CARDS
Secret number four was short. Just one sentence:
"I have one camera body and no backup. No insurance. I'm one accident away from losing everything."
(pause)
I used to be this person.
Early in my career—back when I was still figuring out if this was a real business or just a side hustle that might turn into something—I didn't have backup gear. I didn't have insurance. I had one camera, one lens, and a prayer.
And I got lucky. Nothing catastrophic happened during that window. But it could have.
(pause)
Here's what I've realized about operating this way:
It's not always about the money.
Sometimes, yeah, it's a money issue. You're bootstrapping. You're barely covering rent. A $2,000 backup camera feels impossible.
But sometimes it's a belief issue.
You don't have insurance or backup gear because you don't believe you're worth protecting. You don't believe this is real yet. You're waiting for some external validation—some moment where someone tells you, "Okay, now you're a real professional. Now you can invest in the infrastructure."
But that moment never comes. Because nobody's going to give you permission.
(pause)
And here's the hard part: clients don't care if you're "still figuring it out."
They hired you to deliver. And if your camera dies mid-shoot, if your hard drive corrupts, if someone trips over a light stand and decides to sue you—they're not going to give you a pass.
They're going to hold you accountable.
(pause)
So here's what I'd say to this person:
You deserve to be protected. Your work deserves to be protected.
Not because you're "supposed to" have backup gear and insurance. But because you're taking on risk. And that risk should be managed, not ignored.
Now, if you're shooting casually—if this is a hobby that occasionally pays—you don't need an LLC and a $10,000 insurance policy. That's fine. That's honest.
But if you're taking client money and calling yourself a professional, you have a responsibility. To them. And to yourself.
(pause)
And here's the thing: investing in the infrastructure doesn't mean you're stuck doing this forever.
It just means you're taking it seriously while you're doing it.
You can still walk away. You can still pivot. But while you're here, protect yourself.
Because you can't build something sustainable on hope and duct tape.
SECRET 5: THE GOLDEN HANDCUFFS
Secret number five came from someone who's been shooting for about fifteen years. They've built a solid business. They have clients. They have a reputation.
And here's what they said:
"If I won the lottery tomorrow, I would never pick up a camera again. I'm good at this, and people will pay me for it. But if money wasn't a factor, I'd walk away in a heartbeat."
(pause)
I read that and I thought: How many people feel this way and never say it?
Because this is the golden handcuffs. You're good at something, so you keep doing it. You've invested time, energy, money. You've built an identity around it.
And now you're trapped. Not because you love it. But because walking away would mean starting over. And starting over feels impossible.
(pause)
I don't know if I'd quit photography if money wasn't a factor. I genuinely don't know.
Some days, I think I would. Some days, I think I'd miss it.
But I understand the sentiment. Because I think a lot of creatives reach a point where the thing they loved becomes the thing they tolerate. And they keep going—not out of passion, but out of obligation.
(pause)
So here's what I'd say to this person:
You don't have to quit today. But you do have to get honest about what's keeping you here.
Is it actually the money? Or is it the fear of the unknown? The fear of disappointing people who believed in you? The fear of admitting that the last fifteen years were... what? A detour? A mistake?
(pause)
Because here's the uncomfortable truth: the cost of staying might be higher than the cost of leaving.
If you spend the next ten years doing something you don't want to do, just because you're afraid to do something else, what does that cost you?
Your energy? Your relationships? Your sense of self?
(pause)
Now here's the other side:
You don't have to quit to reclaim agency.
Sometimes, just knowing you could leave makes staying feel like a choice again.
So if this resonates with you, here's what I'd suggest:
Make a plan. Not a "quit tomorrow" plan. A "what would it take" plan.
What would it take to walk away? A year of savings? A side income stream? A shift in how you work, so it feels less like a trap and more like a choice?
(pause)
The trap isn't the photography. The trap is the belief that you're stuck.
And the moment you start planning the exit—even if you never take it—you take back control.
You're no longer a passenger. You're the driver.
