A photojournalist is more than a passive observer in the moments before a shot. Eyes alert, breath steady, hands ready—but what about the mind? What about the internal lens we rarely develop until later in our storytelling journey?

The best photographers aren’t just seeing—they’re feeling, anticipating, and eventually reflecting. In Brené Brown’s words, they’re practicing metacognition: thinking about their thinking.

The First Awareness: Observation

When we begin photojournalism, our first superpower is visual observation. We study light, read rooms, and frame interactions. This is what Brené Brown would call situational awareness—we notice what’s happening around us. It’s the first lens we learn to use.

The Second Awareness: Anticipation

With experience, we begin to anticipate. We can feel a moment building before it breaks—a hug, a tear, a confrontation, a prayer. That’s anticipatory awareness. We pre-visualize scenes not yet born. We understand the rhythm of emotion before it shows itself.

But all of this is still about them.

The Final Awareness: Ourselves

Here’s what often comes last, if at all: self-awareness.

And this is where metacognition comes in.

At around the 15:55-minute mark of the podcast, Simon Sinek, Adam Grant, and Brené Brown talk about metacognition not just as an intellectual exercise, but as a lived skill—being conscious of your internal reactions, patterns, and how you show up. For photographers, this means asking:

• How am I affecting the space I’m in?
• Am I shrinking the energy in the room, or expanding it?
• What does my face, posture, or silence communicate to others?

This connects beautifully with Vanessa Van Edwards’ idea of Resting Bothered Face (RBF). In her YouTube video “Fix Resting Bothered Face [RBF] with these simple tweaks” (around 1:30–2:00), she explains how our neutral expressions can unintentionally appear closed, judgmental, or even annoyed—especially in emotionally charged or vulnerable settings. Our unspoken presence can speak louder than our camera ever could.

Beyond the Camera

Metacognition matters even more when the camera is off.

Our presence still frames the moment in debriefs, classrooms, and communities. We’re still storytelling—but now through tone, timing, and emotional openness.

So, the question becomes: Am I aware of my awareness? Am I paying attention not just to what’s happening, but to how I think about what’s happening—and how that shapes the people I’m with?

Coaching Connection in an Isolated Craft

Photojournalists often work alone. This solitude is both a gift and a risk.

So, how do we coach ourselves—and our peers—toward greater community through metacognition?

1. Mirror Check

Before you enter a scene, please look at your face. What’s it saying? Is it open? Curious? Judgmental?

2. Reflect, Don’t Just Review

After the shoot, don’t just cull images. Ask: What was I like in that space? Did I bring presence, or just presence of mind?

3. Invite Feedback

Ask trusted subjects, students, or collaborators: How do I come across when working? It’s one of the most vulnerable and powerful things we can do.

4. Practice Emotional Rehearsal

When entering emotionally charged scenes, prepare yourself, not just your gear. How might you respond internally? How will you ground yourself?

Closing Frame

You’re not just capturing the story.

You’re part of the story.

Your metacognitive presence—your ability to be aware of your awareness—transforms your craft from visual witness to relational catalyst. It turns isolation into connection and builds community even when you work alone.

And maybe, in that awareness, we discover that the most powerful lens we ever develop is the one we turn inward.

As someone who’s spent a lifetime listening to people’s stories, I’ve learned that what we often admire most in others—their creative voice, passion, and impact—is born out of pain. It’s not just talent or opportunity. It’s what they do with difficulty.

I recommend a powerful two-part podcast interview with National Geographic photographer Cory Richards, hosted by Simon Sinek. Cory’s story is filled with raw honesty about success, struggle, depression, and finding purpose through a camera lens. It’s not just about photography. It’s about being human.

What stuck with me were Cory’s outlines of a four-part process he’s developed to stay grounded when life—and identity—begin to unravel. He calls it his framework for agency, and it’s something every creative, every missionary, and every person in ministry or leadership could benefit from reflecting on.

Cory Richards’ 4-Point Resilience Framework

1. Agency Is Everything
When things go wrong, the temptation is to blame or collapse. Cory talks about choosing not to live as a victim, even when the pain is real. Instead, he focuses on what I can do next. This isn’t about ignoring the hurt. It’s about reclaiming the power to respond.

