the shameful confessions of Leïla Joy
why i struggle to exist on instagram
note: I debated whether or not to post this, especially on Instagram, because it feels vulnerable as fuck and I was worried it would seem like I’m just having a fat whinge, making excuses, or being negative, and that I’d be judged as a result. I think that’s very much why I’ve ultimately decided to share it, cos it’s honest, and perhaps someone else can resonate and feel seen in their own experience. I’m also in a mood to burn down any false images of who and what I am so I can make space for myself to exist, LFG.
I started my account Instagram @leilajoy_ when I was nineteen, back when social media was still a baby. At the time, my Canon DSLR was virtually glued to my hand. I was having a ball getting paid to shoot in nightclubs, saving up to go backpacking, doing volunteer work overseas, and using Instagram as a kind of Tumblr-esque space to share my photos and link up with models I wanted to shoot. I was constantly organising creative shoots because it was fun. I enjoyed running around in nature with a subject, experimenting with movement and light, capturing a moment, a feeling.
I did it for the love of it. It was effortless and playful and the positive feedback I received made me feel good, as did my growing audience, which at one point peaked at around 120k. One hundred and twenty thousand people who liked what I was sharing enough to follow me. Mental.
A lot has happened between then and now—both on a macro and micro level. The world changed. Social media evolved exponentially into the beast we now know and live with, and I can’t be bothered getting into all the specifics right now because:
a) it’s very much public knowledge, and
b) many, many clever people have already analysed (ad nauseam) how this insatiable content machine of grids, stories, and likes has changed over time1 and shaped society.
On a personal level, I grew from being a teenager into a young adult, which I’m sure most people would agree is a confusing and messy time. My twenties feel somewhat like an acid trip of different relationships, places, experiences, and trial and error. Trying to work out what the fuck it means to be a human, a woman, a creative. How the fuck I’m supposed to do life and career and generally exist in a world that keeps changing. Especially when the conventional roads felt like dead ends, but no comprehensive map or legend2 ever appeared to guide a way forward without accruing some form of perceived failure.
Point is, my life trajectory has felt pretty misc—colourful and multifaceted, if you will—and I’m not the same Leïla today than the lil’ bright-eyed ratbag teen who first hard-launched her relationship with Instagram thirteen years ago.
I’ve written before about how the global pandemic impacted my identity as a photographer (you can read about that here if you like). Some of you who’ve followed me for a while might remember that I wiped my entire Instagram grid back in 2020—which was at the time heavily featuring bikini brands, saturated colours, retouched skin, and rigs3 living their best lives in Bali. This came on the back end of a revelation I had one lockdown afternoon, lying in the grass on the headland staring up at the clouds (as I like to do), when it struck me that I’d lost my sense of self as an artist, and that my use of Instagram was a big part of the problem.
So I consciously pulled back from the app and went deep into my archives, curating a space that felt more refined, more me—a real expression of who I wanted to be as an artist.
Honestly, I still love the way that grid looks. It feels elevated and as close to content with my own work as I could probably get. Clean compositions, natural treatments, lotsa black and whites. A moodboard of warm ochres, muted blues, and delicious skin tones. I enjoy how the portraits and wild places balance each other—especially with my old Africa photos dishing up that perfect orange/earthen palette.
I actually had a vision for a coffee table book of my body of work presented in a similar format that I think could have come together quite nicely4.
The problem is… I liked it so much that it ended up blocking me with how and what I could share. Because it was so curated that I couldn’t maintain it. That version of Leïla Joy—of me—does exist, because it’s of me and my eye, but it’s also a narrow viewfinder of who I am as an artist, only possible with meticulous planning and selection.
For instance: think about how much of our world and of nature is green in colour. A bloody lot, yeah? Now look back up at that version of my Instagram and tell me where green5 fits in it. Exactly. It doesn’t. That is a very large portion of life immediately rejected from my artistic identity simply on account of the colour not matching my self-imposed aesthetic.
