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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 was Thursday. 2:47 PM.
Third corporate headshot session of the week. Skylight Studios in San Diego. Same gray backdrop. Same safe lighting. The same, goddamn "make me ten pounds thinner" jokes people think are original.
And here's the part that made me slightly confused a little: I was enjoying it.
Smiling even. Joking around. Chopping it up with women in pantsuits and men in bad ties. I remember thinking as Julie or Sandra or whatever her name was getting her 4th touch up that I wasn’t hating this.
Headshots.
At one point I hated it. I always felt like a glorified DMV photographer you know. Turn to the left, turn to the right, give me a half smile… blah blah blah.
But there I was, sitting there thinking, damn. This is nice. I like this.
Not in some cinematic, light-through-the-window, angels-singing moment. Just the plain, beige satisfaction of doing something predictable, something I knew I was good at. Because it was just … well… easy.
This is where all the Headshot photographers send me hate mail about it being really difficult and it takes a lot of expertise.
Hot take - nah. But I digress.
But there was a relief of not having to reinvent myself you know. Or think outside the box. Or solve a puzzle. The utter, soul-crushing comfort of putting on my shoes and knowing exactly what the day would hold. I feel like my younger self would be pissed though—the one who swore he’d never settle for vanilla. And here I was, spoon in hand, licking the god-damn bowl clean like my border collie and bowl of the remains from a sliced prime rib.
And here’s the part that still surprises me: I didn’t want to stop.
Maybe the pressure to be brilliant had been killing me more slowly than the boredom ever did.
Because somewhere along the way, passion got weaponized. It stopped being a spark and became a performance. A test of creative worthiness you're supposed to ace every single goddamn day. What about when your dream job becomes just... a job?
[4-second pause]
What about the long beige stretch between agony and ecstasy—the part we never post about because it doesn't trend? If you've ever felt guilty for not loving every second of work you supposedly chose—if you've caught yourself finding comfort in the ordinary—if you’re tired of pretending passion is renewable—this one's for you.
INTRO
My name is Patrick Fore. This is The Terrible Photographer Podcast—honest conversations about creativity, identity, and finding your voice. Today's episode, Number 28, I’m calling it, The Tyranny of Okay.
ACT I: THE PASSION POLICE
Do you want to know the lie that eats us alive:
“If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.”
Weapons-grade bullshit.
Passion isn’t an endless well. It sputters. It muddies. Some days it doesn’t show up at all. But we treat a lack of inspiration like a diagnosis, instead of what it is: Tuesday afternoon.
Here’s my confession: I spent three years secretly looking forward to batch-editing sessions.
Not the creative bits. Not the breakthroughs. The factory work. Hundreds of files. Same moves. Same shortcuts. A podcast in the background—sometimes this one, which felt like creative masturbation.
And I liked it.
What I actually enjoyed was the absence of pressure to be transcendent. The relief of competence without creativity. The simple rhythm of getting shit done without having to perform inspiration I didn’t feel.
But in this passion-police culture, admitting your dream job sometimes feels like work is treated like creative treason.
We’ve turned “Are you living your passion?” into the new “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” LinkedIn as altar call.
Because that’s the other half of this tyranny: the performance.
Open LinkedIn on any random Tuesday and it’s like walking into a motivational megachurch service.
Everyone is “thrilled to announce” their promotion. “Humbled to be chosen” for a fellowship. “So grateful to lead this amazing campaign with this amazing team for this amazing client.” Every post reads like it was written by a brand strategist in a Patagonia vest.
And then there’s you.
It’s 2 AM. You’re in your garage. Shooting tampon packaging with a C-stand that has seen better days. The floor’s dusty, the budget’s thin, and you’ve been staring at the same product box for so long you’re starting to see Jesus in the typography.
That gap—the gap between your Tuesday and the feed’s Tuesday—is what makes “okay” feel like failure.
It’s the hamburger-and-lobster problem. You’ve got a cheap but decent burger and a beer in front of you. Filling. Tasty even, but not glamorous. But sitting across from you, there is your competitor, dinging lobster tails, gin martinis, the whole nine yards.
And look, let’s just be honest, we’re all eating hamburgers most of the time. Sometimes greasy, sometimes decent. And yeah, every once in a while, we get lobster. But lobster isn’t the diet. It’s the exception.
LinkedIn just edits out the burgers.
And if you buy that performance long enough, you start thinking your entire career is second-rate, when really—it’s just real.
There’s research on this. Psychologists call it “social comparison theory.” The idea that we evaluate our own lives by stacking them against everyone else’s highlight reels. And it’s poison.
A 2020 study out of the University of Copenhagen found that people who quit Facebook for just one week reported significantly higher life satisfaction and less envy. Just one week away from the feed, and they felt more human again.
