When the Spark Fades: Losing My Way in Photography
There’s a quiet kind of pain that comes with losing your love for something that once saved you.
Photography used to be my way of breathing. It gave me a reason to wake up before sunrise. It made sense of the chaos. It helped me see beauty in things long before I saw it in myself.
But somewhere along the way, that love got buried—beneath whispers, innuendo, and a kind of betrayal I never saw coming.
The Cost of Visibility
When I first started gaining traction—awards, invitations, recognition—I was proud. I’d worked for it. Late nights. Long hours. Unpaid gigs. Studying light when no one was watching.
But success, as a woman in this industry, comes with a side dish of suspicion.
It started small.
A message from someone I barely knew:
“You’re everywhere lately. Must be nice to have friends in high places.”
Then another:
“Women wont be taken seriously in landscape.”
Then louder:
“She’s only getting published because she’s a woman. It’s all politics.”
“She slept her way into that .”
“She’s not actually that talented, just well connected.”
People I thought were colleagues. Mentors. Friends.
Character Assassination in a Closed Circle
The lies spread like smoke.
I walked into events and felt it in the way people glanced over their shoulders. In the silence that fell when I entered a room. In the forced smiles. The subtle exclusion. The DMs that were polite on the surface, but barbed underneath.
They made assumptions about my personal life. They questioned my integrity. They turned their insecurities into my burden to carry.
And worst of all, they made me doubt myself.
I started shrinking.
Second-guessing every opportunity.
Avoiding spaces I once felt proud to walk into.
I didn’t stop shooting because I was uninspired.
I stopped because it became too painful to be seen.
When You’re Punished for Your Passion
It’s a brutal irony—how this industry can applaud your success in public, then weaponise it behind closed doors.
I was told to be grateful.
To stay humble.
To not rock the boat.
To keep smiling while the narrative twisted out of my control.
When I stood up for myself?
I was “too emotional.”
“Too sensitive.”
“Unprofessional.”
When I stayed quiet?
That silence was filled with their own stories.
Ones that didn’t come from me, but were told about me, as if truth was optional.
And I let it break me.
For a while.
How I Found My Way Back
I stopped entering awards.
I stopped posting.
I stopped talking to people who made me question my worth.
And then I started again—slowly, and only for myself.
I took photos without sharing them.
I sat in the places that once filled me with joy and let myself feel numb.
I wrote letters I never sent.
I cried. I got angry. I forgave. I reclaimed.
The camera came back to my hands quietly. Not as a tool for validation, but as a mirror for my truth.
Not polished. Not performative. Just real.
There were days I wondered if I’d ever feel that spark again. And then, without forcing it, something shifted. A ray of light caught a leaf just right. A stranger smiled while I held my camera. A bird danced across a wet footpath. And for a moment, I felt something.
Not adrenaline. Not pride. Something softer. Peace.
The Truth They Never Asked For
Here’s what no one asked when they were busy gossiping:
How many times I nearly walked away.
How hard it was to stay kind when I was being picked apart.
How I kept creating while grieving the version of myself that believed everyone had good intentions.
How I carried other women’s silent stories too—because this happens to us all.
They didn’t ask about the unpaid labour. The emotional weight. The hours of volunteer mentoring. The gentle way I lifted others even when I was being torn down.
They didn’t ask about the burn-out. The therapy. The moments I stared at a gallery wall wondering if I’d earned my place there, or if I was just their token female.
They didn’t ask about the nights I deleted posts because I couldn’t bear the comments. Or the way I began to edit myself out of my own story.
I’m done editing for comfort.
Redefining What It Means to Belong
I’m still rebuilding. I’m still cautious.
But I’ve stopped waiting for someone to give me permission to belong. I’m done shrinking. I’m done apologising for being good at what I do. For taking up space. For daring to step into the light—when I know full well how quickly it can burn.
I know now that belonging isn’t granted. It’s claimed.
You can love this industry and still call it out. You can create beautiful work and still carry scars. You can be proud of your progress and protective of your peace.
And yes—you can lose your way and still find your way back.
Not to the place you left, but to a version of yourself that is wiser, softer, and fiercely honest.
Final Thoughts
If you’ve been gossiped about, lied about, or judged unfairly—this is for you.
If you’ve ever dimmed your light to stay safe—this is for you.
If you’ve sat in a room full of people and felt invisible despite your success—this is for you.
You don’t need to prove your worth to people committed to misunderstanding you.
The truth has a longer lifespan than gossip.
And your art is allowed to be sacred again.
I’m not where I once was—but I’m proud of where I am now.
Not quieter. Not smaller. Just more myself than I’ve ever been.
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