Refusal as trust

Living Through the Split

not working, not selling, not lost

For a long time, I thought the tension was about naming what I do.
Then I thought it was about learning how to value it.
Now I know it’s about something else entirely.

This isn’t about self-worth.
This is about refusing to perform worth in a world
that doesn't know how to receive.
It’s about trust — but not the shiny kind.
It’s the raw, weary kind that shows up when you’re at the edge of yourself, and you’re still not willing to lie to make it easier.

I’ve spent years in the split:
Creating personal projects that came from deep attention and care.
Waiting for recognition that came too late, too shallow, or not at all.
And then pushing myself into “visibility” strategies that felt like betrayal.

At some point, my body started saying no — quietly but clearly.
Not to the work.
To the terms.

The refusal is real — but it’s not comfortable

Sometimes people read a blog like this and think it’s a declaration.
But this isn’t power dressing.
This is soft clothes, unbrushed hair, anxiety in the chest at 9:43 a.m.
This is a nervous system that still checks the bank account even though it knows value isn’t a number.

This isn’t a manifesto.
It’s a field report.
From someone who’s not working — not because they don’t want to, but because they can’t go back to a system that requires contortion.

The old script — work hard, make yourself clear, prove your worth — broke something in me.
Or maybe it revealed what was already broken:
That I’ve never felt able to sell what’s most valuable.
Not because it isn’t good, but because it’s honest. And honesty isn’t shiny.
It doesn’t pitch.
It doesn’t wrap itself in cleverness.
It doesn’t scale.

The cost of offering what’s unwrapped

This is where the quiet grief lives — not as blame, but as residue.
Of being the one who saw, and stayed, and made something whole —
only to be treated like a supplier.

Of hearing:
“That was beautiful. Can we get it for half?”
Or worse — hearing nothing at all.

Once, I tried a “value afterwards” system.
One client understood and still uses the images.
Another paid so little, I felt hollow for weeks.
I abandoned the model — not because it wasn’t right,
but because I wasn’t yet strong enough to hold its fragility.

Trust is not a fortress

I talk a lot about trust.
It helps.
But I also know that when trust becomes the only compass, it can isolate.
I don’t want trust to become my new performance.
I don’t want to wrap myself in it like armour and miss the real, unpredictable, unpolished presence of others.
I want to stay open to surprise.
To contradiction.
To challenge.

I don’t just want to be trusted.
I want to trust together.
Even when I don’t know what happens next.

Integrity vs Belonging

This is the heart of it.
It’s not truth vs fear.
It’s truth vs fitting in.
Belonging — not just socially, but financially, professionally — has often meant shaving off the edges of what I know to be real.
To call myself a “photographer” instead of saying what I actually do:
Spend time.
Witness.
Notice what others overlook.
Translate something wordless into something you can carry.

But here’s the thing: every time I chose belonging over truth,
I disappeared a little.
And now, I can’t disappear anymore.
Even if it costs me.

And still — I want to be met

I’m not writing this to be admired.
I’m writing this because I want to be seen with.

The paradox is: I still long to be found.
I still need to live.
I still check the inbox hoping for the invitation that says: “I get it. We want you — not a product.”

I once photographed a series that was used again and again, across years and continents.
At some point, the client asked me to resend the invoice.
“I want you to know how much I valued this,” he said.
I’ve never forgotten that. Not because of the money.
Because he saw.
Not the role.
Not the output.
The real offering.

That kind of recognition feels like breath after holding it too long.

A signal, not a pitch

A while ago, someone asked:
“What do you actually do?”
And I said:
“As little as possible.”
I smiled. Then added:
“But I guess what you mean is… I work as a photographer. And I oracle.”
She tilted her head. Curious.
“It’s not coaching,” I said. “It’s just… I notice things. Sometimes, when someone is all tangled up, I can name the thread. And once it’s named, they usually don’t need me anymore.”
She nodded.
A small moment — but I felt it land.
I didn’t pitch.
I just signalled.
And she caught it.

So this is what I’m practicing

I’m still not sure how to name it.
But I know what I’m not doing:
I’m not twisting myself to fit.
I’m not performing value.
I’m not returning to the system that made my body contract.

I’m practicing showing up.
Without the need to convince.
Without hiding.
Without rushing to name or sell.

I’m practicing being visible in my own language —
even if it’s quiet.
Even if it’s not always understood.
Even if it takes time.

And maybe, in all this not-working,
not selling,
not shouting —
there’s something else happening.

Maybe this isn’t about stepping out.
Maybe it’s about stepping through.
Into a space where value isn’t proven, but felt.
Where worth isn’t marketed, but met.
Where we build something slower, stranger, and more alive.

Maybe that’s what we’re here for.
Not just to make a living.
But to make a new way.