But we’re addicts. LinkedIn is the professional casino. No clocks, no windows, just endless jackpots of other people’s wins, lighting up your brain with the reminder that your Tuesday burger looks pitiful next to their lobster.
Even Marcus Aurelius—the Emperor himself—wasn’t eating lobster every day. Most of his life was bureaucracy, border disputes, paperwork, plagues. His diary didn’t gush about inspiration. He wrote: “At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself: I have to go to work—as a human being.”
If Marcus could stomach bureaucracy, why the hell do we think we’re failures for finding comfort in routine?
And here’s where the research gets brutal. Psychologists tracked two types of people: maximizers and satisficers.
Maximizers hunt for the perfect option. They compare obsessively, research endlessly, look for the absolute best.
Satisficers pick something that’s “good enough.” Set a threshold, and once it’s met, they move on.
Maximizers ended up with better jobs—on average, $7,400 more in starting salary. But they also reported more regret, more anxiety, less satisfaction. They couldn’t stop replaying the roads not taken.
Satisficers made less money. But they were happier. Because they weren’t living in constant comparison mode.
That one hit me like a gut punch.
I’ve been a maximizer my entire career. Always looking for the better client, the more creative project, the cooler gig. And half the time, I couldn’t even enjoy the job I had, because I was too busy fantasizing about the one I didn’t get.
So many years as a photographers. Too many shoots to count. Hundreds of thousands of frames.
I’ve had maybe twelve “this is why I was born” moments. 10 if I’m generous.
The other 99.95%? Work.
Sometimes good work. Often satisfying work. But work.
And here’s the twist: those twelve transcendent moments didn’t happen despite the ordinary work.
They happened because of it.
Earned through the accumulation of Tuesdays. Through the competence of hamburgers, not the glory of lobster.
Competence built the conditions. Passion occasionally showed up as the bonus track.
But we live in a culture addicted to the bonus track. Addicted to lobster pics. And when Tuesday rolls around, we think we’ve failed.
ACT II: THE CATERING COORDINATOR'S SECRET (12-15 minutes)
Let me tell you about Viktor Frankl. And then about Sarah, a catering coordinator who became my unexpected philosophy teacher.
[Frankl Integration]
Frankl spent three years in Nazi camps and figured out something most of us still can’t: survival wasn’t about optimism or positive thinking.
It was about meaning-making. Finding purpose when life stripped away every other option.
The people who survived weren’t necessarily the strongest or the most hopeful. They were the ones who could create significance out of seemingly insignificant circumstances.
Now, I’m not comparing headshots to Auschwitz. Don’t get it twisted.
But Frankl’s insight applies: we can’t always choose our circumstances, but we can always choose our stance toward them.
[The Sarah Story – Expanded]
Case in point: Sarah.
I met her at a corporate networking event that I thought would be my big chance to rub shoulders with CEOs and marketing directors. Instead, it turned out to be a room full of SaaS nerds and the project managers who herd them. Too many chinos. Too many Allbirds. Not my people.
But hey—there was free lunch. Chicken skewers, steak skewers, some sad veggie sliders. So I grabbed a plate, found a couch in the lobby, and decided to turn the whole thing into a work session-slash-people-watching gig.
That’s when she walked in.
Late twenties. Short. Black polo, black shoes. The uniform of someone who doesn’t get mistaken for a guest. She collapsed into the couch across from me, let out a sigh that felt like it had been building since breakfast, and poked at her phone before setting it down like even doomscrolling wasn’t worth the energy.
Now, moments like this are delicate. She looked open to talking, but I live in my head. I’m always worried a stranger will think I’m trying to flirt. I’m happily married, not looking for that vibe, but still—my brain runs the tape. Creeper, or decent human being? Which will it be?
So I just looked up from my Mac, mid-email, and asked:
“Long day?”
She exhaled, almost relieved someone had asked.
“YES.”
We traded small talk. She asked why I was sitting out in the lobby instead of inside with everyone else.
“Oh,” I said, “they aren’t really my people. I get kind of overwhelmed by that many chinos and Allbirds shoes.”
She laughed.
“Who are your people, then?”
“Honestly? I’m old, and I still don’t know. But I don’t think it’s them.”
Another laugh. The ice cracked.
I asked if she liked her job.
And here’s where I’ll admit—I had assumptions. She looked exhausted, ferrying skewers and coffee urns to a hundred badge-wearing strangers who’d forget her name by dessert. I figured she’d say no, that it was just a paycheck, maybe a stepping stone.
But she surprised me.
“Yes,” she said.
Then she explained.
“I used to think my job was just moving chairs and managing timelines. But really, it’s creating the conditions where people can connect. Every setup is slightly different because every group of humans is slightly different. The chairs are just tools.”
