When I first started out in photography, I lived for portrait contests. Every new set of images felt magical—maybe this one would win, maybe this would be my big moment. I submitted constantly, and in the very beginning, I even won a few contests. Those early wins felt like little jolts of validation: Yes! I belong here. I’m good enough.
But then… the wins stopped.
The contests I once eagerly submitted to became echo chambers of self-doubt. Entry after entry came back with nothing. And that’s when the whispers started:
Maybe you’re not that good.
Maybe you’ll never “make it.”
Maybe those first wins were just luck.
Those feelings lingered for years. I still loved photography, but I had tied my worth to someone else’s scorecard. The joy I once felt behind the camera was clouded by insecurity.
Eventually, after sitting in that heaviness far too long, I stopped entering contests altogether.
And that’s when the most beautiful thing happened.
I discovered my true why.
My worth was never about certificates, titles, or judges in another city looking at my images on a screen. It was in the lives I touched, the trust I built, and the bonds I created with my clients. My calendar was full of families who loved and trusted me—families who returned year after year, even when I raised my prices or packed up and moved to another state.
I thought of the holiday cards with my portraits front and center. The messages that said, “We hung your picture over the fireplace,” or “My parents cried when they opened your photo on Christmas morning.”
And then came the year that changed me forever.
I had photographed a beautiful family—a mom, dad, and their two children. They were full of love and laughter that day, the kind of session where joy was contagious. Months later, I got the heartbreaking news: one of their children had passed away.
Those portraits I had taken were their last family photos together.
In that moment, contests felt impossibly small. I understood, deep in my soul, that this was why my work mattered. These images weren’t just pictures—they were proof of a life loved, memories frozen in time, treasures that would grow more valuable with each passing year.
That moment redefined success for me. Success wasn’t shiny awards or judges’ scores. Success was knowing my work would hang on walls, live in albums, and be passed down through generations. Success was giving families a piece of their story they could hold forever.
When I first joined the NAPCP community, I was encouraged to put my work out there. Entering competitions was celebrated, and for me, it was also part of earning my Master’s Certificate. Years later, I’m proud to share that my work has been recognized in the NAPCP International Photography Competition—1st and 2nd place in the Fine Art category in 2024, and 2nd and 3rd place this year. I am honored by those awards.
But beyond the awards, what has meant even more is the community. Being part of NAPCP has given me a circle of photographers who feel more like family than colleagues. It’s a space that feels safe, supportive, and inspiring. Submitting my work now feels less like standing on a stage waiting for applause and more like sharing my heart with friends who truly understand.
At the end of the day, my greatest achievement isn’t a medal or certificate—it’s the legacy I create for my clients.
Because fifty years from now, one of my high school seniors will pull out their portrait and show it to a grandchild. A family will flip through an album and remember the way they laughed together. A mother will run her hand along a frame and feel her child close again.
Being a photographer is a gift. We are invited into people’s most important chapters—their milestones, their love stories, their beginnings and goodbyes. We are the keepers of memory. And that is bigger than any contest could ever be.
So here’s my reminder to myself—and to any photographer who might need to hear this:
Your worth is not measured by someone else’s applause but by the love and lives you touch.
Awards will fade, but the stories I preserve will last long after I’m gone. And that is my why. That is the greatest prize I will ever win. Here’s to the work that lasts. Here’s to the images that become legacies. And here’s to never forgetting our why!
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