In Lima, Peru, we practiced mock interviews to teach missionaries how to draw out authentic stories and work effectively with a translator. Great storytelling doesn’t happen by accident—it’s learned, refined, and practiced.

Early in my career, I had what I thought was my dream job. I was working for a Christian mission organization doing photography and storytelling—exactly what I believed I was called to do.

Then, giving to the organization declined.

Like many nonprofits during difficult seasons, they had to make cuts. My position disappeared.

One day, I was doing the work I loved. The next day, I was trying to figure out how to pay my bills.

Dream job gone.

That moment taught me something I wish more people pursuing photography, video, and storytelling understood:

Having to take another job doesn’t mean your dream is over.

It may simply mean you’re entering the part of the journey where persistence matters most.

Your Dream Isn’t Dead Because You Took Another Job

Some creatives believe that taking a job outside their field means they’ve somehow failed.

That mindset can trap people.

The truth is simple: adults must provide for themselves.

Rent doesn’t wait for your portfolio to improve. Groceries don’t go on hold while you build your brand. Insurance, gas, and utilities all expect to be paid on time.

Taking a job that pays the bills isn’t quitting your dream.

It’s creating the stability that allows you to keep pursuing it.

Many Jobs That Pay the Bills Aren’t Ideal

Here’s another truth people don’t talk about enough.

Some of the jobs that help you survive financially will not be places you love working.

You may deal with poor management. You may work in environments that don’t inspire you creatively. Some days you may simply be watching the clock.

But those jobs still serve a purpose.

They give you financial oxygen.

One of the most important lessons I learned is this:

Always keep a job while looking for a better one.

When you’re employed, you have options. When you’re unemployed, desperation can lead to poor decisions.

Stability gives you the ability to move forward wisely.

My Detour Back to Stability

After losing that mission job, I needed income.

I worked for Tandy, the parent company of what many people knew as Radio Shack, selling computer systems to businesses for about a year. It wasn’t photography. It wasn’t storytelling. But it paid the bills.

During that season, I made another decision that helped shape my future: I enrolled in seminary to pursue a master’s degree in communications.

For the next three years, I worked full-time while going to school.

First, I sold meat door-to-door out of the back of a truck.

Then I worked at Glamour Shots.

After that, I became an assistant manager at a one-hour photo lab in a drugstore chain. Later, I moved to another one-hour photo lab, where I served as manager.

Those jobs were 40 to 50 hours a week while I was also taking classes.

Were those dream jobs?

No.

But they kept the lights on. They kept food on the table. And they kept me moving forward.

Milestones Help You Keep Going

One thing that saved my sanity during that season was having milestones.

School gave me measurable progress. Every semester meant I was one step closer to where I ultimately wanted to be.

Without those milestones, it would have been easy to feel stuck.

When you’re pursuing a dream that takes time, it helps to create markers that remind you you’re moving forward.

Many Creative Careers Start as Two Jobs

For a season, many photographers, filmmakers, and storytellers live a double life.

A full-time job that pays the bills.

And evenings or weekends spent building their creative work.

That season can feel exhausting.

But it’s also where portfolios are built, skills are refined, and relationships begin to form.

Too many people underestimate how much consistent work over time it takes to build a sustainable creative career.

Passion Alone Isn’t Enough

We often hear the phrase “follow your passion.”

What we hear less often is the other side of that truth.

Passion must be paired with persistence.

The people who eventually succeed in creative fields are rarely the ones who had the easiest path.

They’re the ones who kept going when the dream temporarily disappeared.

They kept learning. Kept practicing. Kept taking the next small step forward.

Wanting It Isn’t the Same as Earning It

Here’s the part that can be hard to hear.

Just because you want to become a photographer, filmmaker, or storyteller doesn’t mean it will automatically happen.

Creative careers are earned.

They’re earned through years of effort, learning, mistakes, relationships, and perseverance.

That process often takes far longer than anyone expects.

But if the calling is real, the work is worth it.

Don’t Quit — Just Be Honest About the Journey

If storytelling is something you truly feel drawn to do, don’t abandon the dream simply because it isn’t paying the bills right now.

Instead, be honest about the path.

Find work that gives you stability.

Take care of your responsibilities.

Then keep building your craft during the time you do have available.

Many people who eventually make a living with a camera didn’t start there.

