My Photography Journey
When I first became serious about photography, I thought I was learning how to take better photographs. I studied cameras, lenses, lighting, composition, posing and post-production. I practised whenever I could, often with aspiring models and friends who were also trying to build their portfolios or just to experience photoshoot.
What I didn't realise was that photography would eventually teach me far more about people than cameras.
Since I began taking photography seriously in 2012, I've met people from different countries, professions, cultures, income levels, personalities and stages of life. Some inspired me, some encouraged me and some trusted me with very personal stories. Some surprised me with kindness when I needed it most, while others disappointed me despite how much I had tried to help them.
I've also made plenty of mistakes myself. I've been too direct, too trusting, too generous and sometimes too soft when I should have stood more firmly behind my professional judgment. I've learned that having good intentions doesn't automatically mean I'm handling something in the best way.
Photography didn't simply teach me how to create better photographs. It has slowly changed the way I understand people, business and myself.
Although I had opportunities to take photographs before 2012, that was the year I began my serious journey into photography. I certainly didn't begin as someone who understood everything about a camera. In fact, when I look back at some of the things I did, it's quite funny.
There was a time when aperture, shutter speed and ISO were things I didn't properly understand. I experimented with manual focus without having the experience to use it reliably. I didn't understand light the way I do today, and I sometimes used focal lengths or settings that weren't ideal for what I was trying to achieve. There were photographs I underexposed badly and photographs I thought were fantastic simply because I didn't yet know enough to see their problems.
But that was how I learned.
My motivation to become serious about portrait photography also began from a surprisingly simple conversation. A female colleague at ITE once mentioned that she was growing old. I actually thought she was very attractive, so hearing her talk about herself that way made an impression on me.
It gave me an idea of what I wanted portrait photography to do. I thought that if I could become good at photographing people, perhaps I could help them preserve a good memory of how they looked at different stages of their lives. More importantly, perhaps a good photograph could help someone see something attractive in themselves that they didn't always see when looking in the mirror.
That became one of my early motivations for learning portrait photography: I wanted to help people preserve memories of themselves and feel more confident about who they were.
Of course, I was also rather naive about what professional portrait photography actually involved.
As I practised, I photographed ordinary people who weren't professional models and often weren't wearing makeup. Later, when I began working with professional hair and makeup artists, the difference could be enormous. I started to understand that some of the polished photographs I admired weren't created by the photographer alone.
Professional portrait photography can be a team effort. A photographer can control lighting, composition, camera settings, angles and many other things, but photography skills and expensive equipment cannot magically do everything. Hair, makeup, wardrobe, styling, location and, of course, the person in front of the camera can all contribute to the final result.
It sounds obvious to me now, but I had to learn it through experience.
I wasn't formally trained in photography, so much of my education came from experimenting, making mistakes, looking at the results and trying to understand why something worked or didn't work. Equipment limitations also forced me to find solutions rather than simply buying my way out of every problem.
As I gained more experience, I also realised that technical knowledge alone wasn't enough. I had to understand faces, expressions, body language, backgrounds and lighting. More importantly, I had to learn how to work with another human being.
That's one reason I don't feel embarrassed about how little I knew at the beginning, including some of my naive ideas about what a photographer could achieve alone. I started with the intention of helping people feel better about themselves. The fact that I didn't yet understand everything required to achieve that wasn't something to be ashamed of. It simply gave me more things to learn.
When I was learning portrait photography, aspiring models gave me opportunities to practise. I wasn't yet the photographer I would eventually become, and they weren't paying clients. We were simply people at different stages of learning who could help one another create something.
I never forgot that.
Even after I began charging clients professionally, I continued doing free collaborations with aspiring models. By then, I didn't necessarily need every collaboration for my portfolio, but I remembered that people had once given me their time when I needed experience. I wanted to contribute something back to the modelling community by helping newer models build better portfolios.
I'm also proud that I respected the people who trusted me. Some of the women I photographed were attractive, and some shoots involved fashion, bikini or more sensual concepts where personal boundaries mattered even more. I'm a man and, of course, I have normal human feelings, but someone agreeing to model for me was never an invitation for me to take advantage of her.
A collaboration was a collaboration. I wanted models to feel safe concentrating on the photography without wondering whether helping them with their portfolios came with some hidden personal expectation from me. Apart from respecting them, I was also protecting something very important to me - my reputation and integrity as a photographer.
Photography was becoming part of my life. I wasn't going to damage something I loved by abusing the trust that came with it.
