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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
Some nights, the thing keeping you awake isn't anxiety.
It's introspection’s darker, evil twin..
It’s not panicking.
But you’re not making to-do lists either.
You're lying there, wide awake —
Replaying conversations.
Thinking about different decisions.
Wondering what would've happened if you had said no.
Or asked for more.
Or walked away when you had the chance.
You imagine a different path — one where you were in control.
Where your time, your energy, your art — belonged to you.
But that's not how this works.
Not when you're a working creative.
Not when your craft is your paycheck.
We signed the contract — maybe not on paper, but in practice.
"You can have my talent. Just give me enough to live."
And slowly, without realizing it, we gave away more than we meant to.
We gave away the part that loved it.
The part that made it ours.
Physical exhaustion has its remedies – sleep, rest, time off. But this deeper creative fatigue? That takes something else entirely. Because it's not your body that's tired. It's your spirit.
INTRO / PERSONAL STORY (2:15–4:30)
I didn't start out wanting to be a photographer.
When I joined Taylor Guitars, I was a graphic designer. Photography was just something I did on the side — for fun, for friends, for the occasional gig that paid in burritos and gas money.
But then it shifted.
Suddenly, the camera was part of the job. And the job came with a paycheck. And that changed everything.
Because now, I wasn't just making photos because I wanted to. I was making them because someone else needed them. Because it was Tuesday. Because there was a product SKU and a deadline.
At first, I was excited. I was growing.
I fell deeper in love with the craft — studied it, lived it, obsessed over the smallest things.
But the more I cared about it, the more alone I felt.
Because no one else saw what I saw.
They didn't feel the light the way I felt it.
They didn't care how the frame breathed.
I was working for a company that celebrated musicians as artists… but didn't seem to recognize that what I was doing was art, too.
It was content.
A thumbnail.
A thing to post.
And I think that's where the ache really begins — when you give something of yourself to the work, and it doesn't come back.
Not in appreciation.
Not in recognition.
Not even in money.
THE INEVITABLE CROSSROADS (4:30–8:15)
I need to share something with you.
This past week, I almost quit photography. Completely. For good.
Not just "maybe I should take a break" quit. More like "sell my gear and walk away forever" quit.
It was a bad couple of days where I realized that something needed to change dramatically. Leads weren't coming in like they used to. Money I thought I had locked down suddenly evaporated. And when I looked at my trajectory—where I was heading if nothing changed—it wasn't great.
I sat down and did the math. Looked at what was coming in versus what needed to go out. Stared at those numbers until they burned into my retinas. And for a while, I convinced myself that the reasonable thing—the adult thing—would be to stop fighting this uphill battle.
To admit defeat.
To find something stable.
To join the world of W-2s and benefit packages and regular paychecks.
I went as far as looking at job listings. Marketing Director. Content Manager. Photography turned side-hustle, relegated to weekends and vacations.
And you know what's strange? Part of me felt relief. Relief at the thought of walking away. Of not having to find the next client, craft the next pitch, worry about the next invoice.
I allowed myself to wallow in self pity and fantasize over LinkedIn job posts for a day.
I couldn't sleep. Not because of anxiety—but because ideas kept coming. Solutions. Possibilities. New directions.
My brain wouldn't shut up.
So I got up and literally started to whiteboard to restructure and rethink my whole business plan/model.
It was like some defiant part of me refused to accept the logical conclusion. Some stubborn, maybe irrational voice kept whispering: "But wait, what if we tried this?"
I wish I could tell you I had some dramatic epiphany. Some movie moment where the clouds parted and I discovered my true purpose.
But it wasn't like that.
It was quieter. More gradual. Just a slow realization that I can't quit, even when I desperately want to. I'm literally at a point where I've given everything to this idea that I can make this work, that I can create things worth seeing, worth feeling.
And I don't have any other options. Not really.
God, sometimes I wish I did. I wish I could be happy in finance or sales. I wish I could find contentment in a normal job with normal hours and a normal paycheck.
And it's not even about happiness for me anymore. It's about something deeper, more profound—something that reaches past contentment or career fulfillment and into an area I can't describe, only feel.
I don't know if being a photographer is a blessing, a calling, or a curse. But it is who I am. And there is no other way but forward.
Maybe you've felt this too—that strange mixture of dread and devotion. The contradictory desire to escape and the inability to walk away.
That's what we need to talk about today.
THE STRAVINSKY TEST (8:15–10:30)
I heard this story once about the composer Igor Stravinsky.
A young man asked him for advice — said he was torn between becoming a composer or doing something more "practical."
And Stravinsky asked him:
"Do you have to compose?"
The young man said something like, "Well, I love it. I think I have talent."
But Stravinsky shook his head.