A part of me wishes I were that girl, that photographer. I’m visual. I like pretty things. I drool over perfect moodboards and colour palettes, with the right distribution of negative space. I take my hat off to the creators who seamlessly maintain perfectly curated feeds with a cohesive visual identity. That shit takes effort, it satisfies the part of my brain that feels calm in consistency, and it’s smart from a business standpoint.
Perhaps if this upgraded, elevated expression of my photography brand had translated into a thriving business, I would never have deviated from it. But a lot happened over the past five years. Life changed a lot. I changed a lot. And for better or for worse, I wasn’t able to squeeze into those shoes anymore.
Showing up online in a way that feels real has since been a messy, complex process. I feel like I’ve been carting around the carcasses of all the versions of Leïla Joy I thought I should be.
I haven’t been willing to fully let them go or bury them, because I don’t think I realised they were dead weight. My external circumstances have fluctuated so much that there were very good reasons for things feeling off-kilter or stagnant for a time, and I believed I would find my way back if I just trusted my process and my intuition.
These past years, I surrendered more than I ever have and went all in on shit that scared me—leaving my life in Australia, moving to Canada solo, daring to start writing again and to actually share some of it. And I do believe I’ve been finding my way. It’s just… taken a different direction to the one I expected.
I challenged myself to experiment a bit with Instagram during this period because I wanted to share moments of beauty and awe and connect with others. I for the most part didn’t have models to shoot and the landscapes were decidedly very green (lol), but the experiences I was having felt potent.
It’s the first time I felt drawn to expressing myself from a more personal lens, like I could bring value to others just by being me if I found a way to embody and distill the magic and reflections in what I was living, and share authentically. This was a huge edge for me, and felt like an opportunity for expansion.
Cue this decidedly more messy and less professional iteration of my account from the past year:
Looking at this grid from an overall aesthetic standpoint gives me the ick. Seeing pictures of myself on it and iPhone quality videos and random bits of text also gives me the ick. I have no clear idea what this account does or offers, beyond existing, enjoying nature, and hanging out with gorgeous women.
However—when I look at it just now laid out like that, I also feel this sense of aliveness? Which actually moves me, because I didn’t expect it. I see a kaleidoscope of life and memories and experiences. I feel like she probably has some cool stories to tell. It feels lived-in and intrinsically human.
I, miraculously, actually don’t entirely hate it.
It is just undeniably a very different brand and expression than the 2020 version. And this is what I mean about feeling the weight and pressure of past versions of Leïla Joy I no longer fit into that I haven’t been able to let go of.
It’s only been this past week, since moving to a major city (Vancouver) for the first time in over a year and starting to send out emails looking for work, that I’ve been faced with the paradox of trying to reconcile my evolution as an artist with the business side of things.
How do I present myself as a brand and as an artist?
How do I navigate being the most experienced and the least successful (by professional standards) I’ve ever been?
Who will look at my Instagram account and understand what I can offer or take me seriously as a photographer?
Who/what the fuck even is Leïla Joy anymore?
Reflecting on all of the above has made me aware of the amount of shame I have been carrying.
There’s an iconic moment in the film 8 Mile (just go with me on this) where Eminem’s character, Rabbit, wins a rap battle by stating the most shameful things about himself before his opponent has a chance to weaponise them. Obviously, 8 Mile is a movie, and the biggest disses thrown out seem to be Papa Doc, a.k.a. Clarence, having a loving home and education (how terrible), but the scene nevertheless left an impression on me.
I think there’s something to be said about the power of voicing your shame in order to dissolve it. And I, like Rabbit, would quite like to be free from mine.
So, in no particular order, here (in big, bold letters) are a few
things I’m ashamed to admit that have made photography and Instagram feel sticky:
I haven’t been able to support myself financially with my photography since the pandemic.
