Since I started my photography journey, I’ve faced an internal battle that still lingers with me to this day. I know I’m not alone—many other photographers probably wrestle with the same question I often ask myself: “Am I really good enough?”

That doubt has followed me quietly, showing up when I least expect it. And the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve found myself asking an even deeper question: Where do these feelings of doubt actually come from?

It’s not easy going through this. For me, imposter syndrome has been one of the hardest things to shake. I’ve spent so much time studying, admiring, analyzing—but most of all, comparing other people’s work to my own. And quite frankly, I think that’s where a lot of the self-doubt starts. But there’s more to it than that.

There’s the obsession with gear. The self-talk that creeps in: “If I just get that next camera, or that lens, or maybe invest in some presets… maybe then my work will finally be good enough.” That internal voice doesn’t always shout, but when it speaks, it weighs heavy. It brings criticism, floods of doubt, and questions every little decision I make. Some days, it feels like it’s trying to wear me down completely.

Then there’s social media and school. The pressure is real. Critics come from all directions—harsh feedback that can hit hard, especially when it’s aimed at a piece you were proud of. It chips away at your confidence, even when you try to stay grounded.

There have been times when the thought of quitting crossed my mind. I remember one specific experience in school—a project I had poured my heart into. It was a photo story about the life of a father. A day-in-the-life project: his health issues, his role as a parent and husband, the typical 9-to-5 grind, the weight of responsibility, and the lack of time for himself.

The man I photographed told me that seeing the final images gave him a whole new perspective on his own life. That meant everything to me. It made me feel like I had created something real—something meaningful.

Then I got the feedback from my professor—someone established in the field—who told me the story wasn’t clear. That it didn’t make sense.

In that moment, all the confidence I had built came crashing down. I questioned if I was on the right path. I wondered if maybe I didn’t have what it takes.

Let’s talk about culture, too. Being Latino/Hispano, there’s another layer of pressure.

The photography world, in my opinion, can feel oversaturated—especially online. And while every photographer has their own style, as a Latino photographer, I’ve often felt the responsibility to shine a light on my culture. To help it be seen and recognized.

We constantly hear names like Annie Leibovitz, Ansel Adams, Peter McKinnon—all of whom I admire and respect deeply. But how often do we hear about César Rodríguez, Nacho López, Lourdes Grobet? Latino photographers who made real, lasting contributions to the art form?

I want to be a light for my culture. I want to tell our stories.

At the same time, I know I’m still learning. I’ve only been officially practicing photography for about three years. That means I still need space to experiment—to try, fail, and grow. And figuring out how to balance that growth with the responsibility I feel isn’t always easy.

That said, there’s been a shift. A survival moment—not just creatively, but emotionally. Reading the stories of others, looking back at my own work from the beginning to now—I can see how time, effort, and studying have paid off.

I see how my work has evolved. And I know it will continue to grow.

Those late-night edits, the long photo sessions, the days I carried my camera everywhere just in case—those quiet moments of reflection, of adjusting my methods, learning my settings, asking myself why I shoot the way I do… they’ve helped keep me grounded.

Learning to view self-doubt as part of the process instead of as a sign of failure has helped too. It’s taught me to slow down when I need to. To take my hands off the shutter. Breathe. Study the scene. Change the angle. See it differently—then shoot.

So when everything starts to “click,” what reminds me that I belong here?

It’s the smiles from people after they see their photos. The athletes who choose one of my images as their profile picture. The quiet confidence of knowing that I created something better than I did yesterday.

Someone once asked me, “What does success mean to you now?”

If you had asked me when I first started, I probably would’ve said getting published in a magazine. Or maybe—if I were just starting out today—I would’ve said success was going viral or hitting thousands of likes.

But that’s not it for me anymore.

Success is bringing attention to photographers from my culture. Success is knowing I made a difference—even a small one—in how we’re seen. My definition of success has changed from something superficial to something that carries genuine, lasting significance.

So, to wrap things up: when you feel like you or your work isn’t “good enough,” remind yourself to pause. Look at your older work. Compare it to where you are now. Ask yourself honestly: “Am I creating something that matters? Am I making a positive impact—even if it’s for just one person?”

Slow down. Breathe. Don’t feed into the negativity. Don’t stay stuck in it.

We are always evolving. And every experience—every mistake, every doubt—is a part of that evolution.

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