Here’s the truth: I don’t always want to write about my photos.
(This post departs from the usual format and instead reflects honestly on the creative burnout that can come from constant content creation. If you’re looking for camera settings or storytelling theory, maybe check one of the other nine.)
Sometimes I hate it, actually. Not because I don’t have thoughts about them, but because I don’t always feel like those thoughts should be written down. I don’t want to explain why the photo works or what it’s supposed to mean. Most of the time, I don’t even know.
There’s this pressure. especially in creative spaces and on social media to constantly articulate your “vision.” To narrate it. To package it. To explain the story behind the image, post it at the right time, put a clever caption on it, and hope it “performs.”
And sure, sometimes that feels right. Sometimes there’s a story worth telling. But not always.
Not every image needs a caption. Not every shot needs a write-up. And more and more, I find myself resenting the expectation that it should. That everything we create has to be turned into content. That every beautiful moment has to be made “shareable” to count.
Sometimes I just want to let the photo breathe.
That doesn’t mean the work isn’t intentional. It is. Every frame I shoot is a result of hours spent walking, watching, composing, waiting. But the meaning? That’s not always for me to pin down. Sometimes I want to keep it open. Let you—the viewer—bring something to it. I’m not trying to control how it’s read. I’m trying to share it and let it live outside of me.
Writing also takes a different kind of energy. And when I’m in a rhythm of shooting, editing, or just trying to stay afloat in everyday life, writing can feel like friction. I don’t always have the language. I don’t always want to look for it. But honestly, it’s not just laziness. It’s exhaustion.
I work full time. I’m in grad school. I’m trying to take care of my health, keep my head above water. There’s already so much being asked of us all the time. And I don’t even have kids. So yeah—forgive me if I don’t have the energy to turn every photo into a post or to post regularly just to appease the feed.
Sharing doesn’t feel joyful anymore. It feels obligatory. Like a chore. And the worst part is that it’s made me fall out of love with something I used to live for. Photography used to feel like freedom. Now it feels like pressure. Like performance.
I don’t want to treat my work like content anymore.
My photos aren’t disposable. They’re not filler for a grid. They’re not “engagement pieces.” They’re moments I spent time chasing, framing, feeling. And the more I’m forced to keep feeding a system that never slows down, the less I want to create anything at all.
If I’m being real, this whole process—blogging, posting, staying visible—has burned me out. I haven’t been shooting lately. Not because I’ve lost the love for photography, but because I’m tired of a system that turns art into product and artists into machines.
So no, I don’t want to post every day. I don’t want to optimize anything. I want to make work when it feels true. And if I share it, I want it to mean something. Not just because the algorithm needs a snack.
Maybe I’ll get back to shooting soon. Maybe I won’t. But I do know this: I want my work to live somewhere deeper than an app. Somewhere slower. Somewhere more human.
Just look at the photos.
Let them say what they want to say.
Or say nothing at all.
