Reading Time: 3 minutes

There’s a moment many photographers, videographers, and storytellers eventually experience—but almost no one talks about it publicly.

A major client goes quiet.
Another one disappears entirely.
Calls aren’t returned. Emails go unanswered.
Work you assumed would continue… just stops.

I’ve had this happen to me more than once in my career. And I’ve been doing this a long time.

When it happens the first time, it feels personal. When it happens again, it can feel crushing—especially if you’re supporting a family, dipping into savings, or watching your spouse step in to help carry the load.

This post isn’t about quick fixes or spiritual clichés. It’s about what actually helps in seasons like this.

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First: This Is Not a Failure of Faith or Talent

Let’s say this clearly.

When a client disappears, it does not mean:

• You’ve lost your edge
• God is displeased
• You missed your calling
• Your work suddenly became irrelevant

Creative work—especially storytelling work—lives at the intersection of budgets, leadership changes, economic shifts, and internal politics you will never see.

Silence from a client is often about them, not you.

I’ve learned this the hard way.

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Stabilize Before You Spiritualize

Faith and stewardship are not opposites.

Before asking “What is God teaching me?” it’s wise to ask:

• What do we actually need to survive the next 3–6 months?
• What expenses can be paused, reduced, or renegotiated?
• What brings in any income right now?

Temporary or adjacent work is not giving up—it’s buying time.

Scripture is full of faithful people doing practical work while waiting. Paul made tents. That wasn’t a detour from his calling—it was a provision.

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Stop Chasing Silence

One of the most emotionally draining mistakes creatives make is endlessly chasing a client who has gone quiet.

Silence is an answer.

Write a clean, professional closure email (not emotional, not accusatory):

“Just closing the loop. If things change in the future, I’d be glad to reconnect. Wishing you well.”

Then stop. Not in anger. Not in bitterness. Just in wisdom. Then mentally and practically release them. This frees energy.

Energy spent chasing ghosts is energy stolen from rebuilding.

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Diversify So This Doesn’t Break You Again

Diversify now, not when things feel safe

This season revealed a structural weakness: revenue concentration.

Tangible actions:

• Create 3–5 small, clearly defined offers that solve specific problems (not “I do video”).
  • Example:
    • One-day brand story shoot
    • Monthly content package for small orgs
    • Testimony/interview storytelling for churches & nonprofits
    • Editing-only services for agencies
• Price them so they are easy to say yes to, even if margins are thinner in the short term.
• Aim for 10 smaller clients instead of 2 big ones.

Stability often comes from boring consistency, not big wins.

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Lean on Relationships, Not Algorithms

Cold marketing drains energy when someone is already discouraged.

This week you should:

• Personally contact 10 people you already know (past clients, pastors, comms directors, agency producers).
• The message is simple: “I’m taking on new work right now and would love to help if there’s a need. If you know someone who could use storytelling or video help, I’d appreciate a connection.”

No apologizing. No oversharing. Just clarity.

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Teach, Consult, or Coach While You Rebuild

Many storytellers forget this:

Your value is not limited to the camera in your hands.

If you’ve spent years learning how stories work, you can:

• Consult on story clarity
• Help organizations refine messaging
• Teach workshops
• Coach younger creatives

In difficult seasons, wisdom often becomes income before creativity does.

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Guard Your Identity Carefully

This may be the most important work of all.

When income drops, it’s easy to confuse provision with worth.
To confuse silence with abandonment.
To confuse waiting with failure.

Waiting is not inactivity.
It is preparation with humility.

If you’re in this season:

• Keep a daily rhythm
• Stay connected to people
• Let others carry you when you’re tired

This chapter is not the end of your story.

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A Final Word From Experience

Every time I’ve walked through a season like this, something painful but necessary happened:

Illusions were stripped away.
Clarity increased.
My work became more grounded.
My faith became quieter—but stronger.

I wouldn’t choose these seasons.
But I no longer fear them.

If you’re walking through one now, you are not alone—and you are not behind.

Sometimes the phone stops ringing…
not to end the story,
but to reshape it.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Back in 2008, when Greg Thompson—then Director of Corporate Communications at Chick-fil-A—asked me to come on as a visual communications consultant, he didn’t just want pretty pictures. He wanted results. And the question he kept asking me until it finally clicked was this:

“How is this proposal going to help operators and Chick-fil-A sell more chicken?”

