Worth More Than Gold.
I'm standing against a harbour wall. Hair whipping across my face. Camera in hand. Waiting for an aircraft carrier to come into the harbour for no particular reason, because I happened to be passing when crowds started gathering and thought, why not. I look exactly as professional as you'd expect after an hour in the wind, dressed for comfort rather than clients.
Then someone taps my shoulder. "Excuse me... are you Charlotte? I follow your work online”. I just stared at them. Because in that moment, on a random harbour wall with no commission, no assignment, and very windswept hair, I understood something I'd never quite let myself believe before.
My work had travelled further than I had. It had reached someone. Meant enough to them that they recognised its maker in a crowd. That stranger had no idea they'd handed me something I'd still be thinking about years later. And the reason I have a folder on my phone full of screenshots I've never shown anyone. This is about that folder.
The Parts That Don't Make The Feed
Here's what nobody tells you about running a creative business: most days are not glamorous. They're messy, unpredictable, and often exhausting. Dead batteries. Technical failures. Hours of editing only to discover your screen calibration was off. And just when you think things are under control, there's the client email; "Can you just make it cheaper?" But then, between the mess and the deadlines and the rejections, you get these flickers. Moments so small you could easily miss them if you weren't paying attention. They aren't awards. They aren't pay cheques. They aren't the quick dopamine hits of social media likes that feel important today and vanish tomorrow. They're quieter. And far more durable.
The Student
One of the most unexpected came from a student who reached out online. Their message was tentative: "I'm doing my GCSE photography project on your work. Would you mind if I asked some questions?" At first, I assumed it was polite phrasing. Box ticked, move on. Then they shared their notes with me. Entire pages. They'd studied my images in detail, broken down my approach, written about the atmosphere my photographs carry. They were speaking about my work in ways I'd never consciously articulated myself.
It took me straight back to being their age. Sitting in a messy art room, poring over someone else's work, trying to understand their choices. The big difference? I never took that next step of contacting anyone. And when I did eventually start reaching out to photographers as a student, I was met mostly with silence. Which taught me, quietly and effectively, to stop trying. So to receive that message years later? It floored me. Yes, I've been published. Yes, I've exhibited. Yes, I've been paid. But being chosen as someone's main point of reference for their learning. That was something else entirely. It meant my work wasn't just being seen. It was being studied. It was teaching. So when students reach out now? I answer. Always. Because I remember exactly what silence felt like.
That's Him
The moments that hit differently, though, are often the quietest of all. Like when a farmer stops to tell me "You've caught my old dog's character perfectly. That's him." Not "that's a nice photo." Not "you've made him look handsome." That's him. Two words. And they carry more weight than any feature, any cheque, any shiny award. Because that's what I'm actually trying to do. Not make things look pretty. Not create some idealised version. But capture who they actually are. The real personality beneath the performance. When someone tells me I've done that, everything else is irrelevant. Big wins give you a moment of validation. Small, genuine connections give you a foundation. And in a creative career, where uncertainty is the permanent condition rather than a temporary setback, you need those foundations more than you need the highlights.
When Everything Stops Working
There was a stretch last year when nothing was landing. Bookings had slowed. The weather had been terrible for weeks. I'd applied for three different opportunities and been rejected by all of them. Even the work I was producing felt flat. Like I was going through the motions of something I used to do with more conviction. I was genuinely considering whether I needed to step back. Get a part-time job. Accept that doing this full-time, on my own terms, might not be sustainable.
Then a message arrived from someone I'd never met. My photograph had given them the pause they needed on a difficult day. I sat at my desk and cried. Properly cried. Because I'd been so focused on what wasn't working that I'd completely lost sight of the fact that my work was already out there. Already mattering. Already making a difference in ways I'd never tracked or measured and never would.
That's what these small moments do. They don't solve your problems. But they give you enough reason to keep going. And sometimes that's the only thing you actually need.
The Folder
So I have a folder on my phone. Just screenshots and notes. Nothing fancy. But when I'm having one of those days where everything feels pointless, I open it. The student's notes. The harbour wall recognition. The farmer's "that's him." The message about the countryside they can't visit anymore.
It reminds me that my work has been travelling while I wasn't watching. Mattering in ways I couldn't track if I tried. The small moments aren't consolation prizes for when proper success hasn't arrived yet. They are the success. Build the folder. It'll be the most valuable thing you own.
Listen to Episode Four: Worth More Than Gold →
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.