I wasn't naturally someone who could confidently approach strangers and ask them to stand in front of my camera. When I became interested in women's fashion photography, even approaching women for collaborations required me to overcome my nervousness. As a male photographer interested in fashion and beauty, putting myself out there wasn't always comfortable.
Slowly, photography forced me to communicate more. I had to explain ideas, guide poses, speak to strangers and help people feel comfortable even when they were nervous in front of the camera.
Sometimes, photography put me in situations where I was the uncomfortable one instead.
Before COVID-19, one client invited me several times to intimate gatherings with her family and friends. These weren't huge events where I could disappear into a crowd as the photographer. They were personal gatherings, and many of the people around me appeared to be far wealthier than I was. As a struggling freelance photographer, I sometimes felt rather out of place among them.
Those experiences reminded me that I needed to have more confidence in myself. I wasn't there pretending to be as wealthy as anyone else. I was there because someone trusted me enough to invite me into a private part of her life and valued what I could do for her.
My bank account didn't determine the value of my experience or my work.
One of the greatest things photography has given me is access to people and places I probably wouldn't otherwise have encountered. Environmental portrait photography has brought me into people's workplaces and taught me about professions I knew little about. Editorial assignments allowed me to meet accomplished people and hear about their experiences, while vacation photography introduced me to visitors who shared little pieces of their countries and cultures with me.
Fitness photography brought me into different gyms and introduced me to trainers and athletes. Ironically, some people with the most intimidating physiques turned out to be among the nicest and most polite people I've met. Apparently, big muscles and kindness aren't mutually exclusive.
Seeing clients work hard on their physical transformations also motivated me. When someone returned for another shoot looking fitter or stronger than before, I could see the amount of discipline that had gone into the change. Their dedication sometimes reminded me to take better care of myself too.
Dance photography changed the way I observe movement. Watching dancers control their bodies with elegance helped me understand posing better, even when I was photographing people who weren't dancers. Home portrait photography made me pay more attention to interior design, which eventually influenced how I looked at my own first home.
Then there are animals. Cats and other pets don't care about my deadlines, business problems or bank balance. Being around them can reset my mood, and there have been difficult periods when simply photographing an animal gave my mind a temporary break from everything else.
My camera has essentially given me a backstage pass into many little worlds outside my own.
Dating profile photography taught me one of my biggest lessons about people. When clients tell me what they're looking for, it can be easy for an outsider to form an opinion without knowing the whole story.
For example, someone might say that he or she is looking only for a short-term relationship. It's easy to judge that statement by itself, but what if the person is an expatriate who will be leaving Singapore soon? Once I understand the circumstances, something that initially sounds questionable may suddenly make perfect sense.
The more people I photographed and spoke to, the more I realised how little we can know about someone from one sentence, one photograph or one decision. I've met people who appear attractive, successful and confident, yet they still have their own struggles with dating, relationships or self-confidence.
Photography hasn't stopped me from having opinions, but it has taught me to understand the context before deciding what I think about someone.
There have been many disappointing experiences in photography, but it would be very unfair to talk about them without remembering the people who treated me well.
Sometimes, appreciation appeared in ways I didn't expect. I spend a lot of time on my website, including writing the stories behind individual photoshoots in my portfolio. For a long time, I wasn't even sure how thoroughly anyone actually read them.
During one photoshoot, a client suddenly brought up one of my portfolio albums and pointed out that I had used a particular word incorrectly in the write-up. I was stunned. It wasn't even an obvious typo. She had actually read what I had written closely enough to notice that I had used the wrong word.
Strangely, I was quite touched by being corrected. It meant that all those hours I spent writing about my work weren't necessarily disappearing into the Internet unread. Someone had paid enough attention to my effort to notice one wrong word.
She was also the same client who had earlier offered to pay me for an in-person consultation at her home. At a time when I hadn't yet properly learned to value consultation as part of my work, she was already treating my time as something worth paying for.
During one of our shoots, she even cooked a steak for me personally for dinner. I didn't normally eat beef and, as it turned out, that became the first and only time I've eaten it. But after someone had gone through the trouble of cooking it specially for me, I couldn't bring myself to waste her effort or the food.
Little experiences like these are part of why I don't want the difficult stories in my photography journey to overshadow the good people I've met. Some clients didn't merely pay me for photographs. They noticed my effort, respected my time and sometimes looked after me in ways I hadn't expected.