That’s a tough question for a storyteller whose background was solidly in journalism, where the audience was familiar, and the objective was simply to inform or enlighten. But in corporate and strategic communications, you have to know two things before you ever begin crafting a story:

1. Who is the audience?
2. Why should they care?

Without those answers, you’re just creating content for content’s sake.

AJ Harper’s “Reader First” Philosophy

Author and editor AJ Harper teaches a powerful idea in her book Write a Must-Read: Craft a Book That Changes Lives—Including Your Own:

“A book is not about something–a book is for someone.”

That insight is simple, but it’s gold when you apply it beyond books—especially in business communications. AJ’s point is that even if you have a wealth of knowledge or ideas (and most storytellers do), writing for yourself or about your topic isn’t what makes a book transformative. It’s writing for the person whose life you want to change.

Another quote from the book that really applies to corporate storytelling is this:

“You are not the hero of this book. They are. You are not the focus of this book. They are. And they need you to help them get where they want to go.”

Replace “book” with “presentation” or “campaign,” and this becomes a strategic lens for every story you tell for leadership and clients.

Why C-Suite Executives Ask Tough Questions

When a Chick-fil-A operator, or a CEO, asks, “Why should I stop and look at this?”, what they’re really asking is:

• How does this move the business forward?
• What problem does it solve?
• What result does it deliver?

They’re not interested in your genius unless it’s directly tied to something measurable, like revenue, engagement, operational efficiency, reputation, or competitive advantage.

That’s why shifting from what you want to say to what they care about is so valuable.

Applying the “Reader First” Mindset to Strategy Conversations

Here’s how to operationalize AJ Harper’s ideas with executives:

1. Define the audience upfront.
Just like AJ says, you should know your ideal reader before you write a book; you must know the decision-maker and their priorities before you tell a strategic story.

Instead of broad demographics, think about psychographics—their goals, fears, and what success looks like to them. Harper emphasizes this in her work: your reader’s problem, desire, and challenges are what unify them, not superficial traits.

2. Find the strategic hook.
Greg’s question, “How does this help sell more chicken?” was essentially asking for a strategic hook—a clear, measurable reason someone should pay attention. Harper would call this aligning your promise with your reader’s expectations.

3. Ask the right shaping questions.
One of the best habits I picked up was asking teams, “When we’re done, what does success look like to you?” That simple question forces people to define goals before they start shaping content around them.

4. Tell the story that delivers on that promise.
AJ puts a huge emphasis on delivering on your promise—if your book promises transformation and then fails to deliver, readers don’t trust you. The same is true of business stories. If your communications promise clarity, insight, or decision support, your story must follow through, or you lose credibility.

Storytelling That Meets Strategic Needs

Journalists are trained to think about the audience, but in many editorial environments, the audience rarely changes. In higher ed communications, the shift from recruiting to alumni to investors was a step in the right direction. But corporate communications requires an even sharper focus on what a specific stakeholder needs right now.

When you do that, you flip the question from:

“What do I want to say?”

to:

“What do they need to hear?”

And that’s where storytelling becomes a strategic asset instead of just creative output.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 4 minutes

Stop Trying to Get Better Photos and Start Communicating Better Stories

The beginning of a new year is when photographers tend to do two things:

We look at our work from last year with a mix of pride and frustration.
We start wondering what will finally improve our photography this year.

For many, the default answer is familiar—new gear, new presets, new techniques, new inspiration.

But if I had to recommend one New Year’s resolution that will actually move the needle for photographers at any stage, it would be this:

Stop trying to get better photos and start communicating better stories.

That may sound subtle, but it’s a fundamental shift—and it changes everything.

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Better Photos Aren’t the Same as Better Communication

Most photographers I meet aren’t struggling with technical competence.
They know how to expose correctly. They understand lenses. They can produce sharp, well-lit images.

Yet the work still feels flat.

That’s because a technically strong photo can still fail to communicate anything meaningful.

As photographer David duChemin puts it:

“A photograph is not made in the camera but on either side of it.”