And sometimes, that's enough.
SECRET 6: THE BURNOUT
Secret number six came from a wedding photographer. Twenty years in the industry. Here's what they said:
"I haven't enjoyed a wedding in five years. I still shoot them. I still deliver beautiful work. But internally? I'm dead. I'm just going through the motions."
(pause)
This one hurt to read.
Not because it's shocking. But because I think it's more common than we want to admit.
(pause)
Burnout isn't always dramatic. It's not always the collapse, the breakdown, the moment where you can't get out of bed.
Sometimes it's slow. Quiet. You just... stop caring.
You open your editing software with the same enthusiasm you open a spreadsheet. You deliver a project and the client loves it and you feel... nothing.
Not joy. Not pride. Just: "Great. When's the next one?"
(pause)
And here's what makes it worse: you can't admit it.
Because if you don't love this—if you don't have that passion everyone talks about—then what's the point? You sacrificed stability for this. You chose this life.
And now you don't even care?
That feels like failure. That feels like proof you were never meant to do it.
(pause)
But here's what I want this person to know:
You're not broken. You're burned out. And those are two different things.
(pause)
Burnout doesn't mean you made the wrong choice. It means you've been running on empty for too long. It means the thing that used to fuel you has become the thing that drains you.
And you can't love something back into existence. You can't force yourself to care just because you think you're supposed to.
(pause)
So here's your choice:
Option one: You make peace with it.
You treat this like a job, not a calling. You accept that this pays the bills. That it's a skill you have, and skills can be valuable even if they're not your passion.
Some things exist to fund the life you want, not to be the life you want. And that's okay.
Not everything has to light you up inside.
(pause)
Option two: You give yourself permission to grieve.
To mourn the loss of the love. To acknowledge that this thing you once cared about deeply has become something else.
And then—if you want to—you rebuild.
Not the business. The love.
You ask yourself: What would I shoot if money wasn't a factor? What would I make if I wasn't trying to impress anyone, or land a client, or build a portfolio?
And you start there. Even if it's just one project a year. Even if it never makes money. Even if no one ever sees it.
You find the spark again. Not because you have to. But because you want to.
(pause)
But here's what you can't do:
You can't keep pretending you care when you don't.
You can't keep performing passion while you're dying inside.
Because that—that—is what's killing you.
(pause)
So give yourself permission. To walk away. To rebuild. To admit that the love is gone and maybe it's not coming back.
And then decide: Is that okay? Or does something need to change?
SECRET 7: THE MINIMUM EFFORT
Secret number seven came from a commercial photographer. Someone with a lot going on. Family stuff. Life stuff. The kind of weight that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
Here's what they said:
"I'm not giving my clients the care and attention they think they're getting. I'm doing the minimum. Just trying to get the work out the door. They don't know. But I do."
(pause)
This one... this one made me sit with it for a while.
Because this isn't about being lazy. This isn't about not caring from the start.
This is about someone who used to care. Someone who used to obsess over every job, every edit, every detail.
And now they're just... surviving.
(pause)
Here's what I think is happening:
When you're drowning—when life is coming at you from every direction—the work becomes the thing you can control. Or at least, the thing you think you can control.
So you triage. You cut corners. You do the minimum that will pass as "good enough."
Not because you don't care about the work. But because you don't have the capacity to care about the work andeverything else that's falling apart.
(pause)
And here's the part that eats at you:
The clients don't know.
They look at the final deliverables and they're happy. They post them. They tag you. They say "great work."
And you know—you know—that you could have done better. That you used to do better. That if you'd had the bandwidth, the energy, the space to actually focus, it would have been different.
But you didn't. So it wasn't.
(pause)
And now you're stuck in this awful loop.
You feel guilty for phoning it in. But you don't have the capacity to not phone it in. And the guilt just adds to the weight. Which makes it even harder to show up fully. Which makes you phone it in even more.
(pause)
So here's what I want to say to this person:
First—you're not a fraud. You're overwhelmed.
And there's a difference.