And she kept going. She told me she was a mom. That her partner was in the Navy. That she was thankful for the stability, the benefits, the paycheck that landed on time every two weeks. That this steady work had given her the breathing room to go back to school—she’s finishing a degree in hospitality management.
This wasn’t “just a job” to her. It was a foundation. Something that allowed her to build the rest of her life.
Same skewers. Same navy suits. Same complaints about the vegetarian options running out. But suddenly, completely different relationship to the work.
[The Reframe]
She hadn’t found a new job. She reframed the one she had. And in that reframing, she reminded me of something the Stoics said over and over: you are more than what you do for a living.
Epictetus was born a slave. Marcus Aurelius was an emperor. Couldn’t be more opposite. And yet both said the same thing: your worth as a human being isn’t defined by your title or your tasks.
Work is part of life. But it isn’t the whole life.
[Stoic Application]
That’s what Epictetus called the dichotomy of control. Some things are yours to command. Most are not.
You can’t control whether the client “gets” your artistry.
You can control the care you bring to solving their problem.
You can’t control whether today’s work inspires you.
You can control whether you show up fully for today’s work.
You can’t always choose your job. But you can always choose your stance toward it.
[The Attention Revolution – Rewritten]
Since starting my own business, I’ve spent more nights than I can count hunched over my desk, carving out clipping masks for products or dodge-and-burning the same patch of skin until my eyes blurred.
This is the job sometimes.
My version of stacking chairs and refilling the chicken skewer station. The “okay” work. The burger-level work.
And yeah, I know this episode is leaning heavy on the food metaphors—but stay with me. Because the burgers matter. They’re what lead to lobster.
Because here’s the truth: the lobster moments—the transcendent shoots, the dream clients, the magic frames—they don’t appear out of nowhere. They’re earned. Built on the backs of nights spent pushing pixels, stacking chairs, making skewers disappear, doing the work that no one Instagrams.
When you give complete attention to that ordinary work—not because it’s inspiring, but because it serves someone—you stop needing it to be transcendent.
You make it generous. You make it craft. You make it dignified.
[Personal Vulnerability]
And I’ll be honest—I spent years feeling like a creative fraud for enjoying that kind of work.
For liking the business side of photography more than I thought I should.
For choosing the safe shot because I knew it would work, even when the risky one might have been more “artistic.”
For finding genuine satisfaction in competence without fireworks.
Like there was some secret creative council that would revoke my artist card for admitting that my dream job sometimes felt like… a job.
But Sarah reminded me—and the Stoics back her up—that work doesn’t define you. It sustains you. It creates conditions. It builds foundations. And sometimes, that’s enough.
ACT III: THE PHILOSOPHY OF GOOD ENOUGH
So how do you actually live here—between brilliance and boredom—without losing your mind?
[Framework Introduction]
Author Avram Alpert wrote a book called The Good-Enough Life. His thesis: our obsession with “greatness” is making us restless, discontented, and ruthless.
The pursuit of being “the best” doesn’t trickle down benefits. It just entrenches inequality and makes everyone miserable chasing an impossible standard.
His solution? Embrace good enough. Not as settling, but as a radical rejection of a rigged game.
[Literary Example – Orwell]
George Orwell understood this long before it was fashionable. He had a respectable career lined up—officer in the British colonial police, decorated, ambitious. He could’ve stayed in that lane.
Instead, he walked away. Took jobs as a dishwasher in Paris, living in basements, scrubbing pans, hauling plates in kitchens no one thought about. He wrote about it in Down and Out in Paris and London.
He called dishwashers “slaves of the modern world.” Invisible, necessary, the kind of people without whom the restaurants would collapse.
But he also found honesty there. No posturing. No grandeur. Just survival, and the quiet dignity of showing up, of doing what had to be done.
Orwell chose the basement over the badge. And in that grime, he found truth.
[Sidebar – Free Speech]
And while we’re on Orwell (and Tyranny for that matter)—let me for a moment, if you can forgive me and indulge me, pull a quick detour. Because his name, Orwell, well his gets trotted out every time someone wants to scream about censorship. “1984” has practically become a bumper sticker.
But Orwell’s obsession wasn’t with internet bans or hashtags. It was with language. With clarity. With the way propaganda and euphemism rot our ability to see the world clearly.
For him, free speech wasn’t just about yelling whatever you want without consequence. It was about protecting the space where truth could still be spoken plainly. Where ordinary people could say: “This is wrong. This doesn’t make sense.”
And that ties directly back to our work. Because if you can’t name what’s happening—if you can’t say, “This isn’t passion, it’s burnout,” or even just, “This is okay, not extraordinary”—then you lose the ability to make meaning out of it.
Free speech isn’t abstract. It’s survival. It’s how we hold onto dignity. Orwell knew that doing the work matters—but so does telling the truth about the work.