What happens before and after you press the shutter matters far more than the moment itself.

Better photos don’t come from more megapixels or sharper lenses.
They come from clarity—about what you’re trying to say and who you’re trying to reach.

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The Shift Most Photographers Avoid

Photography culture trains us to chase improvement through acquisition:

• New camera bodies
• Faster lenses
• The latest accessory everyone is talking about

There’s nothing wrong with tools. I enjoy good tools.
But tools don’t create meaning—intent does.

Henri Cartier-Bresson said it this way:

“Photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event.”

Notice he didn’t say sharpness, resolution, or dynamic range.
He said something significant.

That’s the part most photographers skip over.

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Story Is What Gives a Photo Staying Power

A strong story doesn’t just make a photo more interesting—it makes it memorable.

Think about the images that have stayed with you over the years.
They aren’t necessarily the most technically perfect ones.
They’re the images that made you feel something, understand something, or see something differently.

Photojournalist W. Eugene Smith once said:

“I try to let the picture say what it feels like to be there.”

That’s storytelling.
And storytelling begins long before the camera is turned on.

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What Communicating Better Stories Actually Looks Like

If this is your New Year’s resolution, it doesn’t mean shooting less seriously.
It means shooting more deliberately.

Here are a few practical shifts that make a real difference:

1. Start Asking Better Questions

Before a shoot—or even before raising your camera—ask:

• What is this really about?
• Who is this for?
• What do I want someone to feel or understand?

Those questions shape your decisions far more than camera settings ever will.

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2. Stop Photographing Moments and Start Photographing Meaning

Moments happen constantly. Meaning takes effort to recognize.

Jay Maisel summed it up perfectly:

“You shoot with your eyes and your heart, not with your camera.”

That means paying attention to relationships, tension, emotion, and context—not just what looks interesting on the surface.

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3. Edit Like a Storyteller, Not a Collector

One of the biggest breakthroughs for photographers comes during editing.

Storytelling isn’t about how many good images you made—it’s about which images you choose to show and how they work together.

As Ansel Adams famously said:

“Twelve significant photographs in any one year is a good crop.”

Most photographers don’t need to shoot more.
They need to choose better.

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Why This Resolution Matters Now

At the beginning of the year, it’s easy to promise big changes:

• More shooting
• More posting
• More productivity

But improvement doesn’t come from doing more.
It comes from doing what you already do with greater purpose.

When you focus on communicating better stories:

• Your images become more intentional
• Your work becomes more consistent
• Your photography starts to serve something beyond itself

And whether you’re a hobbyist, a working professional, or somewhere in between, that’s where real growth happens.

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Make This a Foundational Resolution

If you only make one photography resolution this year, let it be this one.

Not:

• Better gear
• More followers
• More likes

But clearer stories.
Stronger communication.
Greater intention.

Everything else builds on that.

And from here, this idea can easily expand into a short January series:

• How to find the story before you shoot
• Why editing is where storytelling really happens
• Learning to see people, not just pictures

But it all starts with this simple shift.

Stop trying to get better photos.
Start communicating better stories.

That’s a resolution worth keeping.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 3 minutes

When I was playing trumpet in school, there was no confusion about where I stood.

We challenged for chairs. First chair, second chair, third chair. Everyone knew their place because we had to prove it. You didn’t get a chair by confidence or by opinion—you earned it by playing better than the person next to you.

And more importantly, you listened.

You listened to the conductor. You listened to the ensemble. You listened to your teacher. If you didn’t, the music fell apart—and everyone knew it.

In college, I became a better trumpet player and found myself surrounded by even better musicians. That environment was humbling, but it was also clarifying. I remember learning Haydn’s Trumpet Concerto. I worked hard, learned the notes, played them cleanly, and brought them to my teacher.

When I finished, he said something I’ve never forgotten:

“Now you’re ready to learn how to play it.”

That moment taught me a lesson that has shaped my entire career, both in music and in photography.

Technical competence is only the beginning.

In music, technical mastery is the price of admission—not the goal.

You don’t get praised for hitting the notes. You get invited into expression, phrasing, tone, and interpretation after you’ve proven you can handle the basics. No one confuses competence with mastery.