"That's not what I asked. I asked if you have to compose. Because if you can imagine being happy doing anything else — anything — then do that instead.
Only become a composer if it's the only thing that lets you live."
That hit me.
Because art doesn't let you walk away easily.
It's not something you pick — it's something that picks you.
And once it's yours…
you feel this pull to make.
Not because it's profitable.
Not because someone told you to.
But because something in you needs to.
And that's the paradox.
And that's the truth most creative professionals eventually face – we didn't just choose this path; it chose us. Which makes the commercialization of our calling all the more complicated.
The world will gladly pay you to be creative — but not always to be an artist.
And that's where this slow exhaustion starts.
When you're pouring your soul into the work…
and the work keeps asking for more.
THE ECONOMICS OF SOUL (10:30–14:30)
Let’s talk about money for a minute.
Because that's the part no one wants to discuss — how the financial reality of creative work quietly warps our emotional relationship to it.
When I hit my low point this week, staring at spreadsheets, it hit me: the real damage wasn’t just financial. It was what the pressure was doing to my creativity.
Here's the loop I found myself stuck in:
When client work is abundant, I’m secure. The invoices go out, the bills get paid. But I have no energy left for personal work. No time. No spark.
When client work dries up, suddenly I do have time for that personal vision — but now I’m panicking. I’m anxious. I’m broke. And it’s almost impossible to create from a place of panic.
It’s a perfect trap. A beautiful, brutal paradox.
And most of us are living in it without even realizing.
We tell ourselves: Once I’m financially stable, then I’ll make the work that matters to me.
But in creative careers, stability often comes at the exact cost of that personal vision. You take the jobs that pay — even if they pull you further from who you are. Until one day, you realize the gap between what you believe and what you make has grown so wide, you can barely see across it anymore.
I don’t have a perfect answer for this. I don’t think there is one.
But I’ve started reframing the whole thing.
Rick Rubin talks about creativity not as a resource to be mined, but as a muscle to be trained. It doesn’t “run out,” but it can be overworked. Pulled. Torn. If we don’t allow for rest, reflection, or play — we don’t get stronger, we just get injured.
We treat creativity like it’s infinite, like it’ll just keep coming no matter how often we exploit it. But maybe the truth is more complex. Maybe creative energy operates on a different kind of economy — one that doesn’t align with capitalism.
So what if we made a budget — not for our money, but for our soul?
"I can give this much to client work before it starts to drain my reserves."
"This job might pay well, but will it cost me the part of me that loves making?"
"This personal project might not make a dollar — but it will pay me in joy, agency, identity. That’s a return too."
Nobody’s going to pay you to rest your creative muscles.
Nobody’s going to protect your spark.
That job falls to you.
And maybe the most radical act in a creative career is to stop pretending your energy is limitless — and start treating it like the sacred, finite force it is.
Not to be hoarded.
Not to be spent carelessly.
But to be invested — with attention, intention, and care.
BREAKING THE SPIRAL (14:30–17:00)
But recognizing the cost isn’t enough. Even when we know we’re overextended — when we see the signs of burnout, when we feel the ache of misalignment — it’s still hard to stop. We’re creatures of habit. Of hustle. We tell ourselves we’ll rest after the next job, after the next deadline, after we hit that one last goal. But the truth is, most of us don’t need another productivity hack. We need a pattern interrupt. A way to stop the slow drip of depletion before it becomes a flood. And that starts with noticing the spiral when it begins.
So how do we stop the loop?
How do we quiet the noise at night — the spiraling thoughts that make us feel like we're failing?
We interrupt the pattern.
We start by noticing it.
The moment your mind starts replaying that conversation or writing a future you haven't lived yet — pause. Interrupt it. Name it out loud: "I'm spiraling." "I'm catastrophizing."
Then do something physical.
Get up.
Drink water.
Write it down.
Say something kind to yourself — even if it feels fake.
For me, this looked like setting a physical timer for five minutes whenever I caught myself in a spiral. Five minutes to feel it all — and then I had to do something else. Anything else. Sometimes I'd go outside and look at the sky. Sometimes I'd make tea. Sometimes I'd just put my hand on my heart and breathe. Small interruptions that broke the loop.
You can't always logic your way out of a feeling. But you can move through it.
RECLAIMING YOUR POWER (17:00–19:30)
And when it comes to creative autonomy — the question is: how do we keep it?
You protect it like a flame.
You don't blow it out every time someone else needs light.
You cup your hands around it when the wind picks up.
You feed it even when no one else sees its value.
You say no more often.
You renegotiate the rules.
You find tiny ways — even within the brief, even inside a commercial job — to inject something of you.
And if that's not possible? Then maybe the real work is making something of your own. Even if no one sees it. Even if it doesn't make a dime.