Gosh. There it is. 👀
I feel like there’s this unspoken rule that when you own a business you should always look like you’re killing it and successful, otherwise clients won’t want to book you. Well, it’s been long enough now that maybe I can let go of that notion because either way, it hasn’t translated into sales for me. Maybe it will get me out of my frozen state to be real about it so I don’t feel like I have to uphold an image that does not match my reality.
Outside of my own skill as a photographer and business owner (or lack thereof), there’s a number of factors that I think contributed to finding work being challenging. On the back end of the pandemic, the Northern Rivers6 suffered a number of catastrophic floods (the worst in over 100 years), which severely impacted the region. I was pretty new to the area, and even well-established local photographers were finding it tricky to access enough work.
I feel like throughout this period, I was also transforming so much as a person and the world itself was so chaotic that I sidequested for a bit. I was exploring new facets of myself and my creativity, reigniting sparks of other passions7. It was actually the best, and part of me felt lighter at not being on the tools with my camera gear all the time. After doing it for over a decade, taking a break felt really nourishing.
It is also just a reality of living in smaller towns—especially those I’ve been drawn to, in remote nature locations and/or with a strong community of creatives—that there are less viable work opportunities than in larger cities. You need the grounding and the time to develop personal relationships, which cannot happen in the same way when living as transiently as I have done this past year in Canada.
This isn’t a pity party by the way, and I’m absolutely not complaining. It’s entirely on me. I have not based my life decisions on my career and financial goals for a very long time, and although I back those choices and they have brought me priceless experiences, it has also come with consequences. Like a fuckton of stress haha.
To really leave nothing lurking in the bottom of my shame bucket, here are some casual jobs I’ve picked up these past years in order to survive:
Part-time role doing social media and copywriting for a travel startup that sadly didn’t survive the consecutive lockdowns.
Receptionist and cleaner at an infrared sauna.
Proofreading scientific research papers—dry, robotic work.
Cleaning (homes; businesses).
Bump-out shifts for a florist, packing down wedding arrangements.
Photo editing for friends who own a wedding photography business.
Minimum wage jobs in Canada: hospitality; retail.
One anecdote I’ll never forget: one of my regular cleaning jobs was working at a luxury wellness retreat in the Byron Bay area. During a particularly humid shift, I recognised some Sydney influencers I’d photographed—either creatively or at events—relaxing by the sauna. I was mortified they’d see me.
One of them did as I was wrapping up for the day. She called me over, and I smiled, made upbeat conversation with her, doing my best to seem unfazed that I’d just been scrubbing their toilets. My cheeks burned with shame and I fought back tears as I walked off to my car in my sweaty uniform, mentally battling that I shouldn’t be embarrassed about doing what’s necessary to stay afloat and it doesn’t mean I’m a failed photographer8.
n.b. I have infinite respect for the essential workers who work bloody hard keeping our society afloat. I want to make it abundantly clear I do not think that shameful, and I’ve never wanted to see myself as being “above” an essential services job. This has just been my own internal judgment and process, and why it’s felt out of integrity to think I needed to present a different, “better” image of myself to the industry.
I resent myself for not being able to live up to the various versions of what Leïla Joy Photography “should” have been.
I have failed at all of them.
This is sorta the thesis of this Substack post and I’ve already spoken to it a bunch, especially in terms of visual identity.
Early in my career, part of me wanted to be a photojournalist—on assignment around the world, documenting nature and human stories, writing pieces that would evoke awe and change. My parents’ photobooks of the natural world were where I first fell in love with the medium as a kid. I studied journalism at uni. I thought that path made sense for me.
Another part of me wanted to be a fashion photographer—not for the clothes side of things, but for the creativity and opportunity for powerful portraiture. Most of the great photographic references I looked up to came from that world, and I admired their storytelling and celebration of beauty.
I didn’t end up fully committing to either career path, for a number of reasons. And most of my income as a photographer over the years has come from shooting events, which is a different thing altogether.
