Sharpened Doesn’t Mean Sterile

I used to shoot 1000 photos and keep 300.

Then I got better.
Started shooting 300, keeping 100.
Now? I might shoot 100 and keep 80.

That sounds like progress.
And it is. But it also brings up a real question:

Does tighter mean better? Or just… less?

Because early on, my photos were everywhere.
I tried every angle. I chased the shot.
Most of it didn’t land—but some of it did.
And in the middle of all that noise, I figured out what “good” actually looked like for me.

Taste Comes From Reps

It’s not just the numbers.
It’s the look.

If you scroll all the way back through my old galleries or Instagram posts, you’ll see it.
Heavy presets. Overexposed skies. Shadows crushed to hell.
Trying stuff. Failing. Copying other people’s styles.
Trying again.

But over time, I stopped chasing the look and started chasing the feel.
Less “what filter is this?”
More “does this feel like me?”

That shift didn’t happen by reading tutorials.
It happened by pressing the shutter thousands of times.
And by being willing to share the work before it was ready.

Public Practice Is the Point

This whole post isn’t really about photography.
It’s about voice.
It’s about writing.
It’s about craft.

It’s about the fear that as you get better at something, you lose the thing that made people connect with you in the first place.

I’ve had that fear.
In writing. In leadership. In how I show up.

Because when your work gets sharper, people start expecting polish.
And polish, if you’re not careful, becomes performance.
Something sterile.
Something safe.

But That’s Not What Growth Is

The truth is: I didn’t lose myself when I stopped shooting 1000 photos.
I found myself—by doing the work, over and over.
By figuring out what to keep and what to throw away.
By making a mess in public and realizing the world didn’t end.

That’s what voice is too.
You write.
You miss.
You hit.
You look back and realize: that mess wasn’t the opposite of clarity.
It was the way you got to clarity.

The Real Risk

So no—I’m not afraid of getting better.
I’m afraid of pretending the early work didn’t matter.

I’m afraid of becoming so clean, so polished, so professional that the people reading think they’re too late to start.
That they missed the window where it’s okay to suck.

Your early work isn’t an embarrassment.
It’s evidence.
Of taste being built.
Of voice being found.
Of someone actually doing the damn work.

So Yeah… I Keep It Messy on Purpose

I still leave a sentence or two that runs too long.
I still throw in a metaphor that might not land.
Because that’s the part that still sounds like me.

And that’s the part worth keeping.