2. Discovery Demands Discomfort
Growth doesn’t happen in our comfort zones. Cory reminds us to lean into the pain—because that’s often where the real learning begins. Whether it’s grief, burnout, or self-doubt, we can’t grow if we don’t face what hurts.

3. Certainty Kills Curiosity
The more sure we are, the less we tend to ask questions. Cory points out how dangerous that can be, especially in storytelling. Curiosity—about people, places, even ourselves—keeps our work fresh and connected.

4. Adaptation Leads to Evolution
When life changes (as it always does), we have two choices: cling to what was or grow into what could be. After experiencing a personal and professional collapse, Cory learned to reimagine his role and purpose. That’s when transformation began.

Why This Matters for Storytellers

Whether you’re a photographer, filmmaker, missionary, or nonprofit communicator, this framework speaks to more than mental health. It speaks to the soul of why we tell stories in the first place.

Many of us teach, mentor, and work alongside people trying to make a difference. But we can’t guide others if we’re not also doing the work within ourselves. Cory’s process reminds us that even in our lowest moments, we are still capable of purpose.

If you’ve ever felt overwhelmed by the tension of trying to do meaningful work while fighting your own internal battles, I hope this interview gives you language, perspective, and hope. I know it did for me.

Let me know what speaks to you after you listen. This is one of those conversations that lingers.

Today I had the chance to photograph the Fifth Annual Cops ‘N Cars Show—a vibrant, family-friendly event held at Lebanon Baptist Church in Roswell. What started as a car show has become something much more: a celebration of community, local pride, and the incredible support for those who serve and protect us daily.

This year marked a turning point for the event. With a new, larger venue, the show had room to expand—and it did. Rows of classic and custom cars stretched across the lot, food trucks served long lines of guests, and families mingled with local officers. Kids explored police cruisers and K9 units with wide eyes and curiosity.

As a photographer, I love capturing moments on the ground—smiles, conversations, the shine of chrome under Georgia sunlight. But it was the drone that told the whole story. From above, the scale of this year’s event became crystal clear. You could see the growth. You could feel the energy in a way that a ground-level shot couldn’t express.

The lesson hit me hard: Sometimes, the only way to truly capture the impact of a moment is to rise above it. That drone shot didn’t just show cars—it showed community. It showed what’s possible when a good idea is given room to grow. And it reminded me how perspective can shape storytelling.

Proceeds from the event benefit the Friends of Roswell Police Foundation, which supports local needy families and helps Roswell officers serve the community more effectively. It’s an event with heart—and now, thanks to the drone, we can see how big that heart has become.

At the Panaewa Stampede Rodeo, a cowboy’s rope lands true around the steer’s neck—capturing the split-second precision and intensity of this high-stakes moment in Hawai‘i’s rodeo tradition.

We’ve all heard the phrase “seeing is believing.” That idea goes all the way back to the Apostle Thomas, who famously wouldn’t believe Jesus was resurrected until he could see and touch Him for himself.

That moment captures something deeply human. We trust what we see. When it comes to communication—whether in business, education, or ministry—visuals aren’t just decoration. They’re the bridge between information and understanding.

In fact:

• Around 65% of people are visual learners.
• We retain up to 80% of what we see (compared to 10–20% of what we hear or read).
• Our brains are wired to process stories and visuals simultaneously.

So if we know that visual storytelling is one of the most powerful ways to communicate—especially the Why behind what we do—why are so few small businesses and organizations using it?

What Most People Do Instead (And Why It Doesn’t Work)

Instead of storytelling, most people default to facts, features, and benefits. They create:

• A list of services
• A bullet-point résumé of achievements
• A “we’re passionate about excellence” paragraph with no real-life example to back it up

The problem is: facts don’t move people. Stories do.

A list of what you do might check a few boxes, but it won’t build trust, spark a connection, or set you apart. Your potential clients or supporters aren’t just asking, “What do you do?” They’re asking:

“Can I see myself in your story?”

Why Some Storytelling Still Doesn’t Work

Now here’s the part most people miss—and it’s why even those who try storytelling often give up too quickly:

They weren’t strategic about it.