Photography, however, often does.

Modern cameras have removed many technical barriers. Autofocus is incredible. Exposure is forgiving. The tools are accessible—and that’s a gift. But it’s also created a dangerous illusion: that making something look “good” means you’ve arrived.

In music, you’d never assume that.

Photography lacks the structure that forms humility

One of the most significant differences between music and photography is structure.

Music has:

• Auditions
• Chairs
• Conductors
• Ensembles
• Clear standards
• Immediate consequences

Photography often has:

• Likes
• Followers
• Algorithms
• Self-appointed mentors

There’s no equivalent of chair challenges in photography. No conductor to submit to. No ensemble that collapses when one person is out of time or out of tune. Because of that, many photographers never learn to listen—only to assert.

And when you don’t have to listen, you don’t have to grow.

The problem isn’t confidence—it’s formation

This isn’t about ego. It’s about formation.

In music, you are formed by critique. You are shaped by people who are better than you. You are constantly reminded that someone else hears things you haven’t yet heard.

In photography, many skip that stage entirely.

They may call themselves teachers, mentors, or coaches, but they’ve never been intensely mentored themselves. They’ve never submitted their work to rigorous critique. They’ve never stood in a room where they were clearly not the best—and had to learn anyway.

In music, you can’t avoid that.
In photography, you can.

What my photography mentors gave me

The photographers who shaped me most were the ones who functioned like conductors.

They didn’t just teach me how to use a camera. They taught me:

• How to see
• How to wait
• How to listen to a story before telling it
• How to accept correction without defensiveness

They didn’t flatter me. They challenged me. They told me when something wasn’t working—and why. And they helped me understand that doing something correctly is very different from doing it well.

That mindset came directly from music.

Why so many photographers stall

Many photographers plateau not because they lack talent, but because they’ve never learned to submit to the craft.

They want expression without discipline.
Recognition without critique.
Authority without accountability.

In music, those shortcuts don’t exist.

You don’t get to solo just because you feel called to it.
You don’t lead just because you want to.
You don’t stop learning because you finally hit all the notes.

The lesson music taught me—and photography confirmed

If you’re not listening, you’re not improving.

That applies to musicians.
It applies to photographers.
It applies to storytellers.
It applies to leaders.

The photographers who grow the most are the ones who eventually embrace what musicians learn early: that mastery requires humility, structure, and people who hear what you cannot yet hear.

The rest may make noise.
But they’ll never really make music.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Andy McCree Hern took my mother’s Benfield Family photo around 1980.

Growing up as the son of a pastor and a mother who supported his work, I was surrounded by people who genuinely cared about others. My parents weren’t just interested in names or titles—they were interested in gifts, talents, and the unique ways people could serve God. They asked questions, noticed details, and encouraged those around them to step into their calling. From a young age, I saw the power of paying attention to people beyond the surface.

At the same time, my experience as someone with autism shaped how I interacted with the world. I identify strongly with the Asperger’s description—often more comfortable observing than immediately joining in, drawn to patterns, and deeply focused on understanding details that others might overlook. While this could make social interactions challenging, it also gave me a unique lens through which to see people.

That lens became even more refined through my work as a photojournalist. My job was to capture a person’s story through images—to see the life behind the face. This required more than technical skill; it required listening, paying attention, and asking questions in ways that allowed someone to open up. Over time, I learned that when people feel truly heard, when their story is sought and valued, something remarkable happens—they feel seen.

Today, I notice that even in small conversations, I carry this same curiosity. I want to know people’s stories, not just their jobs, hometowns, or favorite sports teams. I’ve noticed that few people seem genuinely interested in these deeper layers, but when I take the time to ask and listen, the conversation transforms. People respond differently—they open up, relax, and share parts of themselves that rarely come out in casual chatter.

This approach doesn’t just apply to photography or formal interviews. It’s how I try to live my life: with curiosity, patience, and a genuine interest in others. I’ve found that this practice, shaped by my upbringing, my autism, and my photojournalism work, creates connection in a way that surface-level conversation rarely can. It’s not about extracting information; it’s about honoring the person in front of me and the story they carry.

