Community Over Competition.
It's just gone six in the morning. I'm in the South Downs, standing in a clearing with my camera, waiting for the sunrise to do something interesting through the trees. For once the light's decent. Not spectacular, but workable. I'm getting the shot I came for, which is about as much as you can ask from a March morning when your alarm went off at half four.
Then a dog walker appears. We do that polite nod. The one that says "I acknowledge your existence but won't bother you." He's already walked past when he stops, turns back, and says: "The deer are about to come up that hill." He points to a ridge I hadn't even considered. Then just leaves. Doesn't wait for a thanks. Doesn't ask what I'm photographing. Just shares the information and walks off with his terrier.
A few minutes later, a small herd of deer wander up that hill, backlit by the rising sun, exactly where he said they'd be.
I got the shot. The actual shot. The one that made getting up at stupid o'clock worthwhile.
That stranger didn't have to tell me anything. He gained nothing from it. But he saw someone trying to capture the landscape and thought I know something that might help.
The Isolation problem
When I first went freelance, I didn't realise how much I'd miss having people around. Not all the time, I'm not particularly social. But just occasionally. Someone to say "look at this" or "what do you think?" or "that's brilliant, actually." Instead, I'd finish a shoot I was genuinely proud of and have no one to show. I'd encounter a problem and have to solve it entirely alone, because asking for help felt like admitting I didn't know what I was doing. The isolation made me think irrationally. I started seeing other photographers' work and immediately comparing. Not in a healthy way. In a "why are they getting those opportunities and I'm not?" way. I didn't share. I kept my client base private. Because somewhere along the way, I'd started believing that my success required other people to fail. That's not confidence. That's fear. And it made me professionally lonely, which is a very specific kind of miserable.
What the Competitive Mindset Gets Wrong
It assumes there's a limited amount of success. A fixed number of clients, opportunities, recognition. So if someone else succeeds, there's less available for you. But that's not how creativity works. Every photographer sees the world differently. We could stand in the exact same field at the exact same moment and take completely different photographs. That is because we're noticing different things, drawn to different light, responding to different elements. Your competition isn't taking your opportunities. They're taking the opportunities that were never meant for you in the first place. The moment I understood that, I stopped feeling threatened and started feeling curious.
The Only Distinction That Matters
When I'm tempted to feel competitive, I ask myself one question. Am I jealous of their success, or am I jealous of their work? If it's their success, their recognition, their client list, that's ego. And ego is a terrible guide for creative decisions. But if it's their work? If I'm looking at their photographs thinking I wish I could capture that? That's useful. That's showing me where I need to grow. The difference is everything. Real competition isn't against other photographers. It's me versus yesterday's version of myself. Can I capture something more authentic than last time? Serve my clients better? Push my work beyond where it was last month? That's the only competition worth having. Because that's the only one where winning actually means something.
What Countryside Life Taught Me
My photography is rooted in countryside life. Farms, estates, people who've spent their entire lives working the land. And if there's one thing I've learnt from that world, it's that community isn't abstract. It's practical. It's showing up. It's sharing knowledge. You know what farmers do when they see you struggling with a gate? They don't walk past feeling smug. They show you. Quickly, without ceremony. "That latch sticks. You've got to lift it first." They'll tell you which footpaths flood in winter. Where the temperamental bull is kept. That the ewe with the torn ear is more nervous than the others, so approach her differently. Not because they're being particularly charitable. But because they understand that shared knowledge makes everyone's life easier.
That's what I want my professional community to look like. When another photographer asks how I achieved a particular shot, I tell them. When I discover a location that would suit someone else's work better than mine, I mention it. Not because I'm particularly noble. But because their success doesn't diminish mine. Hoarding knowledge doesn't protect you. It isolates you. And isolation, in creative work, is where growth goes to die.
What Actually Happens
When you shift from competition to community, your work gets better. Not metaphorically. Actually, measurably better. You're learning from people who see differently than you do. You're getting honest feedback instead of polite encouragement. You're building relationships that lead to opportunities you'd never find alone.
I'm not naturally a social person. I don't love group events or forced socialising. But I've learnt to be intentional about small, genuine gestures. When I see work I admire, I say so, specifically, not vaguely. When someone asks how I achieved something, I give them the full answer. When I'm struggling, I reach out to someone who understands what I'm trying to do. What's happened as a result is simple: I've built relationships with photographers whose work I respect. People who'll tell me when something isn't working. Who share what they're learning. Who understand that my success doesn't diminish theirs.
Community doesn't make you less individual. It makes your individuality stronger.
Listen to Episode Three: Community Over Competition →
The full story, told properly. Including the parts that don't make me look good.
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Want to work together? I'm currently booking sessions for 2026. If you're looking for countryside photography that captures reality rather than performance, let's talk.