The Contract That Changed Everything: I Did Roll My Eyes.
There are moments in your career that arrive quietly, disguised as ordinary paperwork.
I was reading through a photography contract. Standard stuff, mostly. The usual clauses about working hours and responsibilities. I turned the page, and there it was:
"Employee must not act in a disrespectful manner through the physical gesture of eye-rolling. Eye-rolling will result in dismissal without notice or a pay reduction."
My eyes rolled before my brain could stop them.
I'm not proud of that. Well, actually, that's a lie. I'm a bit proud of it. Because that involuntary reaction was my body telling me something my mind was still trying to rationalise away: this wasn't going to work.
The Education You Don’t get At University
I have two degrees. Neither of them prepared me for the real education that comes from working for other people in the creative industry.
A hotel room suggestion during an interview for a remote position. A question about whether I could "prove I'm capable of working with men." The verbal agreements that mysteriously vanished when contracts appeared. The slow realisation that being good at your craft means nothing if the people you work for see you as replaceable equipment.
These weren't just bad experiences. They were the foundation of everything I built afterward.
When people ask why I started my own photography business, I could give them the polished answer. Talk about creative freedom and following my passion and all those other things that look good on an about page.
But the truth? I started Charlotte Beadle Photography because I got tired of making myself smaller to fit into spaces that were never designed for people like me.
What Happens When Your Face Can’t Lie
I can read people well. You learn to when you photograph people and animals who'd rather be anywhere else. You watch for the subtle shifts, the tension, the moment when wariness starts to ease. But my own face? Inconveniently honest. It gives away exactly what I'm thinking before my brain has caught up and suggested a more diplomatic response. Which isn't great when you're trying to stay professional. But it's excellent when you're trying to stay true. That eye-roll wasn't planned. It wasn't strategic. It was just... real. And that moment of involuntary honesty became the thing I built my entire business around.
The Business Standards Nobody Teaches You
When I closed that contract and walked away, I started writing down what I actually wanted. Not in some aspirational, vision-board way. In a practical, this-is-how-I-refuse-to-treat-people way. Clear communication. Expectations in writing. Respect for the craft and the people practicing it. No clauses policing facial expressions or demanding silent obedience. It turns out those standards matter more than technical skill. More than the right equipment or the perfect portfolio. Because you can have all of that and still build something that makes people feel small. I wanted to build something different.
What That Actually Looks Like
Today, I spend my time lying in muddy fields waiting for horses to trust me enough to show who they really are. I turn up before sunrise when the light does things you can't replicate later. I work with clients who live their whole lives on the land, where mud spatters are features, not flaws. I photograph reality, not performance. The genuine bond between owners and their animals. The moments that happen when nobody's trying to look good for the camera. And yes, I occasionally roll my eyes. But only at things that genuinely deserve it.
The Parts They Don’t Put in the highlight Reel
Running your own business isn't the filtered Instagram version where everything falls into place beautifully. It's four a.m. alarms and frozen fingers and shoots where literally nothing goes according to plan. It's improvising while pretending you meant to do that all along. It's questioning whether you've made a terrible mistake, and then having a moment that reminds you exactly why you're doing this. But here's what I've learned: those difficult moments? They're not evidence you're doing it wrong. They're evidence you're doing something real.
Why This Matters
That eye-rolling clause was absurd. But it wasn't unique. It was a symptom of a bigger problem. The assumption that creative professionals should accept any treatment, any conditions, any erosion of dignity, because we're lucky to be doing what we love. As if passion justifies exploitation. Starting my own business wasn't about escaping bad employers. It was about refusing to participate in that system anymore. About building something based on respect instead of control. And it turns out the best revenge isn't a perfect comeback. It's creating something they could never touch.
The Real Point
If you're reading this and something's resonating, it's probably not about photography contracts or countryside life or any of the specific details.
It's about that feeling when you know something isn't right, even if you can't articulate why yet. When your gut tells you one thing and everyone else is telling you to be reasonable, be professional, be grateful for the opportunity.
Trust that feeling. Even when it shows up as something as small as an eye roll. Because sometimes the most professional thing you can do is refuse to pretend everything's fine when it isn't.
Build your career around who you actually are. The right people won't just tolerate your authenticity, they'll value it. They'll seek you out because of it. Those are your people. Those are your clients.
Life's too short to hide who you are. Too precious to spend nodding along when you disagree. And far too interesting to waste on trying to look perfect.
Listen to Episode One: I Did Roll My Eyes →
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.