INSECURITY, AND THE MAKING OF MEANING
There’s a certain rhythm to leading workshops.
Early mornings. Late nights.
Always on. Always tuned in.
Even when I feel 100%, they require a full mental, physical, and creative investment.
On this recent trip, the combination of long days, shifting weather, long drives—and a head cold that hit halfway through—made everything feel heavier than usual. But the expectation I placed on myself didn’t ease up.
I want participants to walk away with more than just good images. I want them to feel transformed, energized, and deeply connected to their work. And with that comes a responsibility I take seriously—maybe too seriously at times.
Even after years of leading workshops, that pressure still lives in me. It’s not a lack of confidence in my ability—but a tension between what I can offer and what I hope others will experience.
And it’s in that space—between care and expectation—that insecurity quietly finds its way in.
Bixby Creek Bridge, from the 2025 Carmel / Big Sur Workshop
The Loudest Part of the Process
I often break down the photographic path into four stages:
In-the-field camera work
Editing – the art of culling and curating
Developing the image in the digital darkroom
Sharing and presentation
That final part—sharing—is where the noise can be the loudest.
Because that’s when everything you’ve made becomes vulnerable.
It’s one thing to work quietly in your process. But something opens when you publish a piece of writing, launch a new workshop, or send a finished photograph into the world. And if that offering is met with silence or uncertainty—internally or externally—the mind often rushes in to fill the gap.
Did it resonate? Did it fall short? Was it enough?
Even after 25 years on this path, those questions still show up.
The Volume of the Unknown
Just this weekend, I sent a finalized PDF of a feature article to an artist I’m highlighting on The Curated Landscape. I’d poured a lot into it—shaping the structure and weaving his words into something cohesive and expressive.
I hit send Friday evening. By Saturday morning, I found myself waiting for a reply.
Nothing.
Mid-morning—still nothing.
Afternoon passed—still nothing.
That’s when the noise began. The “thinking mind” took over—spinning stories, jumping ahead, filling in blanks that hadn’t yet been written.
Maybe he didn’t like it. Perhaps I’d missed the mark. Maybe I’d need to rewrite the whole thing before Monday.
But here’s what I’ve come to recognize in moments like this: these thoughts—these storylines—are just forms of the mind. Shapes. Noise. They arise quickly, and they’re loud. But around every form is space—the place where presence lives. The place where breath returns.
It would serve me well to return to that space more often, to let the “feeling body” guide me back to center instead of staying tangled in the noise of the mind.
To return to the space around the form—the thought-forms of the mind.
Eventually, mid-morning Sunday, the reply came in:
“This looks amazing! I truly appreciate how you seamlessly connected all the answers throughout the interview. The flow is so natural and engaging—it all comes together beautifully.”
All that worry…for nothing.
That’s the thing about insecurity: it masquerades as insight. But more often, it’s just noise dressed up as truth.
The Role of Insecurity in Art
Sharing creative work always carries risk, but I’ve come to believe that insecurity isn’t something we have to fight against.
Rick Rubin writes:
“Self-doubt lives in all of us. And while we may wish it gone, it is there to serve us. Flaws are human, and the attraction of art is the humanity held in it. If we were machinelike, the art wouldn’t resonate. It would be soulless.”
That line hits home.
The art doesn’t connect despite our imperfections—but because of them.
If You’ve Felt This Too…
Maybe you’ve posted a new series and second-guessed it before anyone could respond.
Maybe you’ve taught a small group, shared your process, and walked away unsure if anything landed.
Maybe you’ve kept something to yourself—not because it wasn’t ready, but because it felt too close to share.
If so—you’re not alone.
And these moments don’t make you less serious or less capable. They make you honest. They make you an artist.
As Rubin puts it:
“We create pieces reflective of who we are, and if insecurity is part of who we are, then our work will have a greater degree of truth in it as a result… Insecurity is only a hindrance when it stops you from sharing what’s in your heart.”
So, let’s not let it stop us.
No, I haven’t outgrown insecurity.
But I’ve learned to see it for what it is.
To give it space.
To let it soften.
To feel it without mistaking it for truth.
And to keep sharing anyway—because that’s part of the work.
And it’s what keeps the path alive.
Quotes from Rick Rubin are excerpted from his book, The Creative Act: A Way of Being.