A fraud doesn't care. An overwhelmed person cares too much and doesn't have the resources to act on it.
(pause)
Second—your clients are happy. That matters.
I'm not saying "good enough is good enough." I'm saying: you delivered work that met their needs. That solved their problem. That made them happy.
Yes, you could have done more. But "more" isn't always necessary. Sometimes "enough" is actually enough.
And the gap between what you could have done and what you did do? That's not dishonesty. That's triage.
(pause)
But here's the part you can't ignore:
If this is a temporary state—if this is a season where life is chaos and you're just trying to keep your head above water—then okay. That's survivable. You'll get through it. The capacity will come back.
But if this is permanent? If this is the new baseline? Then something has to change.
Because you can't build a sustainable practice on guilt and minimum effort.
Not because the clients will find out. But because you'll break.
(pause)
So here's the question:
What would it take to get your capacity back?
Not to the client work—to you.
Is it setting boundaries? Saying no to projects that don't fit? Raising your rates so you can take on less work and give more attention to what you do take on?
Is it asking for help? Delegating the parts of your life that are draining you? Getting therapy, or support, or just... space to breathe?
Is it being honest with yourself that you're in over your head, and that the only way out is to stop pretending you're fine?
(pause)
Because here's what I know:
You can coast for a while. You can phone it in. You can deliver "good enough" and most clients will never know the difference.
But you'll know.
And eventually, that knowing will eat you alive.
(pause)
So if this is you—if you're reading this and thinking, "Fuck, that's me"—here's your permission:
You don't have to be exceptional right now. You don't have to give 110% to every project.
But you do have to be honest about what's happening. And you do have to ask yourself:
Is this temporary? Or is this the new normal?
And if it's the new normal, what needs to change so it doesn't destroy you?
(pause)
Because the work can survive "good enough."
But you can't.
SECRET 8: THE LONG GAME
This last one... this one's mine.
(long pause)
I'm terrified I won't be able to retire.
I'm scared for my future. And some days, I think I made a massive fucking mistake.
(pause)
I have a wife. A daughter. A business I've been building for years. A California life that is bleeding me dry.
And when I look at my retirement savings—or the lack thereof—I feel this cold, creeping panic.
Because the math doesn't work.
(pause)
I don't have a pension. I don't have a 401k from an employer. I have a SEP IRA that I contribute to when I remember, which isn't often enough.
And every time I run the numbers—every time I use one of those retirement calculators online—it tells me the same thing:
You're behind. Way behind.
(pause)
And here's what makes it worse: I can't talk about it.
If I admit I'm scared, clients might lose confidence. If I admit I'm struggling financially, they'll think I'm desperate. They'll lowball me. They'll walk.
And if I tell my family—if I really lay it all out for Jaimi—she'll worry. And I don't want to put that weight on her.
So I carry it alone. In the middle of the night. Staring at spreadsheets. Running scenarios. Trying to figure out how the fuck this is going to work.
(pause)
And the worst part? I know I'm not the only one.
I got three other emails with variations of this same fear. Photographers in their 40s, 50s, even 60s, saying the same thing:
"I don't know how this ends. I don't know what I'm going to do."
(pause)
So here's the question underneath the question:
Am I afraid I won't have money? Or am I afraid I won't matter?
(pause)
Because for a lot of creatives, the retirement fear is also an identity fear.
If I stop working, who am I?
If I'm not "the photographer," then what am I?
And if my whole sense of self is tied to the work, then retirement isn't freedom. It's erasure.
(pause)
And here's the even darker question:
What if I made the wrong choice?
What if the last 20 years—the sacrifices, the hustle, the rejection of stability—were a mistake?
What if I should have taken the corporate job? What if I should have stayed in the safe lane?
And what if it's too late to fix it?
(long pause)
I don't have an answer for you.
I can't tell you it's going to be okay. Because I don't know if it is.
But here's what I do know:
This fear isn't a personal failure. It's a systemic one.
