There’s a particular weight to picking up a camera after a long break. It’s not heavy in the hands, but it is heavy in the head. Muscle memory is still there, but confidence?


That takes a bit longer to turn up.


I studied photography and worked as a family photographer at a studio. I loved the people, the stories, the privilege of being invited into the family for a short amount of time. What I didn’t love was the burnout. Too many hours, too many sales target, not enough space to actually enjoy the work. Somewhere along the line, photography stopped feeling like mine and started feeling like something I had to survive.


So I stepped away. Far away. I barely even have holiday snaps from this period.



I moved into corporate life, working in technology and production. On paper, it looked like a big shift, but in reality I was still using my photographer brain every day. I understood how systems should work because I’d been the one using them in real situations. I liked the work, the structure, the fact that evenings and weekends were suddenly… mine. And for a while, that was enough.


But photography has a habit of tapping you on the shoulder when you least expect it.

Starting again (and then… stopping again)


A few years later I felt the pull to shoot again, just recreationally. No pressure, no clients, just me and a camera. And then, of course, Covid shut the world down.


When restrictions started to lift in the UK, I set myself a simple goal: shoot something once a month. No brief, no outcome required. Just 12 shoots in a year. That was it.


Somehow, I managed it. While the world was masked up and staying 6 feet apart. Even while pregnant with a covid baby. Even when moving felt like hard work and exhaustion became a permanent background hum. The shoots weren’t always big or exciting, but they happened. And that mattered.


After the birth, recovery took time. I wasn’t one of those people who “bounced back”. Physically or mentally. For a while, my identity narrowed down to wife, mother, employee. All important roles, but not the whole picture.


Eventually, I felt the need to reclaim something just for me. So I picked the camera up again. Properly this time.

Fear, avoidance, and pressing on anyway


It hasn’t been smooth. Most of the bumps have come from my own head.


There’s the fear of being rusty. The fear of not being as good as I once was. The fear of opening the files after a shoot and thinking, oh no. To this day, I still hesitate before looking at images for the first time. That stomach-drop feeling hasn’t gone away.


But here’s the thing: every shoot has given me something. Sometimes it’s confidence in my eye. Sometimes it’s technical reassurance. Sometimes it’s just proof that I can still show up and make work. None of it has been wasted.

The podcast that landed at exactly the right moment


Today, while scrolling through episodes of the Terrible Photographer podcast by Patrick Fore, one title jumped out: “The Tyranny of Okay – Why Most Creative Work Is Just Work.” I’ll admit, I listen to podcasts wildly out of order. This was one of those days.


The episode hit a nerve in the best way.


The core idea is that most creative work is just okay. Not awful, not amazing. And that’s normal. The problem is when “okay” becomes a stopping point rather than a stepping stone. When fear of making something mediocre stops us from making anything at all.


Patrick talks about how improvement doesn’t come from waiting until you feel ready, inspired, or brilliant. It comes from doing the work, repeatedly, even when it feels ordinary. Especially when it feels ordinary. The tyranny isn’t bad work — it’s letting “okay” convince you not to continue.


Listening to it felt uncomfortably familiar. Avoiding shoots. Avoiding editing. Avoiding looking at the images because they might confirm my worst fears. All perfectly human. All completely unhelpful.

What returning has taught me so far

Coming back to photography after years away isn’t about rediscovering who I was. It’s about allowing myself to be who I am now — with less time, more self-doubt, and a very different perspective on success.


I’m learning that:

  • Fear doesn’t disappear before you start. It quietens after.
  • Confidence comes from repetition, not reassurance.
  • “Okay” work is still work, and work is how you get better.
  • You’re allowed to change, pause, return, and try again.


I don’t know exactly where this road leads. Right now, that’s fine. The important part is that I’m walking it — camera in hand, nerves and all.


And if you’re standing where I was, wondering whether it’s worth starting again after time away, here’s what I’ll say:


It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be done.