They post a few testimonials or a random behind-the-scenes video. They tell a personal story that matters to them, but doesn’t clarify the value they bring to others. Or they focus on storytelling as a tactic—instead of starting with a strategy.

Effective storytelling requires focus.
You need to know:

• Who is this story for?
• What action do I want the listener/viewer to take?
• How does this story reveal our mission, not just our personality?

When businesses skip strategy, they end up with stories that don’t land—and they wrongly assume storytelling just doesn’t work.

This Is Where I Come In

If you’re leading a business, ministry, or creative project and you’re struggling to clearly communicate what makes you different and valuable—I’d love to help.

I’ve spent years not only creating visual stories, but teaching others how to uncover the right stories for the right moment. I don’t just shoot a video or write a caption—I help you think strategically before we create tactically.

There’s a reason your story matters. You just might need help telling it the way people can see it.

📩 Reach out to me if you’re ready to turn your story into something that works—not just something that sounds good.

In 1990, I lost my job with the International Mission Board. Budget cuts. One day I was doing meaningful work I loved — work I believed in deeply — and the next, I was packing my things.

Later, I lost another job at Georgia Tech.

And now, looking back over the past 20 years of running my own business, I’ve started to notice a pattern. I have incredible seasons with clients — I walk with them, help tell their stories, see real transformation — and then that chapter ends. Sometimes it’s budget. Sometimes it’s new leadership. Sometimes it just… shifts.

Every time this has happened, I’ve faced a tough question:
Who am I, when the work stops?

When your identity is wrapped up in what you do — the title, the paycheck, the projects — and that goes away, it can feel like you go away with it. You start to wonder:
Do I still have a purpose? Do I still matter?

For a long time, I wrestled with that. But somewhere along the way, I started seeing things differently.

That shift really took shape when I read Simon Sinek’s The Infinite Game. He makes the case that life — and especially meaningful work — isn’t about winning or finishing. It’s not a race to a title or a trophy. It’s about playing the long game. An infinite game. One where the goal isn’t to “win” — it’s to keep playing with purpose.

That’s when I realized something important:
The work may end, but the calling doesn’t.

Each job loss, each client transition, each unexpected pivot has actually refined my calling — not erased it. My deeper purpose has always been the same: to help people tell stories that matter. To shine light where there’s hope. To give voice to truth, beauty, and purpose.

That’s not tied to a single employer or client.
It’s tied to something deeper — my why.

Here’s what I’ve learned along the way:

• Losing your job doesn’t mean losing your value. It may just be clearing space for something new to emerge.
• Your identity has to be rooted in something deeper than your business card. Titles and gigs come and go. Purpose endures.
• Pivoting isn’t failure. It’s movement. It’s growth. Sometimes it’s even grace.

So if you’re in a season where the work has ended — or you’re wondering what comes next — I want to encourage you:
You’re not done.
You’re not without meaning.
You’re just being invited to play the infinite game a little differently.

Keep showing up.
Keep playing with purpose.
Keep telling stories that matter.

For a deeper exploration of these themes, I highly recommend listening to the podcast episode “Where Is Simon Going?” from A Bit of Optimism. In this episode, journalist Cal Fussman interviews Simon Sinek, delving into topics like identity, purpose, and the concept of the infinite game. Their discussion offers valuable insights into how we can navigate life’s transitions and remain true to our calling. You can listen to the episode here:

Insights from a Mentor Who’s Walked This Road with You

One of my greatest joys is teaching and mentoring young adults, primarily through my work as a mentor in NPPA, YWAM, and our international storytelling workshops. I’ve spent much time listening to 20-somethings open up about what’s really going on in their lives—not just creatively or spiritually, but personally.

And one question comes up a lot:
“Why is finding real friends after high school or college so hard?”

That disconnection can feel overwhelming, whether fresh out of DTS or starting to build your life and calling. You want deep friendships. You want people who “get you.” But somehow, it’s more complicated than you expected.

You’re not imagining it. You’re not alone. And—this is important—you’re not doing anything wrong.

Mel Robbins, a respected author and speaker, has done some excellent work recently in explaining what’s happening during this season of life. I want to break down some of what she shares and weave in what I’ve observed walking alongside young adults for decades.

