Since stepping away from the world of professional sports photography, I’ve found myself picking up the camera for a very different reason: because I want to, not because I have to.
There’s no deadline. No editor waiting for a caption. No need to catch the winning moment in perfect focus. These days, I wander my local area with a camera slung over my shoulder, taking pictures not for clients, not for clout, and certainly not for the algorithm, but for me.
And that, I’ve realised, is something we don’t talk about enough: that it’s perfectly okay to shoot for yourself.
In a world where every image is uploaded, filtered, tagged and timestamped for maximum engagement, it’s easy to forget why we ever started taking photos in the first place. The pressure to stay visible online, to keep feeding the machine, can rob you of the very joy that made you fall in love with photography to begin with.
We spend more time wondering what the algorithm will like than what we like. But there’s something liberating about turning your back on that noise. About making images that don’t need to trend.
I’m not immune to it. I’ve felt that twinge when a photo I love barely gets noticed, and I’ve seen lesser images go viral simply because they fit the formula. But the truth is, I’m no longer chasing hearts, likes, or shares.
I’m chasing light. I’m looking for moments that speak to something quieter, more personal. The way the fog sits low over a Cornish field at dawn. The shape of an old fisherman’s hands. The silence of a chapel no longer in use. None of it screams for attention – but all of it means something to me.
That shift, from professional to personal, from performance to process, has changed the way I see. I no longer worry if a shot is portfolio-worthy. I don’t care if the composition would make a judge at a camera club wince.
I care if it feels honest, and while I do hope these images might one day become part of something – such as an exhibition, a zine or a book – that’s not why I make them. I make them because I need to, in the same way a writer keeps a journal or a musician hums a tune into their phone.
There’s value in creating without expectation. In photographing, without asking what it will do for your brand. These images I’m making – this quiet, documentary-style work around my local region – they’re mine. They don’t need to impress anyone but me.
And ironically, that’s when the good stuff happens – when you shoot without permission. Without pressure. Without performance. That’s when photography gets back to being a language you speak fluently, not something you shout in all caps online.
So if you find yourself burnt out, uninspired, or just tired of chasing digital ghosts – step back. Take the camera out for you. Photograph the things that matter to you, even if no one else sees them. Especially if no one else sees them.
Because at the end of the day, some images don’t need to be posted – they just need to be made. And that’s worth its weight in gold.
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