The creative fire doesn’t wait

A quiet look at what happens when passion is postponed

Here’s something nobody tells you when you’re young:

The creative fire you feel burning inside won’t wait for you.

You think it will. You tell yourself, “I’ll get to it when things settle down. When the kids are older. When work calms down. When I have more money.”

But now, at 44, I know it doesn’t work this way. I’ve watched friends move into their thirties and forties, postponing the thing that makes them feel alive because “life got in the way.” Before they know it, they’re fifty or sixty, and that creative fire is either barely burning or not burning at all.

When you don’t feed that fire, it doesn’t stay the same. Very gradually and quietly, it extinguishes. Not with a bang, but a whisper. A slow fade.

But the truth is this: with every passing year you don’t feed it, it fades a little more.

Many of us have creative talent. Friends and family have told us. For some, it’s central to our sense of purpose.

And yet, most of us only ever dabble. In photography, I see people confirm their talent in short bursts. A good trip, a few great images. But it usually stops at the surface. Very few dive deep enough to let the pursuit truly change them.

Is that the case with you?

It’s a big question you probably don’t want to answer right now. But avoiding it doesn’t make it go away.

I understand that we’re not on a level playing field.

Different responsibilities, pressures, and realities exist. Some people have it easier; others have kids to feed, parents to care for, and debts to pay.

But if you’re in your thirties, forties, or fifties, and you’re still only playing on the surface, knowing you’re good but sensing you could be more, it becomes deeply frustrating.

The question shifts from “when?” to something heavier: Why?

What am I living for besides the practicalities of getting through the day? Was I meant only for a job I don’t even enjoy?

When you’re young, clarity rarely comes from knowing exactly what you want. More often, it comes from knowing what you don’t want.

That was true for me.

I didn’t start with a grand plan. What I did have was a clear sense of what I wanted to avoid. I didn’t want to end up stuck in jobs I hated, living a 9 to 5 life that drained me, quietly wondering what else might have been possible.

When I found photography, I genuinely fell in love with it. More than that, it gave me a sense of purpose. I didn’t know where it would lead, but it gave me hope that I could combine creative expression and travel, my other passion, into a life that actually made sense.

That was enough.

Looking back, it almost feels like I wasn’t really choosing photography.

I was choosing a way of living. One with purpose. One that felt like a constant treasure hunt. A life that pulled me into places and conversations I’d never have entered otherwise, letting me experience the world more deeply through people and places.

When I look at friends who are actively pursuing their creative passion, they seem to glow from the inside.

The ones who explore their creative talents to the fullest usually shine the brightest.

Most of the photography enthusiasts I know haven’t given it their all, but they still have that glow.

They make photos whenever they get the chance. They do the once-a-year trip. They feed the creative fire occasionally.

There’s some sadness there, even regret, that they never gave their talent more. But even what they have done makes them feel alive. And hopeful.

And then there are those who don’t have the shine at all.

They know the talent is somewhere deep inside them, but it isn’t being fed. There’s a quiet misery in that. A cynicism that creeps in. About life. About the beauty of the world. Almost like they’re carrying a secret they desperately want to let out.

Because carrying a gift you never use can feel worse than never having one.

Those who follow me know that a couple of years ago, my camper, my family’s home and the tool that allowed my career was destroyed.

Thanks to my incredible community, we rebuilt fairly quickly. What followed, though, were months of dull, mind-numbing logistics. Fixing things. Adjusting things. Frustration.

It gave me sharp insight into how exhausting everyday obstacles can be, and how easily they sap creative energy. For a while, my fire was barely burning.

When it finally came back, I was deeply grateful. At the beginning of last year, I had perhaps the most satisfying couple of creative months I’ve experienced in a decade. In a strange way, that depth of satisfaction only came because I’d gone through a period where the fire had almost gone out.

Recently, I’ve faced a quieter version of this problem.

Over the last eight months, we’ve settled in one place in Brazil. It’s paradise. My girls are happy. There’s stability.

But after months of staying put, a familiar, quiet question crept back in: What am I actually doing?

Is my purpose just to drive my daughter to school, buy things for the house, and tick off daily responsibilities? I love taking care of my family deeply, but I know myself well enough to understand that if I don’t feed the creative fire, something essential starts to suffocate.

If you have this kind of fire, you know what I mean. It’s not a luxury. It’s closer to breathing.

I handle extremes well. For twenty years, I balanced intense travel with intense mundanity—a month or two back in Australia, editing photos, seeing friends, cosplaying “normal life.”

What I’m bad at is balance. I’ve never managed to combine those two worlds into something simultaneously enjoyable and sustainable.

The last eight months of comfort made that impossible to ignore.

I realized, very clearly, that I need those moments of creative intensity. That sense of aliveness isn’t optional for me. It’s essential.

Settling in Brazil was a conscious choice, and I’m obviously not abandoning my family to keep traveling. So the new plan is simple: keep our base here, but I will make regular trips for shorter, focused creative stretches.

It’s a way to stay present as a father and a husband, without letting the creative part of my life quietly fade into the background.

I’m obviously not going to abandon my family to keep travelling.

Settling in Brazil was not about giving everything up. It was a conscious choice.

There’s so much to photograph here you could spend several lifetimes and still only scratch the surface.

So the plan is simple. Have a base on the peninsula where we’ve spent the last eight months. The girls will stay, and I’ll make regular trips to work on projects. Shorter, more focused stretches. Not disappearing for months at a time, but not standing still either.

It feels like a way to stay present without letting the creative part of my life quietly fade into the background. At least for now. I’ll update you on how it works out.

If you’re in your thirties or creeping toward forty, and you feel that quiet misery of an unfed fire, try feeding it a little more often.

And honestly, age doesn’t matter.

If that fire is still flickering in your fifties, sixties, or beyond, it means it was always meant to be part of your life. It is stubborn because it is essential.

And you don’t need big adventures. You don’t need to go anywhere special. Photographing the world around you, right where you are, done with intention and curiosity, is infinitely better than letting that fire slowly fade.

But I also know that doing this alone is hard.

We all need support, or at least a gentle push, to keep that fire alive amidst the routine of daily life.

That is why I’m seriously considering starting a Skool community for people who care about photography as deeply as I do.

It would be for those for whom photography isn’t just a hobby, but a way of engaging with the world. I think of it as a kind of photographic gym. You show up, do the reps, and work toward images that actually matter. Not by chasing trends, but by stacking small, worthwhile wins over time.

Just as importantly, in a time when real connection is getting rarer, I want a space where genuine interaction exists. Thoughtful conversations. Shared struggles. Honest feedback.

If this sounds like something you’d be interested in, let me know in the comments or drop me an email. I want to gauge if there’s real interest before taking it further.