The Great Scattering: Why Friendships Feel Like They’re Falling Apart

In school or during DTS, friendships form naturally. You’re living together, eating together, and praying together. You’ve got a built-in community.

But once that season ends? Everything changes.

People scatter across cities, countries, and even continents. Life gets busier. Priorities shift. Friendships that once came easily now require effort.

Mel Robbins calls this transition “The Great Scattering.” And it’s one of the most significant emotional shifts in your 20s. You suddenly realize that friendship isn’t automatic anymore. It has to be intentional.

What Makes Adult Friendships Stick

Robbins says lasting friendships usually need three things:

1. Proximity – You need to see or connect often.
2. Timing – You’re in similar life stages or can relate to each other’s experiences.
3. Energy – There’s a natural connection or shared purpose.

If even one of those is missing, that relationship might need extra effort or not work long-term. This doesn’t mean you failed. It just means the season or context has changed.

Real Friendship Takes Time

Another thing that surprises people: how long it takes to build close friendships as an adult.

• Around 74 hours of quality time can form a casual friendship.
• Over 200 hours are usually needed to build a deep one.

So when people say, “I don’t have close friends yet,” I often remind them—they probably haven’t had the time yet. Friendship is a slow burn, not a spark.

A Mentoring Mindset: Let Them

Robbins teaches something I often use when mentoring: the “Let Them” mindset.

If someone flakes on plans, let them.
If they don’t prioritize the friendship, let them.
If they go quiet for a while, let them.

This doesn’t mean you stop caring. It just means you stop chasing. You let people show you how much capacity they have for friendship. And you let yourself move forward without resentment or guilt.

What I Tell My Students (and My Kids)

If you’re in this season of figuring out who your people are, here’s my encouragement:

• Friendship gets harder, but it also gets richer. You’ll start finding people you choose—and who choose you back.
• Be the kind of friend you’re looking for. Consistent. Curious. Kind.
• Don’t confuse loneliness with failure. Most people are lonely. But few are willing to admit it. Your courage to press in is part of what will build your future.

And if we’ve crossed paths—on a YWAM base, in a workshop overseas, or through storytelling—I want you to know I see you. I know this road can feel lonely sometimes. But I promise: the deep, soul-filling friendships you’re looking for can be built. They just take time, intention, and grace.

I’m cheering you on.

Photo by Robin Rayne

In 2002, I left a full-time job to launch my freelance career as a visual storyteller.

I had a couple of cameras, a good amount of hope, and just enough naivety to think it might actually work out.

At the time, I didn’t know that most freelance businesses fail.

According to small business statistics, around 50% fail within 5 years, and only a small fraction survive beyond 20. The creative world — especially photography, video, and storytelling — is notoriously tough. And freelancing? That adds a whole new layer of uncertainty.

But somehow, 23 years later, I’m still here.

So, how did I beat the odds?

If I had to sum it up in one word, it would be adaptability.

The world I started freelancing in looked nothing like the one we’re in now:

• Digital cameras were just beginning to replace film.
• YouTube didn’t exist yet.
• Social media wasn’t part of any marketing plan.
• Clients mailed checks.
• And no one was asking about “vertical video” or “AI editing tools.”

Through all that, I’ve continued to build Storyteller & Brand Builder into something that has stayed relevant and effective for clients — not by doing everything, but by doing the right things at the right time.

Here are a few truths I’ve learned:

1. Clients don’t just hire services — they hire trust.

When clients trust that you understand their mission, care about their message, and will deliver — they come back. And better yet, they refer others.

2. You can’t afford to stop learning.

I’ve taken courses, learned new software, upgraded gear, and adjusted workflows more times than I can count. The moment I get too comfortable is the moment I start slipping behind.

3. Being a storyteller is more valuable than being a technician.

Lots of people can shoot video. Fewer can find the story, frame it in a meaningful way, and create emotional impact. That’s where real value — and longevity — lives.

4. You have to be more than “just a creative.”

I’ve taught workshops around the world, consulted with businesses on branding, coached young storytellers, and helped nonprofits raise support with visual messaging. Those things not only diversify income — they deepen the impact.