In a world that often rushes through interactions, I’ve learned the value of slowing down, listening, and letting people be seen. And the more I do this, the more I realize that connection—the kind that leaves a mark—comes not from talking, but from listening.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Our family photo from Easter 1999 at my parents’ home in Kinston, North Carolina.

Many of us who love photography have a favorite niche that sparks our creativity. Some chase sunsets and misty mornings. Others lose themselves in macro details or the thrill of sports action. We pick up a camera because something in the world catches our imagination… yet, ironically, the people closest to us are the ones we often photograph the least.

I get it. Photographing family can feel complicated—busy schedules, wiggly kids, relatives who “don’t like how they look in photos.” It’s easy to default to landscapes, birds, waterfalls, or anything else that doesn’t talk back.

But here’s the truth: family photos matter in a way no other genre can touch.
They anchor us. They tell our story. They become the visual legacy that outlives us all.

A Legacy You Can Hold

When I photograph my family, I’m not just making pictures—I’m building a family archive. Long after the moment fades, those photos help us remember what truly matters. They remind us of relationships, milestones, seasons of life, and even the tiny quirks we forget over time.

Every family has a story, and the photos we make become the chapters future generations will hold onto. They won’t care how “perfect” the shot was. They’ll care that it exists.

The Value of a Few Formal Group Photos

I always encourage families—mine included—to pause for a few organized group photos. They don’t have to be stiff or overly posed. They need to get everyone together in the same frame.

Why? Because life changes quickly.

One day, these photos will become the way we remember:

• Four generations in one place
• A holiday gathering that didn’t happen for years
• A season when all the cousins were small
• Loved ones who shaped our lives

These aren’t just “nice to have” images. They become reference points for your family’s story. They show who was there, how people connected, and how your family evolved through the years.

Simple Portraits Go a Long Way

Beyond group shots, take a few individual portraits. Not studio-perfect—just honest. These portraits capture personality, style, and spirit at any age or stage.

Families use these more than you might expect:

• Printed and framed in homes
• Added to scrapbooks
• Shared with relatives who live far away
• Held close when someone travels, moves, or passes on

Portraits tell each person, “You matter. I see you.”

Don’t Forget the Candid Moments

If group photos and portraits are the structure of a story, candids are the heart.

Candid photos preserve:

• Laughter around the kitchen table
• Kids playing together
• Quiet conversations on the couch
• The small, unscripted moments that reveal who people really are

These images are the ones that get passed around the most. They show relationships, emotion, and connection in a way posed photos never can.

Why This Matters Deeply to Me

As someone on the autism spectrum, I sometimes find it challenging to express how much my family means to me in words. Photography becomes the way I communicate those feelings.

When I photograph my relatives, I’m telling them:

“You’re important to me. I love you. You’re part of my life and my story.”

Family photos give me a way to show affection and connection, even when I might not say it out loud. And years from now, when people look back at these pictures, I hope they’ll feel the same love I was trying to express through the lens.

Pick Up Your Camera for the People You Love

So the next time you’re tempted to grab your gear only for landscapes, macros, or sports, take a moment and turn that camera toward your family too. It doesn’t have to be fancy. It just needs to be intentional.

The photos you make today will become the treasures your family returns to tomorrow.

And in the end, that might be the most meaningful work we ever create.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 3 minutes

If you’re a freelancer right now, you already know the landscape has shifted. Companies are pulling back, budgets are tightening, and many of us are staring at calendars that look far emptier than we’re used to. It’s easy to wonder if the effort we’re pouring in—updating portfolios, reaching out to clients, practicing new skills—makes any difference at all.

I’ve found myself in that space more than once. But in moments like these, my faith keeps calling me back to a simple truth:

I may not control the results, but I can control my faithfulness.

Doing the Work Even When It Feels Small

There’s a story in Scripture that has shaped the way I navigate seasons of uncertainty—the moment when a young boy handed Jesus five loaves and two fish (John 6). It was nothing compared to the size of the need. Yet it was everything he had to give.

Sometimes freelancing feels the same way.

We bring the little we have—our time, our skill, our effort—and it just doesn’t look like enough.

But the boy didn’t multiply the bread.

The disciples didn’t multiply the bread.

Jesus did.

Our responsibility is to offer what’s in our hands.

