The belief that held back my photography for 20 years

I was in my last years of high school the first time someone told me artists don't make money.

It didn't come from my mum. She always said do what makes you happy, and she meant it. It came from school, from teachers, from the general noise of society that funnels creative kids toward something more sensible. And I believed it. Not all at once, but over time, slowly embedding itself in without you noticing.

I went to uni at 21 - old enough to know what I wanted, young enough to still feel the sting of having been told it wasn't worth wanting. I even included a literal f-you finger in my final photography assignment (see photo below). F-you for thinking I couldn't make it. F-you for calling it not a real job. I was defiant on the outside. But somewhere in pushing back so hard against that message, I think I gave up a part of my truly creative self in the process. I shaped myself into something more palatable. More commercially viable. More safe.

Left is the final piece, a huge 40×40 inch artwork + Right a zoomed in shot of my ‘f-you’.

Table of Contents

Twenty years of proving I could survive

After uni I shot everything. Kids, families, babies, boudoir, weddings, corporate. I built a business first in Townsville, Sydney and then on the Far South Coast, NSW. I paid my taxes, stayed out of debt. I made it work.

And I'm genuinely proud of that. Running a small business for two decades in a regional area, mostly on your own, is no small thing. I've had some wild creative projects along the way, big productions, collaborative shoots, work I'm really proud of. I've been featured by people and publications I respect. None of that is nothing.

But the reason I picked up a camera in the first place, black and white film, abstract shapes, shadows and light, nature and people and the quiet spaces in between, that part of me got treated as a reward. Something I'd get back to once the real work was done. A gift to myself if the client list was clear and I had a spare few months to breathe… spoiler, this doesn’t happen!

Black and white film captured at high school, printed in the darkroom on matt paper- focused on capturing the connection between in nature and the human form.

Black and white film captured at uni and printed in the darkroom on gloss paper - focused on finding the connection between nature and the human form.

For most of my working life, the artist in me has been a side note.

I wonder sometimes if this sounds familiar?... Not necessarily with photography, but with whatever it is you built your business around. The thing you did because it was meaningful to you, slowly reshaped over the years into something a little safer, a little more what other people expected, a little further from why you started. The original impulse still in there somewhere, but quietly waiting.

The new idea, and the freeze

A little while ago I started designing what I can only describe as a dream package. The kind of work I'd do if I could choose exactly how to spend my days with a client.

Slower. More considered. More story, more soul, less Pinterest-perfect. Imagery that gets at the why of a business, not just the what. Still and moving. Honest and unhurried. Working at my own standard rather than inside the boundaries of what a working photographer is supposed to deliver.

I got excited. I wrote it out, crafted something that felt genuinely alive for the first time in a while. And then I froze.

I told myself I was just sitting with the idea. That I wasn't afraid, just thoughtful. Then during a creative coaching call it became pretty clear I was holding back. The same voice that had been running quietly in the background since I was a teenager had got loud again.

You're not an artist. This offer is too deep, too niche. Who's going to want this? And artists don't make money anyway.

Two decades on, and there it was. Same as ever.

Naming the thing in the room

Here's what I've come to understand about limiting beliefs: it's the not seeing them that does the most damage. Once I can actually see one clearly, shine a light on it, say hi there, I see you, I know I can move through it. It loses some of its grip.

What I noticed in that coaching session was that two of my loudest beliefs had found each other and were having a very cosy conversation in the background of everything I was trying to build. I'm not an artist and artists don't make money were feeding on one another. Seeing both of them named and in the light was the thing that shifted something.

I'm sharing this because I think a lot of the women I work with carry a version of this too. Not necessarily the same words, but a similar feeling. The sense that the business isn't quite legitimate yet. That they're not ready for proper photos. That wanting beautiful, considered things for something they've worked hard to build is somehow indulgent. That being seen properly is a bit much to ask for.

I recognise it because I've lived it from the other side. And I know that the moment someone finally gives themselves permission to be seen accurately, something shifts for them too.

A layered story - like this image of Saarinen Organics. The team handpicking lavender for their skincare range. In the background you can see the burnt forest from the 2020 bushfires - sharing more of their story of resilience and growth.

What this is really about

I didn't set out to reshape my whole world. I thought I was designing a new package.

But somewhere in getting honest about how I actually want to work, something bigger started to move. The way I see my own practice. What I'm willing to claim out loud. What I'm prepared to offer that comes from the truest part of what I know how to do.

I want to work with women in business who want more than a clean set of images to post on Instagram. I want to work slowly, with intention, embedded in the real story of what someone is building. Connected to nature, to place, to the soul of a business rather than just its surface. I want the women in front of my lens to feel like themselves, maybe even more than they expected to.

That's what the Brand Story Package is. And that's why sharing it has taken me a while.

I'm still a little scared. But I'm more excited than I've been in a long time. This is the story behind the work, and the work is ready. You can read all about the Brand Story Package here, and if it feels like the right fit, I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks for taking the time to read my backstory,

Honey x

• What is brand story photography and how is it different from regular brand photos?

  Brand story photography goes beyond clean product shots and headshots. It looks at the why behind a business, the person, the place, the values, and the way things are made, to create imagery that feels true rather than just polished.

• How do I know if my business is ready for a brand photography shoot?

  If you've been waiting until things feel more established, more finished, or more worthy, that feeling itself is usually a sign you're ready. The businesses that benefit most from this kind of work are the ones already doing meaningful things and struggling to communicate that visually.

• Can you make a living as a photographer in a regional area?

  Yes, though it takes time and a willingness to shoot broadly while you build. Many photographers working in regional Australia have spent years covering a wide range of work before narrowing toward the practice they actually want.

• How do limiting beliefs affect the way creative business owners show up and charge?

  Beliefs picked up early, especially around money and creative work, tend to run quietly in the background for years. They shape which offers you build, what you charge, and whether you let yourself be seen properly, often without you realising it.

• Is it self-indulgent to want considered, beautiful photography for your small business?

  No. Wanting your visual identity to reflect the real standard of your work is not vanity. For women especially, asking to be seen accurately can feel like a lot to ask for. It isn't.