The Real Secret? Keep Showing Up.

There were slow months, canceled contracts, hard pivots, and seasons where I questioned whether this path was sustainable. But each time, I focused on what I could control: my skillset, my attitude, and my relationships.

This isn’t a story about getting lucky.

It’s about showing up consistently — for clients, for causes, for community.

If you’re a freelancer or creative trying to find your way, let me encourage you:
Longevity isn’t built in a sprint. It’s earned over time — one project, one pivot, one person at a time.

Thanks for reading. And thank you to every client, student, colleague, and friend who’s helped make this 23-year journey possible.

Let’s keep telling stories that matter.

Photo by Dorie Griggs

One of the strengths I bring to my workshops, especially the intense one-week kind, is discernment. I often see very clearly where someone needs help or correction. It’s not a guess or a vague hunch; it’s a sharp awareness and part of my brain’s workings.

Being on the Autism spectrum, I know that directness often comes with the territory. For me, it’s less about being blunt and more about being efficient, honest, and helpful. If someone is doing something that could be better, I want them to know, because I also want to know when I can grow or improve.

But I’ve learned that this can be hard for others to accept, especially in a condensed, emotionally charged learning environment like a one-week creative workshop, where students are already being stretched in vulnerable ways.

The Challenge: How do I lead with clarity and kindness?

It’s something I continue to wrestle with. I care deeply about my students and want to give them my best. I want them to grow, to see what I see in their work and rise to it. But I also want them to feel safe, seen, and not crushed by my critique.

What I’m Learning (and Relearning) About Communicating with Warmth

Here are a few things I’m putting into practice—and maybe they’ll be helpful for others too, especially those of us who are more naturally wired for truth than tact:

1. Ask Before Advising

Instead of jumping in with a correction, I’ve started asking:
“Would you like some input on that?” or “Can I offer an observation?”

This slight pause respects their autonomy. It shifts the dynamic from “Here’s what’s wrong” to “I noticed something—would you like to know?”

2. Affirm What’s Working First

It’s easy to focus on what needs fixing, because that’s often what stands out. But I’m learning to discipline myself to notice and say what’s working.

Example:
“Your use of natural light in this shot is so strong—it feels honest and intentional. There’s one element that’s distracting from that, though. Want to take a look together?”

This frames feedback as refinement, not rejection.

3. Be Curious, Not Just Correct

Instead of saying, “This doesn’t work,” try:
“I wonder what would happen if you tried this differently?”

This shifts the posture from teacher-as-authority to teacher-as-co-explorer, and that builds trust.

4. Let Silence Help

Sometimes, my directness is less about what I say and more about how fast I say it. Pausing for a breath or letting a moment sit before speaking helps me better gauge the emotional space. Slowness can be kindness.

5. Let Students Reflect First

Instead of jumping in with my take, I’ve begun asking:
“How do you feel about this work? Is there anything you wish had turned out differently?”

Students often already sense what needs improving, and saying it themselves gives them ownership and dignity.

Teaching is Not Just About the Work—It’s About the Person

I’m still learning to hold this tension: giving honest, helpful, transformative feedback, without stripping the humanity out of it. It’s easy to prioritize information over connection, especially in short workshops, where time is tight. But connection is what makes the information stick.

My discernment is not a flaw. My directness is not wrong. They’re strengths. But strengths need refinement, just like the students I’m trying to help.

And maybe that’s the lesson underneath all of this: we’re all learning how to see better, speak better, and love better—even when it’s uncomfortable.

If you’re someone who also struggles with how to confront or correct others, maybe start with this question:

“What would it feel like for me to hear this?”

Or even better:

“What tone would help me stay open to this feedback?”

Because that’s what we want—for people to stay open, not shut down. To grow, not retreat. And that starts with how we speak.

This past week, I had the privilege of teaching lighting to the School of Photography students at YWAM Dunham. It wasn’t just another class on how to use studio gear—it was a week that reminded me why teaching is one of the deepest loves of my life.

There’s something sacred about standing in front of a group of young creatives and inviting them not just to learn but to see—to see light differently, to see people differently, and to see themselves differently.