Another client taught me quite a lot without ever trying to teach me anything. He hired me to photograph his daughter's birthday party on a yacht. After the event, he repeatedly offered to book me a Grab ride home. I kept declining, but he continued checking whether I was sure. It was a small gesture, but I remembered how concerned he was about whether I would get home comfortably after working for his family.
Something else happened afterwards that impressed me even more. He realised that he had overlooked the privacy buyout option, even though I had stated it clearly in my packages, policies and various parts of my website. Instead of trying to argue that I hadn't explained it properly or somehow making his oversight my responsibility, he immediately apologised, went back through my website, checked the information himself and transferred the additional payment.
That shouldn't sound extraordinary. Someone realising that he has overlooked something and taking responsibility for it should be normal. Unfortunately, after experiencing situations where people tried to change previously agreed arrangements, I had learned not to take such behaviour for granted.
What made his behaviour particularly interesting to me was that he was a very successful man holding a senior position in his company. Yet nothing about the way he behaved gave me the impression that money or status entitled him to special treatment.
During the birthday party, I noticed that his son was using a backpack that was already torn. It surprised me because the family could obviously afford to replace it easily. After we left the yacht, I mentioned my observation to him directly. He explained that he was deliberately teaching his children to be thrifty and to treasure what they had instead of replacing things unnecessarily just because they could afford to.
That conversation stayed with me. Being thrifty and being stingy aren't the same thing. He was teaching his children not to waste money, yet from my own experience with him, he wasn't reluctant to spend money when there was a reason to. He was generous towards me, offered to pay for my ride home and immediately paid the privacy buyout once he realised he had overlooked it.
I noticed the same attitude when we left the yacht. He had brought quite a lot of things for the party and had to carry them from the pier afterwards. I offered to help him, but he insisted on carrying everything himself. Despite his position and financial success, he didn't behave as though other people should automatically carry things for him.
There was another tiny detail that stayed with me. Before the party, he mentioned that an "auntie" would be joining them. I naturally assumed he meant a relative. Only later did I realise he was referring to the family's domestic helper.
I've heard people use "maid", while many people now prefer "helper" as a more respectful term. But hearing him naturally call her "auntie" left a different impression on me. I can't know everything about another family's relationship from one word, but to me, it sounded much warmer than simply describing her by her job.
Taken individually, none of these things was dramatic. But together, they showed me something I found quite meaningful. A person could be financially successful without becoming wasteful, entitled or dismissive towards other people. He could teach his children to be thrifty while still being generous when generosity was appropriate.
Photography has allowed me to observe little things like these. Sometimes I learn about a person not from anything profound he tells me, but simply from watching how he treats the people and things around him - and occasionally asking him about what I've noticed.
One client came to Singapore from the USA and knew that I was preparing to move into my first home. Before we even started the photoshoot, he gave me a tip. I still remember it because he wasn't rewarding me after seeing the photographs. It was simply a kind gesture towards me before I had even done the work.
There were other clients, especially visitors from overseas, who wanted to tip me at the end of their shoots as well. In the past, I actually rejected some of those tips because I worried that they might not have much Singapore currency left with them. Somehow, while I was worrying about whether they had enough spending money for their holiday, I forgot the rather obvious fact that they were wealthy enough to travel to Singapore in the first place. Even back then, there were other ways to pay without relying entirely on the cash in their wallets. Nowadays, with services such as Wise, the excuse sounds even sillier.
Looking back, I was really foolish. I was struggling financially and knew that the amount of time and effort I put into my photography was worth more than what I was charging, yet I was still worrying about protecting someone else's money when they were voluntarily trying to give some of it to me.
I also eventually realised that rejecting a tip isn't necessarily the polite thing to do. If someone genuinely wants to show appreciation, repeatedly refusing the gesture can make things awkward for both of us.
So I've learned to simply accept it, say thank you and appreciate the kindness. The client feels good about showing appreciation and, quite frankly, I feel good receiving it too.
More importantly, it became part of a much bigger lesson for me: I can care about other people without always putting their needs ahead of my own.
For much of my photography journey, I had a habit of giving clients more than they paid for. It wasn't usually because a shoot was going so well that I simply wanted to continue. Quite often, it was the opposite. I was worried that if I ended the photoshoot at the agreed time, the client might not have enough variety or enough good photographs to choose from.
One dating profile photography client showed me just how far I was willing to take this. He had booked me for 1.5 hours, but whenever I lifted my camera towards him, he would actually tremble. He was extremely uncomfortable being photographed, and I knew that if I simply worked until the booked time was over, there probably wouldn't be enough good photographs for his dating profile.