Faithfulness as an Act of Worship

When work slows down, the temptation is to freeze—do nothing until someone calls, until a contract lands, until things feel “worth it” again.

But I’ve learned (the hard way) that this waiting posture often shrinks our creativity and steals our hope.

Instead, I’ve chosen to treat my effort as an act of worship:

• Updating galleries anyway
• Writing proposals anyway
• Reaching out anyway
• Studying anyway
• Improving techniques anyway
• Showing up to work even when the work isn’t showing up for me

Not because it guarantees new assignments, but because it keeps my heart tethered to the One who multiplies what I offer.

Offering What Little I Have

There are days when the “work” feels like five loaves and two fish—far too small to matter. Yet over and over again, God reminds me:

Please bring what you have, and trust Me with what you don’t.

So I pray over the work of my hands.
I pray that God will take my small acts of effort—my little bit of creativity, my few hours of outreach, my imperfect steps toward improvement—and breathe life into them.

Not magically.
Not instantly.
But faithfully.

Blessing Beyond My Effort

I believe God honors the heart that keeps showing up, especially when showing up is hard. He blesses the effort, not just the outcome. He sees the grind no one applauds. He holds the fear we don’t say out loud. And He multiplies what we release to Him in trust.

For freelancers, this is the rhythm:

Do the work.
Offer the work.
Release the results.
Trust the One who multiplies.

It’s not passive.
It’s not irresponsible.
It’s worship.

A Final Word for Today

If you’re doing all you know to do and the results are slow in coming, you’re not failing—you’re being faithful. And in God’s economy, faithfulness is never wasted.

Your loaves and fish may look small, but they are more than enough in the hands of the One who multiplies.

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories

Reading Time: 2 minutes

As we gather for Thanksgiving this year, my family and I are carrying both gratitude and grief. On Monday, we held a celebration service for my mother, who went home to be with the Lord on September 7. It was a beautiful time of remembering, storytelling, and acknowledging what she poured into all of us. In today’s newsletter, I’m sharing a group photo of our family—four generations shoulder to shoulder, holding one another through this season.

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This week has reminded me of something Katherine Wolfe shared during a recent event I photographed and wrote about: that God often hides treasure in the dark places. Not treasure that denies pain or loss, but treasure that emerges because we walk through them. Katherine talked about how hope isn’t the absence of suffering—it’s the courage to look for God’s presence within it. That truth has anchored me these past few days.

Navigating Change When You’re Wired Differently

Many of you know that I’m on the autism spectrum. One of the hallmark traits of autism is difficulty with transitions—especially when they’re sudden, emotional, or open-ended. Changes in routine, environment, or expectations can feel overwhelming because our brains often rely on structure and predictability to stay grounded.

So this season—sorting through my parents’ home, making decisions with siblings and nieces and nephews, facing the reality that life will not look the same going forward—has been particularly heavy. For someone who thrives on clarity and consistency, it’s a lot to process. And sometimes, the hard truth is this: even when you need more time, the moment doesn’t always give it to you. Some things have to be handled now.

When the Story Is My Own

Much of my life is spent helping others tell their stories. I listen. I frame. I guide. I translate real experiences into images and words that help communities understand and connect.

But when the story is my story?
That’s a very different journey.

Naming the grief, embracing the change, admitting the discomfort—those things don’t come naturally. Yet they are part of the same honest storytelling I practice with others. And here’s the good news: being open to learning from my own story gives me greater compassion, insight, and patience when I help clients tell theirs. Every struggle I sort through quietly becomes a tool I can use to serve others.

Treasure in the Darkness

So today, as I look at this family photo, I see more than just a moment. I see:

• The hope Katherine Wolfe talked about—a hope that exists even in shadows.
• The faithfulness of a God who walks us through change, not around it.
• The reminder that love binds a family even as roles and routines shift.
• The quiet truth is that grief and gratitude can occupy the same room.

My prayer is that as you look at the stories in your own life—especially the hard chapters—you’ll find glimpses of God’s treasure too.

Thank you for being part of my journey and for letting me be part of yours.

Wishing you a meaningful and hope-filled Thanksgiving.

—Stanley

Tagged : Business of Photography / Personal Stories