Teaching Isn’t Just Transferring Skills

Yes, I taught them how to turn on studio lights, modify them with softboxes and grids, calculate exposure using ISO, light power, and distance, and set a custom white balance so their images are true to life.

But more than that, I taught them to think, to ask why, and to see photography not just as a craft but as a language—one that speaks identity, beauty, and truth.

The Journey Is Still in Progress

Throughout the week, I shared pieces of my journey. It’s not a finished story—far from it. Many of my dreams haven’t come true yet. But I’m not discouraged. I’m not 80 like Moses when God called him to lead. I still have time. And so do you.

I’ve worked in some challenging roles that didn’t feel glamorous or even meaningful at the time. But looking back, I see the “wax on, wax off” moments. Like in The Karate Kid, they were preparing me. God used repetition to build muscle memory for service, discipline, and endurance.

Learning to Communicate, Learning to Connect

We explored more than just lighting gear. I introduced them to communicators like Vanessa Van Edwards, who teaches how body language and presence are keys to influence. Her tips on how people present themselves in profile pictures aren’t just for self-branding—they’re tools for photographers to help others feel confident and seen.

And that’s what I’m always trying to do as a teacher: help people feel seen, not just for what they can do but for who they are.

Teaching Isn’t a One-Way Street

Most people don’t realize that I didn’t just come to serve—I came to be served, too. This week, the students gave me something. Each time I teach, I grow. I learn to communicate more clearly, listen more deeply, and love more fully.

I spent this week praying for each of them and talking with close friends about how I could show up better and make each student feel heard. When you “make teachers of those you meet,” you give them permission to step into their calling. You provide them with room to bring their gifts to life.

And when I get to do that—when I get to teach and serve—I feel the Holy Spirit most alive. That’s when the joy rushes in.

The Gift of Teaching

Teaching isn’t just one of the things I do. It’s one of my greatest loves because it brings me closer to people. Because it brings me closer to God. And because I know I’m doing what I was made to do in those moments.

So if you’re a creative, a student, a photographer, or a friend—remember this: you have something to give. And maybe, just maybe, part of your journey will be teaching others to see what they couldn’t before.

Thanks for letting me be part of your story. You’ve become a part of mine.

Photo by: Dennis Fahringer

Over the years, I’ve understood that I need more time to process things than many. This isn’t a flaw or a lack of interest—it’s just how my brain works. As someone on the autism spectrum, my mind is often very active, constantly interpreting and reinterpreting the world around me. That internal processing doesn’t stop when the conversation does. It frequently keeps going long after the moment has passed.

This has made me realize how important space and time are—not just for reflection but also for functioning well in life and work.

I’ve learned to ask questions professionally, especially when working with clients on creative projects. I want to understand, not just because I need to understand. I need to hear the story behind a project, the intention, and the feeling. When I ask questions, my brain slows down and actually absorbs what’s being asked of me. It gives me the space to deliver something thoughtful and meaningful in return.

Spontaneity doesn’t come easily for me. Quick responses, small talk, and unexpected changes can all be complex. But I’ve also learned that sometimes I must step into those moments and let them happen. It doesn’t always feel comfortable, and my reactions might not always be smooth or polished. But I’ve realized that if I ask others to give me grace and patience as I process things, I must do the same for them.

I’ve been working on that mutual understanding—that give-and-take —and honestly, it’s helped me grow as a professional and human being.

Understanding this about myself has changed how I approach life. I don’t expect to be spontaneous or instantly responsive. Instead, I value thoughtful interaction, deep listening, and intentional communication. It’s not always easy, but it’s honest. And it works for me.

As someone on the autism spectrum, I’ve learned that communication for me doesn’t always follow the expected rhythm.

Sometimes people wonder why I don’t answer right away — why I pause, why I think. But that pause is where the real work is happening. I’m not zoning out; I’m zoning in.

For many of us with autism, conversation is a full-body, full-brain experience. We’re taking in tone, expression, word choice, and social context, and sometimes translating it into mental pictures just to make sense of it.

I’ve come to see that this slower pace isn’t a flaw. It’s a different way of relating — one that’s often deeper, more honest, and more intentional.