Technically, I could have done exactly that. He had booked 1.5 hours, I had turned up and done my job, and I would still have been paid. Given how uncomfortable he was, he might even have been relieved to end the shoot.
But that wasn't the result I wanted to give him.
Instead of giving up, I spent more time talking to him and getting him to try fun things so that the photoshoot felt less intimidating. I also brought him somewhere with fewer people because having strangers around made him even more nervous. Even there, we sometimes had to pause when someone was walking past, even if the person was perhaps 50 metres away.
Eventually, he began enjoying the experience and we got the photographs we needed. The 1.5-hour photoshoot ended up taking roughly twice as long.
There wasn't even a portfolio benefit for me. He had paid for privacy, so regardless of how good the photographs turned out, I wouldn't be able to display them on my website or use them to promote my photography. The extra time was purely for him. I wanted him to leave with photographs that could actually help him with his dating profile.
I didn't charge him a single cent extra.
By the time we finished, it was late at night. I was hungry and still had a long journey home, but at least I knew I hadn't simply watched the clock, collected my money and left him with photographs I wasn't satisfied with.
That example probably explains my old problem better than simply saying I was generous. I felt personally responsible for making sure clients walked away with something worthwhile, even when circumstances outside my control made the job take much longer than what they had paid for. There were other occasions when I gave clients additional shooting time, photographs or post-production for similar reasons.
The intention was good, but over time I realised it wasn't sustainable. If every unexpected difficulty became free overtime for me, I was effectively taking all of the risk myself. A 1.5-hour booking could become three hours of shooting, followed by the same travelling and post-production work, while my fee remained exactly the same.
There were also clients who received everything and barely replied afterwards. Some promised to leave me a Google review but never did. I only began actively asking for reviews quite late into my photography career, so every review was valuable to me, especially as a freelancer trying to build trust with future clients.
Eventually, I had to accept that giving someone more doesn't guarantee that the person will value it more. Something that costs me hours of additional work may look effortless from the client's side because they don't see those hours. This is also why I've tried to explain more openly what clients are actually paying for in professional photography.
I haven't stopped wanting to help when someone is struggling in front of my camera. In fact, I think patience is an important part of portrait photography. What I'm learning is that caring about the result doesn't mean my time has no value. Generosity should be my choice rather than something I automatically provide until I'm hungry, exhausted or financially hurting myself.
Some of my more painful lessons came from the free collaborations I had continued doing to help aspiring models. Over the years, quite a number of people changed their minds and asked me to remove work we had previously agreed I could display.
One of the earliest cases involved someone I had photographed with her then-boyfriend. After they broke up, she wanted their couple photographs removed because anything connected to the relationship reminded her of it. They eventually reconciled and got married.
That was an early reminder of how dramatically people's circumstances and emotions can change after a photoshoot.
Later experiences were more difficult. There were people who didn't simply approach me politely to explain that their circumstances had changed. Despite our original arrangements being documented, some became hostile and treated the previous agreement as though it shouldn't matter anymore.
Those situations were particularly upsetting when I had already given the person far more time and work than required. It made me question why I had gone out of my way to help in the first place.
I've actually been transparent about privacy and portfolio usage since I started this website. I wanted people to know what they were agreeing to before working with me, rather than discovering the terms only after the photoshoot.
What changed over the years wasn't my belief in transparency. It was my understanding of why those written terms mattered so much. When everything is friendly at the beginning, it can be tempting to think that clear agreements are unnecessary. My experiences taught me otherwise.
I also provide a privacy buyout for clients who don't want selected photographs used in my portfolio. I'm completely fine with someone wanting privacy as long as we agree on it from the beginning. In fact, I've had clients who paid for privacy and I respected that fully, even when I had photographs I would have loved to display.
The difficult situations were when people agreed to one arrangement and later expected me to disregard it after I had already provided my side of the agreement. Being transparent from the beginning couldn't prevent someone from changing their mind, but it gave both sides a clear record of what had originally been agreed.
Clear agreements aren't there because I assume everyone will cause problems. They're there because experience has taught me that people's circumstances - and sometimes people themselves - can change.
One particularly painful experience involved a new hair and makeup artist who approached me for collaboration. She didn't have much of a portfolio at the time, and I genuinely wanted to help her. Instead of giving collaboration opportunities to more established makeup artists, I passed many of them to her.
I also went considerably out of my way to make things easier for her. Once, I even walked to Pearl's Hill and climbed up to collect her makeup equipment so that she could come to my home studio more conveniently the following day.