Before the pandemic, I poured hours into creating conceptual, styled shoots with bigger teams, aiming for online fashion magazine submissions because I thought that’s what I needed to do for success. A bunch of those shoots were picked up by publications, but I was never proud of the results. The images didn’t feel like me.
Nothing against the artists involved—they were all talented and professional. I was just trying to belong to a world and version of success that didn’t truly move me. Energetically, it wasn’t a fit.
The fashion industry didn’t exactly make it easy to trust my instincts. I was told over and over that without a clear niche, I’d never make it. I sought agency representation and was told—plainly—that I didn’t have a strong enough visual identity to be of value.
And honestly, they probably weren’t wrong. Jack of all trades, master of none?
Still, I internalised that feedback. I didn’t want to look messy or inconsistent, and I wanted to emanate the caliber of work I hoped to attract, which actually felt more constrictive than expansive.
For instance, travel photography became a particularly tender point. I love nature so much and I am always documenting it, but that niche is filled with such ridiculously, stupidly talented humans producing high-end, cinematic work that I felt like my little travel snaps weren’t worth sharing at all in comparison.
I also developed shame around posting anything “outdated”. I have a r c h i v e s of photographs that have never seen the light of day and I don’t know why I decided it was becoming embarrassing to resurface them. As though random people are sitting around scrolling like—”oh, Leïla is sharing photos from seven years ago, she must not have done anything recently that’s worth showing because she’s a failure.”
And thus you can begin to understand the suffocation of spontaneity within my self-imposed cages.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to be an artist, a brand, or just a person.
There’s a real stickiness for me around being seen, especially in that blurry space between being a professional and being a person. Social media now thrives on personal brands, and in it its highest expression, it’s an awesome way for people to share their frequency, their vision, their authentic expression with the world and to connect with others.
But for me, it’s been confusing. I’ve been feeling increasingly like a multidimensional artist rather than purely a photographer (who already couldn’t stick to one niche). Now, I also I want to be a writer, a published author. I want to share ideas and reflections and life, not just professional imagery.
So what does that make me?
Am I a personal brand? A professional? Will clients still take me seriously if I’m not “just” a photographer?
I have other projects I want to explore, but I’m scared to fully claim that because I don’t want to lose whatever credibility I have as a photographer. I worry that showing too much of myself will make me look scattered or wishy-washy.
I considered splitting into multiple accounts—one for writing, one for my OG photography, one for my event work, one for family shoots, etc. Categorising my creativity into polished little brands. But thinking about that made me feel overwhelmed and like I was just fragmenting myself, diluting what I have to offer.
And for what? Catering to an algorithm? Palatability?
I judged influencers for their self-expression because I felt like the ugly duckling in a sea of models.
Typing that felt really icky, but there was something about being in the same age/sex demographic as the models I photographed and growing up alongside them where I couldn’t help but compare their appearances and lifestyles to my own.
During the stints where I lived in Bali in my early twenties, my closest friends were all gorgeous women, a lot of whom I photographed. It was fun and I almost felt like I belonged for a time, except then there’d be reality checks like seeing the way boys I liked would consistently gravitate towards them, or shooting an event they’d be paid ten to twenty times my rate to attend. Forever on the outskirts of that world, never truly a part of it9.
Again, this isn’t a cry of injustice. I get it. But as a young woman still figuring herself out, it really messed with my sense of worth. I couldn’t stand having my picture taken because I don’t travel particularly well as a jpeg10, especially in comparison to women who are so objectively stunning they have careers built around their appearances. My job was literally photographing tens. It made old eating disorder tendencies from my high school years rear their ugly heads once or twice before I finally made peace with some darker parts of myself.
Looking back, I think it was easier to judge the social media world—how comfortable influencers were with being seen and taking photos of themselves—as vapid or self-absorbed. But what I was really reacting to was the mirror of how low my self-worth was, how much I envied their confidence and the external validation and freedom and travel they seemed to attain.
