Navigating a whirlwind of emotions, I find myself pondering a common quandary: why do so many gifted and genuinely good individuals grapple with doubt regarding the significance of their creative endeavors? Does our art truly resonate with someone’s soul? Is it, indeed, beautiful? The haunting story of Vincent Van Gogh, who departed this world convinced of his own failure, echoes in my thoughts. I can’t help but wonder how many other creatives share a similar struggle at this very moment—talented souls wrestling with self-doubt, their worth unnoticed.

Today, during my explorations, I stumbled upon a portrait studio unfamiliar to me. Intrigued, I ventured inside to meet its youthful owner—an entrepreneur running a successful franchise, with his work adorning Times Square. While genuinely celebrating his achievements, a question lingers: when will my moment of triumph arrive?

I’ve shared this tale before, but the roots of my love for photography trace back to high school, where I cherished moments with my father’s vintage Canon 35mm film camera. However, my journey into photography remained dormant for years, likely stifled by the expectations of the religious upbringing that guided my early life. The prescribed path was clear: grow up, embark on a mission, return, marry, have kids, and serve the church. Creative pursuits were not championed as enduring skills.

Ten years ago, at the age of 32, I picked up a camera and discovered the enchanting world of photography. From that point on, my journey involved relentless study, practice, and overcoming failures. I delved into understanding light, honed my editing skills, and meticulously crafted a unique style that felt authentically mine. It was a process of self-discovery and artistic definition.

Embracing photography earnestly on Instagram in 2019, I embarked on a mission to create and share meaningful work. Yet, financial success has proven elusive. Securing paying clients and mastering the intricacies of transforming my passion into a thriving business pose ongoing challenges. At 42, I’m acutely aware that the sands of time may have more behind than ahead. The prospect of a perpetual uphill struggle looms, but I’m resolved to face it with dignity and courage.

Despite life’s hardships and numerous hurdles, I’m not throwing in the towel. There’s a fervent desire for life to swing my way a bit more, for my aspirations to materialize sooner. Yet, my love for photography remains unwavering. I’ll persist in molding my creative pursuits into a business that can sustain both myself and my family.

I recently jumped into a book by a fellow photographer, a book that delves deeply into this artist’s personal odyssey through the world of photography. He generously shares his formative experiences, recounting how he was gifted his 1st camera at the tender age of 8. Within the pages, he unveils some of the snapshots he captured as a child with that very camera, weaving his life story through the chapters, which document an impressive and unwavering evolution in his photographic prowess as he aged.

As I immersed myself in his narrative, my initial response was one of genuine admiration, a whispered “That’s rather fascinating!” But lurking beneath the surface, an insidious notion began to creep into my thoughts—a comparison, pitting my own photographic journey against his. My introduction to photography was not at the age of 8, but during my high school years. I did not maintain a lifelong dedication to the craft as he did; in fact, my true commitment to this art only blossomed around a decade ago, punctuated by periods of fervent activity and intermittent lulls. My collection doesn’t preserve every single photograph I’ve ever taken; quite the contrary, many have been misplaced or lost over the years, thanks in no small part to my abysmal file organization. In sum, these unsettling thoughts led me down a path of self-doubt, questioning the very essence of my capabilities as a photographer.

This is precisely why comparing oneself to others is fraught with peril.

The unassailable truth is that there exists no universally correct or erroneous route to becoming an artist. Some commence their artistic journey in their tender years, perhaps at the age of 8, while others, like myself, embark on this path in their thirties. Still, others may not kindle their artistic flames until well past their retirement years. The crux of the matter is that there is no singularly correct or incorrect moment to begin, no unequivocal roadmap to follow. The only veritable imperative is to remain faithful to the passions that stir our hearts and fuel our creative spirits. We must craft art that resonates authentically with our own souls and has the power to evoke emotion, even if it’s solely within ourselves.

The point of all of this is to emphasize that it’s absolutely acceptable to learn from and draw inspiration from fellow artists. Nonetheless, we must remain steadfast in our understanding that just because their artistic journey appears distinct from our own does not render our own path any less meaningful or legitimate.