[Bridge Back to Practices]
So maybe the real revolution isn’t chasing greatness. Maybe it’s finding the courage to choose “enough” — and to say so out loud.
Here are three practices that actually work:
Practice One: Adopt the Satisficer Mindset
Stop hunting for the perfect client, the perfect project, the perfect opportunity.
Define your “good enough” threshold and choose the first option that meets it.
The maximizers in that study earned more money but felt worse about their lives. Don’t be them.
Practice Two: Create Meaning Within the Work You Have
Like Sarah with her chairs and coffee dispensers, look for ways your ordinary work serves something beyond your immediate comfort.
Sometimes it’s the client’s confidence. Sometimes it’s your own skill development. Sometimes it’s simply the satisfaction of solving problems cleanly.
Practice Three: The Tuesday Test
Measure your relationship to work not by highlight reels or disasters, but by the aggressively ordinary Tuesday.
Calls, emails, edits, errands.
Can you choose that day instead of just endure it?
Because if you can choose Tuesday, everything else becomes bonus.
[The Stoic Close]
Marcus Aurelius asked: “If you are distressed because you are failing to accomplish some particular action, why do you not persist in the action rather than yield to the distress?”
What if the action isn’t finding better work?
What if the action is choosing the work you already have?
LIGHT LEAK – Gratitude for Okay
A few episodes back, in “Is It Good?”, we wrestled with how we judge the quality of our work. That was about standards, taste, the craft itself.
This is different. This is about being okay with okay. About gratitude for the work that isn’t transcendent or portfolio-worthy, but still sustains us.
And for me, that lesson came from Sarah.
She reminded me that moving chairs and refilling skewers could be connection. That steady work could be a foundation for her kid, for her Navy partner, for her own degree. She was grateful for work that I would’ve written off as drudgery.
I realized: maybe that’s the whole reason the universe dragged me to that event full of SaaS bros and sad sliders. Not for networking. Not for clients. But to sit across from Sarah and learn that it’s okay to be okay.
So here’s your challenge for the week:
Step One: Identify Your Okay Work
Look at your calendar for the next month and circle the jobs, tasks, or sessions that are neither disasters nor breakthroughs. The beige middle. The burger days.
Step Two: Practice Gratitude in Real Time
When you show up to that okay work, pause and say—out loud if you can—“Thank you.”
Thank you for this task that pays my bills.
Thank you for the stability of routine.
Thank you for the competence I get to practice here.
Step Three: Name the Difference
Remember: asking “Is it good?” is about judging the work.
Asking “Is it okay?” is about accepting that it’s enough.
They’re not the same question. Don’t confuse them.
Step Four: Share Your Gratitude
Tell someone else about an ordinary part of your work you’re thankful for. It doesn’t have to be profound. “I’m thankful I get to retouch headshots while listening to music.” “I’m thankful spreadsheets keep my lights on.”
Because gratitude for the okay isn’t resignation. It’s liberation.
Sarah taught me that. And I’m grateful she did.
CLOSE (60 seconds)
Next Thursday at 2:47 PM, I’ll probably be editing headshots again.
Same gray backdrop. Same safe lighting. Same ten-pounds-thinner jokes.
And I’ll enjoy it.
Not because I’ve lowered my standards or given up on artistic growth.
But because I finally understand what Sarah already knew—there’s dignity in the work that doesn’t make headlines.
Most of our creative lives are burgers.
Sometimes greasy, sometimes decent, occasionally overcooked, occasionally surprisingly good. They keep us alive. They keep the lights on.
And every once in a while—if you’re lucky—you get lobster.
A dream client. A transcendent shoot. A moment that makes the whole thing feel lit from within.
But lobster isn’t the diet. It’s the exception.
The lie is thinking you’re supposed to be dining on lobster every night—and that if you’re not, you’ve failed.
Sarah gets it. To her, chairs and coffee urns weren’t drudgery; they were connection. A foundation for her kid, for her Navy-partner family, for her own degree in hospitality management. She reminded me that the ordinary doesn’t just sustain—it enables.
The tyranny was never the work being ordinary.
The tyranny was believing ordinary wasn’t enough.
We’ve been told to chase fireworks. To live as if every day should be lobster and champagne.
But maybe the revolution is learning to appreciate the burger in front of you.
To show up. To pay attention. To stop apologizing for competence, for survival, for the daily grind that just… works.
Because here’s the secret: if you can choose Tuesday’s hamburger and beer without shame, then when the lobster and martinis finally arrive, they’ll taste that much sweeter.
And along the way, don’t forget to feel grateful for the people—like Sarah—who remind us how to see the value in “just okay.” Gratitude isn’t the point of this episode, but maybe it’s the byproduct.
Choose Tuesday anyway.
Stay curious. Stay courageous. And yeah… stay terrible.