Please be gentle in your judgment of me—this was a decade ago. And growing up as a woman in this world is no small feat.
That whole toxic relationship with self-image and being seen is something I’ve been working to untangle. This past year, travelling solo through Canada, was the first time I finally got over myself enough to set up a tripod and take footage of myself in nature. Not because I suddenly think I’m hot shit. But because I realised that I’m only getting older, time is moving faster, and I would actually be so sad to look back at my life and have nothing documenting special moments and how I was just because I was too insecure I didn’t look attractive enough. That is actually so contrary to my values!
I once read that constant self-deprecation is, in its own way, just a form of self-absorption. And that really stuck with me.
So I’ve been trying to care less and share more of me and my life—both because I feel like I have something to offer with my perspective, and as an act of self-love. Even though it also makes me fucking cringe like who does she think she is?
Being on this platform for over a decade has taken a toll on my mental health and sense of self.
Other than the personal dynamic I’ve shared above, I want to touch briefly on the more subtle, ongoing impact of Instagram on my creativity. Briefly, because I think this one is fairly obvious and a collective experience.
At its best, the limitless access we have to visuals and to others’ art is such a gift of inspiration and awe. Images I’ve found on Instagram have expanded me and reminded me what I love about storytelling in the first place.
But at its worst, comparison really is the thief of joy, and I’ve noticed myself become so overwhelmed and influenced by what others were creating that I started to lose my connection to my own eye.
I’ve always admired the artists who stay true to themselves. The ones who put out a cohesive, clear vision with consistency and confidence. I longed for that kind of style, but found it hard to focus on my own craft and not absorb and calibrate to something external.
Self-doubt would creep in and scrolling would make me kinda freeze and descend into an apathetic spiral thinking I was an an irrelevant, talentless, ugly loser and that everyone else had it figured out but me.
I’ve taken lengthy breaks from Instagram over the years—the longest lasting six months—and each time, the positive impact on my mental health was significant. I often wish I could just delete it and never look back.
But the truth is, in the world we live in and with the incredible opportunities at our fingertips through this app, I think it has the potential to do more good than harm if I can learn to wield it more intentionally.
I’m tired of fighting a losing censorship battle in order to share my art.
One of the more infuriating aspects of my relationship with this platform has been the ongoing, demoralising battle with censorship that started—no joke— when I began posting more personal work and images of curvy female bodies.
I’ve shared artistic nudes forever, all censored in order to placate the stupid rules, but they were primarily of slim models and none were ever flagged.
Some years ago, I uploaded (also censored) images from a body positivity shoot and the photos were reported (by multiple people whom I wager were in dire need of a hug, slap, or shag), which got the bots on my case and turned into an absolute shitstorm.
I’ve been shadowbanned, constantly had images pulled down, and was entirely deplatformed for seven months. Suddenly my artistic nudes were deemed “dangerous” for the community and banned for “soliciting sex”.
It feels like there’s an unspoken war on the female form—on women expressing themselves with sovereignty and honesty, especially without someone making a profit out of it. There’s a deep hypocrisy there which infuriates me
That censorship didn’t just hamstring my visibility and thus my ability to grow and access job opportunities, it also wore away at my drive to create and share authentically. It felt like a total waste of time and energy to even try.
My camera kit feels outdated and heavy and I’ve mostly used my iPhone camera of late.
My professional gear is over a decade old, and I resent the weight and bulk of it—both physically and emotionally. After such a long stretch of not using my DSLR regularly, it started feeling like a burden instead of a tool for inspiration.
I’ve got two Canon 5D Mark IVs, a wide range of prime lenses, a couple of zooms, two flashes—a full professional setup I worked hard to invest in over time11, and objectively still a solid kit.
But ten years is a really, really long time in tech, and the gear on the market has substantially improved. I let myself get bored and jaded, focusing on all the shiny new toys I couldn’t afford and acting like they were what was missing.