They started by doing whatever work was necessary to keep moving forward.

Your current job may not be your dream.

But it might be the very thing that makes your dream possible later.

A woman draws water from a well in Dakoro, Burkina Faso, West Africa, to supply her household’s daily needs.

When I was growing up, my parents made sure my sisters and I had chores. Not occasional chores—regular chores.

Some were daily. After dinner, we swept the kitchen and mopped the floor. We cleared the table. Someone fed the dog. Someone took out the trash. Beds had to be made before leaving for school.

Then there were the weekly chores: cleaning the bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, mowing the grass, and whatever else needed attention around the house.

And there was always one question that determined whether we could go see our friends:

“Have you done your chores up to now?”

If the answer was no, the conversation was over.

Chores Were Necessary…But Not Fun

Let’s be honest. I don’t remember any of those chores being fun.

They were simply part of life. They were necessary for keeping the house running well and making it a healthy place to live.

But looking back now, I realize something important.

Those chores were teaching me lessons I use every single day in my work as a photographer, videographer, storyteller, and business consultant.

The Power of Seeing Something Finished

One of the first things chores teach you is the satisfaction of completing something.

When you mow the grass, you see the difference immediately.

When you vacuum, the lines in the carpet show the work you’ve done.

When you make your bed, the room feels different.

There’s a clear before and after.

That sense of “I accomplished something” is powerful.

As a creative professional, the same principle applies. Whether it’s editing a photo story, organizing files, or delivering a final project, each completed step builds momentum.

Chores Also Teach Creativity

Something else happens when you do chores regularly.

You start figuring out how to do them better and faster.

My mother had a simple quality control system. After you cleaned the bathroom, she inspected it. If it wasn’t done right, you did it again.

It didn’t take long to realize that doing it twice took a lot more time than doing it right the first time.

So I started learning how to work smarter.

How to clean more efficiently.
How to organize the steps.
How to finish faster while still doing it well.

Without realizing it, I was learning workflow.

The Same Lesson Applies to Entrepreneurship

Today, every project I work on follows a workflow.

There are steps that must be done well:

Planning
Capturing the story
Editing
Writing captions
Keywording
Delivering the final files

None of these steps is optional if you want to produce excellent work.

Just as chores in a household keep the household healthy, so too do chores in a business.

And just like my mother inspecting the bathroom, the work eventually gets inspected by the client.

The lesson I learned early was simple:

Do it right the first time.

The “Chores” of Running a Creative Business

Every entrepreneur has parts of the job they love and parts they don’t.

Most photographers love shooting.
Most storytellers love capturing meaningful moments.

But running a successful business includes plenty of tasks that feel like chores:

Accounting
Backing up files
Sending invoices
Writing captions and metadata
Marketing
Answering emails
Following up with clients
Organizing your archive

These things may not be glamorous, but they are essential.

They are the sweeping, mopping, and trash-taking-out of running a business.

What I Tell Myself When Doing the Work I Don’t Love

Over the years, I’ve developed a few simple reminders that help me stay focused when doing the less exciting parts of the job.

1. This step supports the whole story.
Just like a clean kitchen supports a healthy home, the small business tasks support great storytelling.

2. Do it right the first time.
Fixing mistakes later always takes longer.

3. Efficiency creates freedom.
The faster I complete necessary tasks, the more time I have for creative work.

4. Consistency builds trust.
Clients notice reliability just as much as creativity.

5. Speed can set you apart.
A fast turnaround can wow a client just as much as great images.

The Motivation Changes as You Get Older

When I was young, the reward for finishing chores was simple:

I could go play with my friends.

Today, the motivation is different.

Doing the work well means:

A sustainable business
A livable income
Saving for retirement
Being able to take vacations
Having the freedom to choose meaningful projects

The stakes are higher, but the principle is the same.

The Real Lesson My Parents Taught Me

My parents probably weren’t trying to teach me about entrepreneurship.

They were simply teaching responsibility.

But those simple household chores taught something much deeper:

Discipline.
Attention to detail.
Efficiency.
Finishing what you start.

And it turns out those same lessons are exactly what it takes to build a thriving creative business.

So whenever I find myself doing one of the “chores” of running my business, I remind myself of something I learned a long time ago:

Finish the job. Do it right. Then enjoy the freedom that comes afterward.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.