Eventually, our relationship deteriorated through disagreements, misunderstandings and personality clashes. I don't think everything that happened was my fault, but I also learned to recognise my own part in it.
I'm naturally very frank, and when I learn something useful, I can become overly enthusiastic about sharing it. For example, there were photoshoots where very long makeup preparation caused us to miss the intended lighting completely. An early-morning shoot became a much later shoot, while another session intended for golden hour at Sentosa ended up becoming a night shoot because we arrived far later than planned.
To me, these were real examples I could use when explaining to other people why timing matters in photography. I wasn't trying to attack the makeup artist and, in fact, I appreciated that she was spending more time trying to do thorough work. However, I eventually realised that sharing the facts, unintentionally, could still embarrass or upset the person involved.
Things became worse when some of my own words were repeated to other collaborators without their original context. One comment I had made about the limitations of a shoot was passed to a model in a way that could easily sound like I was criticising the model herself. Fortunately, she confronted me directly, which allowed me to discover what was happening.
That entire period taught me several painful lessons at once. I shouldn't trust people too quickly. I shouldn't overshare simply because I think the information may help someone. Most importantly, being truthful doesn't mean I have to say everything that is true.
I've gradually learned that honesty and discretion can exist together. Sometimes I need better words. Sometimes I need better timing. Sometimes I simply need to keep my mouth shut.
I've never liked forcing people to follow my decisions. That's generally a good thing, but photography taught me that being too soft can create problems as well.
I once arranged a photoshoot with a neighbour from overseas and explained that it was important for us to shoot early in the morning. She didn't want to wake up so early, and because I didn't want to pressure her, I accommodated her preference. We shot in the afternoon and, as I had expected, the place was crowded.
Some time later, she went back to her country for a holiday and arranged a photoshoot with someone else. Somehow, she was able to do that shoot early in the morning.
I was disappointed. More importantly, it reminded me that if I don't take my own professional advice seriously enough, I cannot expect other people to take it seriously either.
Today, I still don't force clients to do things my way. It's their photoshoot. However, when my experience tells me that a particular timing, location or approach will probably produce a better result, I need to explain it confidently and let them understand the consequences of choosing otherwise.
After enough difficult experiences, I eventually stopped doing most free collaborations. Apart from the interpersonal problems, I noticed a practical difference between many collaborations and paid work: commitment.
When clients pay for a photoshoot, they have invested something into making it successful. If I ask them to take photographs of themselves wearing their proposed outfits so I can advise them properly, many will actually make the effort to do it.
With some aspiring models, simply getting proper photographs of their outfits could be difficult. There were people who wanted good portfolio photographs but somehow seemed too busy to help prepare for the very shoot that was supposed to create them.
Paid work isn't automatically better in every way. Creative collaborations give me much more freedom to pursue strange ideas simply because I find them interesting. With clients, I need to respect what they're paying me to achieve, even when their preferred direction isn't what I would personally choose for my portfolio.
Nevertheless, I learned that having something invested in a project often changes how seriously people treat it. I've written separate guides about TFP / TFCD photoshoots and the lessons I've learned from collaborations, so I won't turn this story into another guide about them.
I love brainstorming. When someone tells me about themselves, their objectives, outfits or an unusual problem, my mind naturally starts thinking about possible concepts, locations and approaches.
For years, I could pour a surprising amount of creative effort into an enquiry before the person had even decided to hire me. I thought I was being helpful and demonstrating what I could do.
Then some of them disappeared.
I don't know everyone's intentions. Some were probably genuinely comparing photographers or changed their plans. However, after experiencing it repeatedly, I also became aware that people could approach multiple photographers, collect ideas and then consolidate everything for the eventual shoot with someone else.
Regardless of the reason, the result for me was the same: I had already given away my time and ideas for free.
I've therefore learned to create a boundary. I can provide enough information for someone to understand my approach and decide whether I'm suitable, but detailed creative planning has value too. A photographer's work doesn't begin only when the shutter button is pressed.
This is why I eventually became much more careful about providing extensive planning before someone has committed to a shoot. I explain the reasoning in more detail in why I require a deposit before detailed photography guidance.
When I first started doing freelance photography, I didn't begin with years of experience working under an established photography business. I started with very little understanding of the "official" ways photographers were supposed to run their businesses, including what I should charge for beyond the actual photoshoot. A lot of my business knowledge was learned along the way.