I’ve coveted the new compact mirrorless cameras for years12, dreaming of travelling with one small, lightweight body I can throw over my shoulder and take everywhere, discreetly shooting portraits on the street and documenting life again.
I’ve fantasised about owning a drone (honestly, how sick does the new DJI Mavic 4 Pro look!?) and shooting on analogue film. I’ve drooled over the thought of—in an ideal world—upgrading my kit to Canon R5s with R-series lenses, yum.
Swapping systems, though, would mean having to rebuild from scratch13, and that just didn’t make sense for me financially.
My compromise was upgrading my iPhone, which has been a huge win in bringing me daily joy. It’s so light (!!) and fits in my pocket and the 15 Pro Max lens system is actually impressive as fuck. I’ve just felt self-conscious that most of what I share these days is iPhone content.
Admitting all of the above makes me feel embarrassed because… I think it’s a shitty attitude.
I’ve never been a particularly technical shooter, and when people have DMed me over the years asking what gear I use, I’ve often offered up to the conversation the adage that the best camera is the one you have with you.
I wholeheartedly believe this. Great photography comes from your curiosity, your eye, your presence. If you’re focusing on an emotion or something you want to convey, you can shoot on a potato and still create images that move people and have impact.
Of course, it’s very appealing and fun to use great tech that delivers sensational results, and upgrading your tools can be a big source of freedom and inspiration. (Side note: it becomes somewhat crucial in certain contexts like low light or wildlife photography.)
I also, in my defence, am not a particularly large-framed human and the multiple kilograms that each of my cameras represent is not negligible for me, especially when I’m dual-wielding or traveling. It’s a bit of a punish, and after years of shooting music festivals and weddings with 2kg swinging off each shoulder (and periodically smashing into my hip bones—if you know, you know), I’m a bit over it.
However—I think I’ve been looking outside myself as an excuse to not face the deeper blocks around my creativity and my relationship to photography from where I am now, not where I used to be. And I feel like I owe my camera an apology.
What I can control now is a mindset shift to reignite the passion and joy I keep projecting onto the future, but with what I already have. Maybe it means stripping things back to basics—just grabbing my 24–70mm and one body on days I can deal with lugging around an extra few kilos, and trusting that whatever I get is what I get.
I love video, but I don’t feel good enough for it.
I was really into making films as a teenager. I would use my dad’s camcorder and get completely absorbed in the editing process. I loved the storytelling capabilities of it and it felt natural to me.
Then I started shooting stills professionally, and the standards for video became so high that I felt totally out of my depth. I figured I should focus on getting better at one thing instead of being mediocre at two. Especially with the investment in resources and time that seriously upskilling would have required in order to offer a high-end product. My at-home crafty approach was not cutting it for the collective level of the industry.
This is all rational stuff, but I think also that beneath that I was scared that if I took a leap with video, maybe I would suck at it, and it would just look like another watered down thing I couldn’t deliver perfectly.
Then you add to that the explosion of video on social media, and video editing took on a whole extra level of trends and needing to capture attention within three seconds and trending audios and trying to stand out from the masses, and it became even more overwhelming.
I’ve challenged myself this past year since upgrading my iPhone to sometimes share short snippets of life, not trying to make it impressive cinema but just to evoke a feeling or awe or share something personal. I get the ick whenever I upload a reel cos they’re not high-end at all, but I’ve been doing the thing.
So, my confession to you: I am not a professional videographer (lol, no shit). I wish I had that skillset, but I haven’t dedicated myself to developing it.
But—I really love video. It makes me happy mucking around with it. And I want to feel free to play in that space without thinking it’s embarrassing of me.
I let Instagram measure my worth, and I believed it.
The social media system of quantified external feedback has really done a number on me.
I know it’s bullshit, but I was not immune to equating value with external validation. And I also know it’s not all my fault. The platform was literally engineered by teams of behavioural scientists to hijack the dopamine system and make us addicts craving affirmation.