Because the more you create outside their system, the more power you regain inside it.
Curiosity can't live in fear.
Passion doesn't bloom under resentment.
But both return the moment you give yourself a little space — a little grace.
So where do we go from here?
Forward.
Not because it's clear.
Not because it's easy.
But because this — this thing in you that won't let you quit —
It's still here.
So keep going.
Make the next thing.
Say the truer thing.
Take your power back.
And tonight, when your head hits the pillow — remind yourself:
You're not behind.
You're not broken.
You're just tired.
And that's okay.
THE COST AND THE PRIZE (19:30–22:30)
I've been thinking a lot about what we sacrifice for our creativity. The stability. The ease. The comfort of knowing exactly where our next paycheck is coming from.
But I've also been thinking about what we get in return.
Last night, I was up late restructuring and updating my portfolio and I was going through some past personal work. And there was one image that I had forgotten about—nothing special to anyone else, probably—but when I saw it, I felt something open up inside me. A quiet recognition. A moment of connection with myself. I felt the same spark I did when I took the image. A moment of excitement that the vision I had in my head translated to a frame in my camera. Something that came from me, not anyone else. An image that myself, the model and the universe all came together to create.
It sounds small, I know. But in that moment, I remembered what this is all for.
It's not about Instagram followers or client lists or how much gear you own.
It's about that electric moment when you capture something true. When you translate the wordless feelings inside you into a language other people can understand.
That moment when you see, and by seeing, help others to see.
There's a paradox at the heart of creative work. The more we need it to survive financially, the harder it becomes to maintain the innocence and wonder that drew us to it in the first place.
But I also think that's why artists keep going, even when the path gets impossible. Because we've tasted that connection. That truth. That moment of light.
And once you know it exists, it's hard to settle for anything less.
That's not to romanticize the struggle. Financial precarity isn't noble. Burnout isn't a badge of honor.
But I do think there's something to remembering why we started. What called us here.
Some days, I still daydream about quitting. About finding an easier path.
But I'm starting to accept that for some of us, there is no other option. This isn't just what we do—it's who we are.
And the question isn't really "Should I keep going?" but rather "How do I keep going in a way that honors both my art and my wellbeing?"
Maybe that's what we're all trying to figure out. The delicate balance between feeding our creativity and feeding ourselves.
Between answering the call and paying the rent.
I don't have it solved. But I'm still here. Still trying.
And if you're listening to this, so are you.
That counts for something. That counts for everything.
CLOSING CHALLENGE (22:30–24:00)
This week, your challenge isn't to shoot something new.
It isn't to build a portfolio, or land a client, or make something go viral.
It's to be content.
To interrupt the spiral.
To break the loop.
To let the past go — even if just a little.
To stop carrying failure like a full-time job.
To say no to what drains you.
To say yes to what calls to you.
To be kind to yourself —
Especially when you don't feel like you've earned it.
This might sound simple, but in a world that constantly pushes us to produce more, to hustle harder, to "rise and grind" – allowing yourself to be content is actually radical. It's harder than any technical challenge I've ever given you. It demands more courage than trying a new lighting setup or approaching a stranger for a portrait.
That might be the hardest brief of your life.
But it might be the most important one too.
You're not behind.
You're just tired.
Be good to yourself.
That's the whole assignment.
CLOSING REFLECTION (24:00–25:30)
I'll leave you with something I come back to often — a passage that reminds me what it means to make work that matters, even when the world doesn't always understand it. It's by Mary Oliver, from her book Upstream:
"It is six A.M., and I am working. I am absentminded, reckless, heedless of social obligations, etc. It is as it must be. The tire goes flat, the tooth falls out, there will be a hundred meals without mustard. The poem gets written. I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame. Neither do I have guilt. My responsibility is not to the ordinary, or the timely. It does not include mustard, or teeth. It does not extend to the lost button, or the beans in the pot. My loyalty is to the inner vision, whenever and howsoever it may arrive. If I have a meeting with you at three o'clock, rejoice if I am late. Rejoice even more if I do not arrive at all.
There is no other way, work of artistic worth can be done. And the occasional success, to the striver, is worth everything. The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time."
—Mary Oliver, Upstream
OUTRO (25:30–26:30)
As Mary Oliver put it — some of us are stained with light. Maybe forgetful, maybe late to meetings, maybe not always on time with the mustard. But we show up, eventually, for what matters. For the vision that calls us — not out of duty, but necessity.
This is why we keep going, even when we're tired. Not because we're chasing likes or clients or validation – but because we've been chosen by something larger than ourselves. Something that demands we answer, even when the world isn't listening.
Stay kind, stay curious, and like always — stay terrible.
Let's talk again next Tuesday.