One client unexpectedly taught me something important. She ran a personalisation-related business herself and wanted to meet me at her home before our photoshoots. Instead of assuming that I should travel there and spend my time discussing everything for free, she offered to pay me for the consultation.
That made me realise something that should probably have been obvious: consultation is work too.
An in-person consultation doesn't cost me only the hour spent sitting with someone. I have to prepare, travel there and back, explain my photography style and policies, understand what the client wants and answer questions. Talking intensively for an hour can be surprisingly exhausting on my energy and throat as well. Once travelling is included, a meeting can easily consume half of my working day, and I generally wouldn't schedule another important job around it.
Before learning this, I had treated such discussions almost as though only the photoshoot itself had monetary value.
One experience made that mistake particularly obvious. A gentleman approached me about dating profile photography after reading my website. He sounded extremely impressed by my photography, philosophy and the way I worked, and asked to meet me near my place to discuss his photoshoot face to face.
I agreed without charging him anything.
We spent about an hour having an intensive discussion in a rather noisy cafe he had chosen. I had to concentrate even harder just to hear him properly while explaining my approach and discussing how I could personalise the photoshoot for him. He listened very attentively and nodded along with almost everything I said. His enthusiasm seemed so genuine that I let my guard down completely.
I didn't charge for the consultation and, worse, I didn't even collect a deposit before investing more of myself into his plans.
At that stage of my life, I was still extremely uncomfortable talking about money. In fact, that discomfort had contributed to me giving up being a property agent after only about five months, despite knowing that the profession could potentially provide a good income. Asking people for money simply didn't come naturally to me.
The gentleman eventually postponed his photoshoot close to the date. Then it happened again. When the shoot finally went ahead, he chose a smaller fashion photography package instead of the more personalised service we had spent so much time discussing.
There was nothing wrong with him choosing a smaller package. The problem was that I had already provided part of the additional value for free. The consultation, discussion and personalisation had already consumed my time and energy, regardless of which package he eventually paid for.
That experience helped me understand why commitment matters before detailed consultation and planning begin. A deposit isn't simply about reserving a date, and a consultation fee isn't charging someone just for talking to me. Both recognise that my time, experience and attention already have value before I take the first photograph.
Ironically, I partly learned this because another client respected my time enough to offer to pay for it before I had learned to properly value it myself.
My old post-production workflow was brutal. I used to charge clients mainly according to shooting time and then give them all the photographs I considered good. Since I could take hundreds of photographs during a shoot, this sometimes meant delivering a few hundred photographs even after filtering them.
I didn't simply run through everything quickly either. I'm extremely particular when selecting photographs. I would go through them, edit while filtering and revisit them on different days with a fresh mind. One album could consume one or two full weeks of work.
It was torturous for my eyes, fingers and energy.
Eventually, I changed my workflow and allowed clients to select the photographs they wanted me to work on. The reduction in workload was enormous. For me, going through and processing 700 photographs can feel many times more tedious than concentrating properly on 70.
More importantly, client selection isn't simply a way for me to save work. Clients know which expressions they like, which moments matter to them and which photographs they actually want to keep. A photograph I prefer technically may not be the photograph they feel happiest looking at.
It became a genuine win-win situation. Clients get more control over their final selection, while I can spend my limited time concentrating on photographs they actually value.
I've explained the amount of work involved in much greater detail in Photography Editing Time Explained. Changing my workflow didn't mean that I suddenly cared less about the photographs. It meant I finally started finding a more sustainable way to care about them.
There was a period when I was crazy about off-camera flash. After putting so much effort into learning lighting, I felt that if I wanted to conduct a photoshoot "professionally", I should use professional lighting equipment.
In reality, off-camera lighting is much more tedious than working with natural light. There is more equipment to carry, more setup to do and more things to manage during the shoot. Large softboxes can also make shy clients feel even more self-conscious, especially in public.
Then I discovered another obvious fact that took me too long to accept: many clients simply prefer natural-light photography.
During my earlier years, I probably lost opportunities because I was too obsessed with doing things the technically harder way. Even when I used flash and produced work that required considerably more effort, not everyone appreciated the difference enough to want to pay for it.
Eventually, I began offering simpler natural-light shoots as well. They were easier for many clients, cheaper because less production was involved and, most importantly, often exactly what the client wanted.
I didn't stop loving off-camera flash. In fact, learning artificial lighting changed the way I see natural light. Once I became obsessed with the direction, quality, highlights and shadows of light, I began noticing those things everywhere.