It works, and it makes them a shitton of money.
When you start to equate your value—as a person, as an artist—with how something performs online, it’s a slippery slope. Especially when the algorithm and the trends are constantly changing and millions of extra people keep joining up.
If you work up the nerve to share something honest and your engagement plummets, it’s tricky to not internalise that as rejection and this is where it gets dangerous: it teaches you over time that you should only share the parts of yourself that are easily received and that what performs better objectively has more value.
Every time I share something I’ve written, I lose followers. Every time I share a carousel with snapshots of my life, something raw and vulnerable or more abstract, I lose followers.
The only “safe” things to share, apparently, are visuals of pretty nude women—which, of course, we love—but I’d argue that a large portion of the engagement those posts receive isn’t necessarily from the kind of energetics I’m creating for.
It’s a toxic dynamic—one that rewards surface over substance, and discourages depth, subtlety, and originality in favour of trends and performance.
I’m not saying it’s entirely Instagram’s fault that I don’t have more followers or reach (aside from the censorship issue, which is 100% its fault). And I’m not saying that big accounts are all sellouts, because that’s not true at all!! So many creators manage to grow and stay in integrity. I admire that.
But I haven’t personally cracked the code. And I’ve noticed this game of numbers slowly poisoning my relationship with creation and expression.
I don’t want to let an algorithm determine my worth and have me frothing at the mouth for external validation. It gives me the ick that I’ve given a shit.
What actually means the most to me, by a landslide, are the personal messages people have been kind enough to write to me when something I’ve shared has moved them or resonated. That fills my cup a thousand times more than numbers on a screen ever could.
Now I just need to figure out how to beat a multibillion-dollar system at its own game—and somehow uninstall the programming it so carefully and intentionally embedded in my brain that makes me behave otherwise.
ALRIIIIIGHT.
How we doing? How we feeling?
I hadn’t even realised, let alone put into words, just how much I’ve come to associate photography with shame, failure, embarrassment, weight, and outdated versions of me and my life. And when you believe energy affects everything (which I do), it makes perfect sense that I’ve struggled to show up.
I’m sharing this in the hopes that voicing it will free me from thinking I must keep presenting myself a certain way to appeal to some fictional list of Important Clients and so that I don’t Disappoint Everyone.
It’s time to face the fact that I will never be the Leïla Joy I thought I should be. And I think that’s actually a good thing.
I was never able to uphold that old version because it’s not who I am. I’ve been at war with myself over it instead of just embracing what it is I’m actually here to do. I don’t think I’m supposed to live a life dedicated to a photography career. It’s not even what I want.
I want to welcome that my trajectory is not linear or consistent and that it’s really fucking scary sometimes to have that instability, and I want to look back at my life and feel proud of myself for doing things in a way that felt true to me
A note on aesthetics:
I love beautiful things. I find joy and inspiration in thoughtful curation, in colour palettes, in nice objects or spaces or well-designed brands. It’s yummy to me. But life doesn’t fit neatly into a moodboard—and neither do I.
I’ve tried to package myself into tidy, polished boxes, but it hasn’t worked for me because I’m not a brand, I’m a person. And it’s my choice to want to express myself more multidimensionally.
This isn’t a critique of those who express themselves beautifully and consistently—you’re gorgeous and talented and I absolutely love that for you, just like I love the moments where I feel put-together or kinda delicious. We ought to celebrate those parts of us.
It’s just not the full picture of who I am, and it feels stifling to dissect myself in order to be acceptable by my own standards.
I want to stop feeling like social media and photography are things I’m failing at.
I want to see Instagram as a space I get to come to and play in, somewhere I can connect with you and show you something cool or share something I’ve thought or created, hoping it brings something of value to your day.
I also think that I am robbing myself of all the amazing connections and opportunities that would be an energetic match for me if I showed up as myself, loudly and unapologetically. How are they supposed to find me if I’m wearing a disguise?
