Written by Evan Calder

I never thought much about contests when I worked in the photography lab. My job was simple, at least on the surface. Help students get their files ready. Fix color issues. Clear paper jams. Show them, again and again, how to name files correctly so nothing got lost. I spent hours standing next to printers listening to their steady hum and watching images slowly appear, inch by inch. Faces. Streets. Empty rooms. Someone’s grandmother. Someone’s dog. Someone’s idea of who they were becoming. I cared about their work. I really did. But I kept mine tucked away, like it belonged to a different version of me I was not sure I was allowed to be anymore.

The lab had a certain smell that only people who work around printers would recognize. Warm paper. Ink. A faint chemical edge from cleaning solutions. It became normal to me. Comforting, even. Students would come in stressed, especially near deadlines, and I would tell them to breathe while I adjusted settings or reloaded trays. Sometimes they asked where I went to school or what kind of photography I did. I usually gave a vague answer. I said I liked documentary stuff. I said I shot when I had time. Both were true, technically. Neither felt honest. The truth was I had stopped sharing my work with anyone a long time ago, and eventually I stopped making it with any real intention.

What changed was not one big moment. It was small things stacking up. A student nervously hovering while her first print came out exactly how she hoped. Another one shrugging off a rejection email and saying he would try again. I noticed how often they talked about entering free photo contests like it was no big deal. No entry fee. No pressure, they said. Just send it in and see what happens. They treated it like part of the process, not some huge judgment. That stuck with me more than I expected. I realized most of my reasons for not submitting my own work were old excuses that no longer made sense.

I told myself I did not have time. I told myself my work was unfinished. I told myself I was better at helping than doing. None of that held up once I said it out loud in my head. The cost excuse was the easiest to drop.  These photo contests took that away completely. There was no money barrier to hide behind. No application fee to justify staying quiet. Just a deadline and a decision. I found myself thinking about them while driving home after late lab hours, headlights stretching across dark roads, camera sitting unused in the passenger seat.

I started shooting differently without really planning to. I would take my camera on short walks again. Nothing dramatic. Parking lots at dusk. Reflections in store windows. The way shadows fell across a bus stop bench. I noticed I slowed down more. I was not just collecting images anymore. I was looking for something that felt complete enough to stand on its own. The idea of submitting, even casually, gave my photos an endpoint. That surprised me. Editing stopped feeling endless. I made choices instead of tweaks. I asked myself which image said what I wanted, not which one could be endlessly improved.

There was one night in the lab when things were quiet, printers idle, lights humming softly overhead. I pulled up an old folder of my work on a lab computer, half expecting to cringe. Some of it was rough. Some of it was better than I remembered. That was uncomfortable in a different way. I realized I had been protecting myself from both failure and success by never putting anything forward. Submitting to competitions felt like a middle ground. It did not feel like shouting. It felt like raising a hand.

The first submission took longer than it should have. I second guessed everything. Crop. Color. Title. I stared at the upload screen longer than I want to admit. There was no dramatic send button moment. I clicked submit and went back to cleaning a printer nozzle. But something shifted. I walked home lighter. Not proud exactly, but steadier. Like I had stepped back into a conversation I had been listening to from the hallway for years.

At work, nothing changed on the surface. I still helped students. Still fixed mistakes. Still answered the same questions. But internally, I felt more aligned with them. When they talked about entering free photo contests, I listened differently. I understood the small bravery it took. The way participation mattered more than outcome. I did not tell most of them I had submitted anything myself. That was not the point. The point was I felt like a photographer again, not just someone who kept the machines running.

I began to notice how being around constant creativity had dulled me instead of inspired me, and how quietly stepping back into making work reawakened something practical and emotional at the same time. Editing at my kitchen table after dinner. Exporting files with care. Reading submission guidelines slowly. It all grounded me. I stopped scrolling aimlessly through other people’s work at night and started revisiting my own archives with fresh eyes.

Entering contests did not magically make me confident. They did not fix every doubt. But they gave structure where I had let things drift. They reminded me that photography is not only about perfection or recognition. It is about showing up, even imperfectly, and letting your work exist outside your own head. I am still cautious. I still hesitate. But I am also steadily curious now. Curious about what happens when I keep participating instead of standing behind the printer watching everyone else move forward.

After that first submission, I expected to feel exposed or distracted, like I had crossed some line I could not uncross. Instead, daily life stayed mostly the same, which was oddly reassuring. The lab still opened early. Students still rushed in with flash drives dangling from lanyards. Printers still misbehaved right when someone needed them most. What changed was how I paid attention. I noticed patterns in the images students brought in. I noticed how often they were braver than they thought. And I noticed how often I had underestimated my own quiet want to be part of that same flow.