What changed was my understanding of professionalism. Using more equipment doesn't automatically make a photoshoot more professional. Knowing which tools are actually appropriate for the person and situation does. I've written a separate comparison of flash versus natural-light photography for anyone interested in the practical differences.
Pricing has been another long learning process. Regardless of what I charge, there will always be someone who thinks I'm too expensive. At the same time, I've met people who looked at my work and told me I was charging far too little.
Things became even more confusing when I met established photographers through Carousell while selling equipment. Some were very humble and shared that they were doing well professionally, yet I was shocked by how little they charged.
Eventually, I realised there isn't a magical photography rate that everyone will agree is correct. Different photographers have different workflows, expenses, clients, business volumes and priorities. I need to understand how much my work costs me in time and effort instead of constantly using someone else's price to determine my worth.
There was even an occasion when another photographer, who probably regarded me as a competitor, discussed my rates in a Facebook group because he thought I was charging very cheaply. By then, I was already charging more than quite a number of successful photographers I had encountered.
What he didn't understand was that I had deliberately created simpler packages for clients who wanted simpler shoots. Someone else commented that it was strange for me to charge differently for natural-light and off-camera-light photography, apparently without considering the very different amount of equipment, setup and work involved.
I could have jumped into the discussion and written a long explanation. I didn't see the need to educate everyone about how I run my business.
Instead, I took a screenshot. If another photographer wanted to publicly certify that my rates were affordable, I might as well use the free advertisement.
Over time, I've learned that confidence in pricing doesn't mean I must be the most expensive photographer. It means I understand what I'm providing, what it costs me to provide it and why I've chosen that price. For anyone curious about what goes into those numbers, I've broken down the real costs behind professional photography separately.
For many years, whenever I thought about fairness, I mostly thought about whether I was being fair to the client. Should I extend the shoot because I wasn't satisfied that the client had enough good photographs? Should I include more photographs? Should I absorb this extra editing work? Would charging for something additional make me look calculative?
This wasn't really a habit that existed only in photography. For a large part of my life, I had been living with other people's best interests in mind, often putting them before my own. As long as I could survive and was reasonably happy, earning very little money didn't bother me as much as it probably should have.
My thinking started changing gradually after I got together with my wife. My financial situation was no longer something that affected only me. When we discussed our future, she made it clear that before we could seriously consider family planning and having children, I needed to have a stable and reasonable income.
That gave money a very different meaning to me. It wasn't suddenly about wanting to become rich. I began to understand that constantly sacrificing my own income could affect the future of someone I loved as well. I couldn't continue being happy-go-lucky about earning only a few hundred dollars in some months while automatically putting everyone else's interests before mine.
It also made me look differently at the way I ran my photography business. I'm a freelancer, and my time is one of the few resources I cannot replace. If I give a client another hour for free, I cannot sell that same hour again. If unnecessary post-production consumes another day, that day is gone as well.
The strange thing was that I could be struggling financially myself while still worrying about whether charging someone else for additional work would be unfair to them. Sometimes the client was clearly in a much stronger financial position than I was, yet I was still the one trying to protect the client's money.
Eventually, I realised there was another person I kept leaving out of the equation: myself.
I've therefore been learning to charge for additional shooting time and extra post-production instead of automatically absorbing everything. That doesn't mean I've stopped caring about clients or that every additional minute has to appear on an invoice. I can still give someone extra time or work when I genuinely want to. The difference is that it should be a conscious act of generosity, not my automatic response whenever someone else could benefit at my expense.
In a way, learning to charge properly has also been part of learning to be nicer to myself. More importantly, I've learned that taking care of my own future isn't necessarily selfish when that future is shared with someone else.
I'm someone who naturally thinks about worst-case situations. Before a shoot, I may already be considering bad weather, crowds, lighting limitations, timing, location restrictions, equipment limitations and what happens if the original plan doesn't work.
I do this for every client. Whether someone is a friend, a returning client or a complete stranger who has just found me online, I would rather explain an important limitation before they book me than take their money first and let them discover the problem afterwards.
Because I don't like overpromising, I tend to explain these things quite openly. Unfortunately, I've gradually realised that excessive transparency can sometimes make confidence look like uncertainty, and there have probably been times when my honesty actually cost me the job.
One particularly obvious example happened when an old friend approached me about photographing her wedding. She was planning to hold it around noon in a lovely open space. The venue itself was beautiful, but I knew that the midday sunlight could potentially be very harsh, so I warned her about it.