(pause)
The gig economy. The erosion of pensions. The elimination of safety nets. The lie that "doing what you love" would magically lead to security.
That's not on you. That's not on me. That's a structural problem.
But it is our reality.
(pause)
So what do I do with that?
I get honest.
I write down the number. The actual number. How much do I need to feel safe? To retire? To stop panicking every time I look at my bank account?
And then I make a plan.
Not a perfect plan. Not a guaranteed plan. Just... a plan.
(pause)
Maybe it's rebuilding. Treating this like a business, not a calling. Creating retainer clients. Productizing my services. Setting up automatic contributions to a retirement account. Making the boring, unglamorous choices that lead to stability.
Maybe it's acceptance. Making peace with the fact that retirement might not look like the dream I was sold. Maybe I work until I can't. Maybe I downsize. Maybe I find meaning in the work itself instead of the endgame.
(pause)
Neither path is wrong.
But pretending I don't have to choose is what's killing me.
(pause)
And here's the thing about this fear—the fear of the future, the fear that I made a mistake—it's not really about the future at all.
It's grief.
I'm mourning the version of myself who believed this would work out.
The 25-year-old who quit the corporate job and bought the camera. The 30-year-old who turned down stability because he wanted to make something that mattered.
That version of me wasn't stupid. He was hopeful.
And now I'm carrying the weight of his optimism while staring at a reality that doesn't match the dream.
(pause)
The integration isn't about fixing the past.
It's about forgiving myself for being young and brave and wrong about some things.
And then making different choices now.
Not because the old ones were failures. But because I have new information.
(long pause)
So that's my secret. That's the one that keeps me up at night.
And if you've felt this way too—if you're staring at the same numbers, asking the same questions—I want you to know:
You're not alone.
And we'll figure it out. Somehow.
THE RETURN & RESOLUTION
(long pause)
So those are the eight secrets.
One from a commercial photographer who judges other genres.
One from someone who feels like a copycat.
One from someone performing success while barely surviving.
One from someone operating without a safety net.
One from someone trapped by their own competence.
One from someone who's burned out and numb.
One from someone who’s doing as little as possible.
And one from me. The one about the future. The one about the fear.
(pause)
Maybe you recognized yourself in one of them. Maybe you recognized yourself in all of them.
Maybe you're sitting there right now thinking, "Fuck. I thought I was the only one."
(pause)
Here's what I want you to know:
These thoughts don't make you broken. They make you human.
And the reason they have so much power—the reason they eat at you in the middle of the night—is because you've been carrying them alone.
(pause)
Carl Jung said the shadow isn't evil. It's just the part of ourselves we've disowned. The parts we're ashamed of. The parts we think make us frauds or failures or fundamentally flawed.
These secrets? They're a part of your shadow.
And the goal isn't to eliminate them. It's to integrate them. To stop letting them run your life from the basement.
(pause)
Because when you name a fear, it stops being a shapeless monster.
It becomes a problem you can look at.
And maybe—maybe—solve.
(pause)
So here's your permission:
You don't have to have it all figured out.
You don't have to be okay.
You don't have to be the version of yourself you thought you'd be by now.
You don't have to pretend anymore. Not with me. Not with yourself.
(pause)
The only thing you have to do is stop lying about where you are.
Because you can't fix what you won't face.
THE LIGHT LEAK
Here's what I want you to do.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today.
(pause)
Write down one secret.
One thing you've never said out loud. One thought that lives in the back of your brain at 3 AM. One fear you've been carrying alone.
Not for Instagram. Not for your journal. Just for you.
Take it out of the dark and look at it in the light.
(pause)
You don't have to do anything with it. You don't have to solve it. You don't have to share it with anyone.
You just have to stop pretending it's not there.
(pause)
Because the moment you name it, it loses some of its power.
Not all of it. But some.
And that's enough to start.
(long pause)
This is Episode 30. Dirty Little Secrets.
Thanks for trusting me with yours.
Until next Tuesday, as always
Stay curious, stay courageous, and yeah, stay terrible.