I trust that the brands, people, and projects that are aligned for me are the ones who’ll look at my mess and go—I like her vibe, she seems like my kinda people.
Just like I also will absolutely not be a match for a lot of people, and that’s more than okay, it’s actually an inherent part of having a clear identity.
The telling thing is that I feel more myself than ever and I like who I am. It’s only when I look through the lens of my perceived external world that I get in my head about it. And it’s all just me vs. me!
Like—who the fuck else actually cares?!
I guarantee that no random person has spent even half a minute focusing on what my Instagram does or does not look like, they have better shit to do with their time. Especially when so few people are actually seeing my content anymore *cough* shadowbanned.
I love getting to know creatives I follow on a more personal level and I don’t assume that they’re less professional just because they also exist as people.
Why do I assume that people will judge my entire person based on a few squares on a phone app? And if they do—WHO CARES??
So. I guess this is the part where I put this out into the world to be witnessed and wait and see what happens. Maybe I’ll be crucified and spontaneously combust from cringe. Maybe I’ll have a great conversations with someone. Maybe nobody will actually read this or care.
At least I’ve had a blast finding pics on Tumblr for it and I have something to look back at now to hold myself accountable if I find myself looping back in old patterns.
Doesn’t mean I wanna suddenly throw everything in the bin and completely change my online identity. I still wanna make and share pretty things. I just also want to get out of my fucking way, make it feel fun again, and stop taking shit so seriously.
Light the funeral pyres. It’s time to be audacious.
Be kind. Have fun. Enjoy your day.
Thank you for reading.
Love, Leïla
p.s. i’m still a wicked photographer, so if you wanna create something or tell your story in pictures or have a fun project, please hire me cos I would absolutely love to do that with you 🍯
All visuals collected from Tumblr & Pinterest.
p.s. if you’d like to support my art, pour me a mug of cacao, or otherwise sprinkle some magic in my day, you can do so here 🐉🖤🍯
see: #thealgorithm; prioritising video content; influencer economics; trends; personal brands, etc.
legend as in key; the thing that explains the symbols on a map, yno?
aussie slang I’m quite partial too: rig = hottie; someone with a sexy body.
something i’ve never been able to move forward with because i never had my models sign release forms & due to the nature of much of my favourite work being nudes and of wanting to respect the wishes of models who have since built hugely successful personal brands that no longer align with this type of imagery, i can’t in good faith publish other womens’ uncensored bodies—let alone monetise it—without their consent. it’s human first, art second in my books, much to my chagrin.
if another photographer is reading this, can you pls validate though how much of a bitch greens can be to nail in colour grading? or is it just me?
area of Northern NSW, Australia, in which Byron Bay is located. i moved to Byron in 2020 partway through the covid lockdowns.
also, falling in love.
in a funny full circle-moment, just before i left Byron, i booked a job shooting a retreat at this same place and was invited to stay in one of the beautiful rooms where i’d made the bed and scrubbed the bathroom dozens of times.
i have felt like this a lot throughout the course of my life.
shoutout to my younger sister for that turn of phrase—genius.
especially after my entire (uninsured) camera bag—worth about $14k at the time—was stolen from the Ivy in Sydney when I was eighteen and i had to start over from scratch.
i’m looking at you, Fuji X100VI, Sony RX100, Leica Q2/3, all of the toys.
FYI for non-photogs: frustratingly, lenses of one system don’t work with camera bodies of another system unless you stick a converter between them, which is not an elegant nor ergonomic solution. investing in high-quality lenses is also arguably the most costly (and important) part of achieving the results you want with your kit and everything loses value at a crazy rate in terms of the reselling potential. i doubt i would be able to get back even 15–20% of what i originally invested in my gear were i to resell it all today.
Nothing shameful whatsoever! A thoughtful and introspective description of the social media balancing act. Thank you!