If you’ve ever felt misunderstood in how you communicate — or if you’ve struggled to understand someone else’s pace — know that you’re not alone. There’s beauty in the pause.

Plus: Shout-out to Julie for Rocking Her Presentation!

Yesterday, my friend Julie gave a fantastic presentation to a group of actors on the power and importance of headshots—and she nailed it. As someone who’s worked on both sides of the camera and taught photography and lighting, I wanted to follow up with some tips to reinforce and build on what she shared.

Whether new to acting or a seasoned pro, your headshot is your calling card. It’s what gets you in the room. But more than that, it needs to feel like you. So here are some practical insights from behind the lens:

1. Know Your Type—but Don’t Get Boxed In

Before your session, consider the roles you naturally get called in for. Are you the best friend? The cop? The quirky barista? A great headshot should lean into your casting, but still show range. We want to see “you” in different lighting—both literally and metaphorically.

2. Wardrobe: Keep It Simple and Purposeful

Solid colors tend to work best. Avoid busy patterns and logos—they distract. Bring a few options to your shoot, evoking a slightly different feel or character type. If in doubt, ask your photographer for guidance (we want to help with this!).

3. Be Yourself—Authenticity Reads

The best shots happen when you’re relaxed and present. Forget trying to “pose.” Instead, think of a person or memory that makes you laugh or feel grounded. A good photographer will draw that out of you—but being emotionally available helps take your headshots from decent to dynamic.

4. Lighting Should Match the Story

Lighting tells a story. Soft and natural? Bold and contrasty? These choices affect how you’re perceived. As a photographer, I shape the light to match the energy you’re bringing. Trust me: good lighting doesn’t just flatter—it communicates.

5. Eyes Tell the Whole Story

Your eyes need to be alive. The right headshot captures that subtle, electric sense of intention behind your gaze. This is where your acting chops come in. You’re not “smiling” for the camera—you’re thinking something, feeling something.

Every photographer has a different style and approach; ultimately, it’s a collaboration. You bring your essence, and we help capture it in a way that opens doors.

And again, huge shoutout to Julie for her presentation yesterday. I could tell the actors left inspired and better equipped to show up fully in front of the camera. I loved seeing that passion in action.

Do you have questions about headshots or want to book a session? Send me a message, and let’s make something great.

Caption: Stanley Leary teaches studio lighting in the School of Photography in Kona, Hawaii. [photo by: Dennis Fahringer]

If you had told me years ago that I would be a professional communicator, I probably would have laughed—or panicked. Communication has never come easily, especially in social or visual contexts.

I identify as someone with Autism—specifically Asperger’s Syndrome, even though the term is no longer officially used. That means I don’t naturally read body language, facial expressions, or social subtext like most people do. I wasn’t born with the ability to understand what others are feeling or thinking instantly. And yet, here I am—teaching, creating, and helping others learn how to see and tell stories with light.

The path that led me here wasn’t paved with natural charisma or perfect social intuition. It was driven by something much more straightforward but far more powerful: curiosity.

Curiosity made me pick up a camera. It prompted me to ask, “What happens if I move the light this way?” or “Why does this image feel flat, and how can I make it more dynamic?” Curiosity allowed me to stay in the process long enough to improve, even when things felt uncomfortable or confusing.

As a photographer and visual storyteller, curiosity is more important than talent. Talent can help you start, but curiosity keeps you going. It asks better questions. It opens your eyes to details others overlook. It enables you to connect with your subject, not because you instantly understand them, but because you’re interested in understanding them.

I now teach studio and lighting in a missions training context, and one of the first things I tell my students is this: your success as a photographer doesn’t depend on how inspiring your teacher is. It depends on how curious you’re willing to be. That’s the truth.

You can learn lighting diagrams and camera settings from anyone. But developing an eye for story, a sense for timing, a heart that notices—those things grow when you stay curious, even when the work gets hard or the subject seems quiet.

Curiosity creates a breakthrough, makes space for wonder, and invites us to keep asking, keep seeking, and keep showing up with our eyes open.

So, if you’re starting in photography or feel like you’re hitting a creative wall, don’t look for a new trick. Start with a better question. Start with wonder. Let curiosity lead the way.

That’s where the real learning—and the real light—lives.