I wasn't telling her that I couldn't photograph the wedding or that she shouldn't hold it there. I was doing exactly what I would have done for any other client: explaining a potential problem before she made her decision.
I was stunned when she eventually decided not to hire any photographer at all.
That experience stayed with me because my intention had been to help her make an informed decision. However, it also made me realise that simply listing possible problems isn't always the best way to communicate my expertise. If I'm not careful with how I explain things, a client may hear the limitations more strongly than the solutions.
This is something I've gradually had to learn about communication. Being transparent doesn't mean I need to lead with everything that could possibly go wrong. Sometimes it is more useful to explain the challenge together with the solution: the midday sunlight may be harsh, so I'll look for better angles, use available shade where appropriate, adjust how I position people and work with the conditions as effectively as I can.
Another photographer might simply say, "Yes, can do." Meanwhile, I might explain three things that could go wrong, what each problem would mean and what alternatives I could use. To someone comparing us, the shorter answer may sound more confident even if I'm actually the one who has thought more deeply about the situation.
I've therefore been learning how to present facts without unnecessarily frightening people. There is a difference between saying, "I'm not sure whether I can handle this," and saying, "This is the limitation, and this is how I'll work around it."
I'm confident in my photography. I just don't believe confidence requires pretending that weather, crowds, venues and human beings are completely under my control.
Photography has enriched my life, but I don't want to romanticise the journey. It has taken a physical, emotional and financial toll as well.
Years of carrying equipment, holding cameras, crouching, kneeling, working long hours and staring at screens have affected my body. Freelancing has brought financial uncertainty. Difficult enquiries can consume hours without becoming jobs, payments can become battles and misunderstandings can become emotionally exhausting.
Some experiences made me question whether being kind, transparent and generous was even sustainable in business.
I've written much more about this side of the profession in my article on the real struggles of being a freelance photographer. I've also had experiences serious enough to change the way I handle money, including chasing a payment for nearly two years. I don't want to duplicate those stories here because this page isn't only about what photography has put me through. It's about what those experiences have changed in me.
Looking back at many of my hardest experiences, one lesson keeps appearing in different forms: kindness needs boundaries.
I don't want to stop helping people just because some people didn't appreciate it. I don't want to stop trusting everyone because some people betrayed my trust. I don't want to become dishonest because being too frank sometimes caused problems.
Instead, I'm learning to be more selective about whom I help and trust. I'm learning that honesty doesn't require me to share everything I know, and that giving clients my best doesn't mean providing unlimited free labour. I'm also learning that being flexible doesn't mean I should abandon my professional judgment whenever someone disagrees with my recommendation.
This lesson eventually affected practical parts of my business too, including booking fees and payment policies. What once felt like being accommodating could sometimes leave all the risk with me. My article on why I require full payment before photo delivery explains some of the experiences behind those boundaries.
Most importantly, I've learned that being fair to other people doesn't require me to be unfair to myself.
After all the difficult people, broken promises, physical strain, financial struggles and misunderstandings, I still love photography.
The bad experiences aren't the whole story.
There are clients who have shown me kindness when I needed it. People have invited me into important moments of their lives and trusted me with insecurities they may not tell many others. I've watched couples interact, families grow, fitness clients transform themselves and visitors experience Singapore through their own cultures and perspectives.
Dancers have changed how I understand movement. Working with artificial lighting changed how I see natural light. Photographing people's homes changed how I notice interior spaces. Animals have made difficult days feel lighter.
Then there is the simple satisfaction of creating a photograph that didn't exist before. Sometimes a client sees a photograph and realises that he or she can look more confident, attractive, strong or simply more like themselves than expected. Moments like that still mean something to me.
Photography has allowed me to experience small pieces of hundreds of lives without having to live those lives myself. Every person leaves me with a little information, a different perspective or sometimes a lesson.
This isn't a story where I finally figured everything out.
I'm still learning when to give and when to charge, when to explain and when I've already explained enough, when to accommodate someone and when to stand firmly behind my recommendation. I'm still learning whom to trust, how to communicate difficult facts better and how to help other people without forgetting that sometimes I'm the person who needs help more.
Of course, I'm still learning photography too. Every photoshoot can still teach me something - sometimes about lighting or technique, sometimes about another person and sometimes about myself.
When I first picked up a camera seriously, I thought I was learning how to make better photographs. More than a decade later, I've realised that the photographs were only part of the education.
The people, mistakes, kindness, disappointments and experiences behind them have taught me just as much.
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