My Story

I grew up on a farm. Cows, sheep, chooks, and a river we irrigated from in summer. I remember sitting on a round hay bale at sunset, dreaming of another life, somewhere else. I was thirteen, restless for change, and had just picked up a camera for the first time.

I shot the late afternoon light, textured water, clouds, trees that caught my eye, a dusty red stop sign in golden light. I was peering through the lens, never realising that what I held in my hand could be the vehicle to fuel that dream. I had no concept of professional photography whatsoever. Only cows, milk, dust and hay.

When I bought my first SLR—a Pentax—from a friend, the hobby deepened. Then university pulled me away. Assignments, exams, endless laboratories consumed everything, and the cameras gathered dust.

Years later, working as a property valuer in Sydney, photography returned unexpectedly. The firm had point-and-shoot cameras for report cover images—truly awful photos. I thought: I can do better than this. So I bought an Olympus EM2 and a wide-angle lens, ostensibly to improve the reports.

But it didn't stop there. I found myself reading creative technique books, experimenting constantly, upgrading equipment. My colleagues were bemused by my regular "photo updates" shared with barely contained excitement. One particularly insightful colleague eventually asked: "So, what's the next step?" He saw what I'd missed—I had more passion for photography than my work, and it was showing.

Literally showing. That year, working full-time as a valuer, I got sick four times. My doctor asked what I did for work, then said my body was telling me something wasn't right. He was right. Valuation used only half my brain—the analytical side. Photography demands both: creative vision and technical precision. I was withering.

Career advice confirmed what my body already knew. Over lunch, a career coach watched my entire demeanour change when I talked about photography. "I think you can do it," she said, "but the transition won't be easy. Do you back yourself?"

I wasn't sure. But I felt trapped, like being on a train headed in the wrong direction. I didn't have all the answers—I just knew I had to get off, and figure it out.

The path wasn't linear. I left valuation, spent nine months finding transitional work, launched a freelance photography business, navigated COVID lockdowns and sold my apartment. I even spent a year shooting real estate via public transport after my car was written off in a car accident.

Real estate photography nearly stifled my passion entirely. The endless scramble for "cheap but good" work was soul-destroying, so I quit. Returning to part-time analytical work in property gave me the stable income to pivot toward what actually mattered: capturing the fleeting moments that make me feel most alive.

I spent over a year refining my launch collection to museum-quality standard. Success means paying full price, in advance.

Worth it.