One afternoon, a student stayed late to redo a print for a contest deadline. He was calm about it, almost casual, but his hands shook a little as he fed the paper into the tray. We talked while we waited. He said he liked contests because they forced him to stop tweaking. At some point, he had to decide it was done. That idea followed me home. I realized how many of my own photos never reached that point. They lived in a constant maybe state. Maybe later. Maybe after one more pass. Maybe when I felt more certain. Submitting gave me permission to call something finished, even if finished felt imperfect.

I began to treat my own shooting time with more respect. Not more pressure, just more intention. I blocked out small windows, usually early mornings or right before sunset, when the light did something honest. I carried my camera the way I used to, aware of its weight, its edges pressing against my side. I shot fewer frames. I waited longer. Sometimes I went home with nothing worth keeping, and that was fine. Other times, one image stayed with me, lingering in my mind while I washed dishes or folded laundry.

Editing shifted too. I stopped chasing a version of the image I thought someone else would like. Instead, I asked myself what felt true. That question sounds simple, but it is not. Truth can be quiet. It can be uncomfortable. Sometimes it meant leaving a shadow darker than I was taught. Sometimes it meant letting grain show. I trusted my instincts more because there was a reason to decide. The endpoint mattered. The act of sharing mattered.

I found myself browsing listings of free photo contests late at night, not obsessively, but thoughtfully. I read themes and prompts like they were suggestions, not commands. Some did not fit me at all. Others sparked ideas I would not have explored otherwise. I realized I was not chasing wins. I was chasing momentum. The feeling of staying engaged with my own work instead of drifting away from it.

There was a strange relief in knowing rejection was possible and survivable. Students taught me that without realizing it. They shrugged, laughed, tried again. They did not tie every outcome to their worth. Watching them over the years had normalized the process. Applying that lesson to myself took longer, but once it clicked, it stayed. A rejection email became information, not judgment. A quiet no, not a verdict.

At work, I grew more patient in ways I did not expect. When students panicked, I could meet them where they were without feeling drained. I understood the stakes better. I knew what it felt like to care about an image leaving your hands. I stopped giving vague encouragement and started offering specific reassurance. This print looks solid. The tones are consistent. You made a clear choice here. Saying those things felt honest because I was saying similar things to myself at home.

I also noticed how much of my identity had narrowed without me noticing. I had become the lab tech who helps, not the photographer who makes. The line between those roles had blurred so much that I forgot there ever was a difference. Participating reminded me that both could exist at once. I did not have to abandon my role to reclaim my voice. I could be supportive and still submit my own work quietly, without announcements or explanations.

Some evenings, after locking up the lab, I would sit in my car for a few minutes before driving off. The building lights glowed behind me. My camera rested on the seat again, no longer decorative. I thought about how easy it is to fade into usefulness and forget curiosity. How simple choices can slowly pull you back. Competitions were not the point on their own. They were a doorway. A low barrier invitation to step forward instead of staying neutral.

I am still cautious. I still hesitate before clicking submit. But the hesitation feels alive now, not paralyzing. It feels like care. Like attention. Like choosing to stay engaged with something that matters to me, even when it is uncomfortable. That shift has changed how I move through my days, both inside the lab and outside of it. I am more deliberate. More present. Less hidden.

By the time a few months passed, submitting stopped feeling like a big event and started feeling like a quiet habit. That surprised me the most. I had expected either a rush or a crash, something dramatic. Instead, it folded into my routine the same way calibrating monitors or cleaning rollers had at work. It became part of how I related to photography again. Not something separate. Not something elevated. Just another way of staying connected to the work.

The lab can be noisy in an uneven way. Printers roar for ten minutes and then fall silent. Students drift in bursts, then disappear. Between those moments, there is a lot of waiting. I started using that waiting differently. I would jot notes in a small notebook I kept in my bag. Light ideas. Locations I wanted to revisit. A line someone said that stuck with me. It felt old-fashioned, but it worked. It kept me thinking like someone who makes images, not just someone who processes them.

One afternoon, a student asked me how I decided when a photo was ready. The question caught me off guard. I almost gave my usual answer about technical readiness. Resolution. Color space. File format. But that was not what she was asking. I paused longer than usual and said something closer to the truth. I said it feels ready when you stop asking what else it could be and start accepting what it is. She nodded like that made sense. It made sense to me too, in a new way.

I noticed I became more forgiving with myself. Not careless, but kinder. I stopped comparing my quiet images to louder ones that got more attention online. I stopped feeling like I had to justify my choices. Submitting to contests helped normalize the idea that not everything has to be a personal statement. Sometimes it is just a moment you noticed and decided to share. That simplicity took pressure off and gave clarity back.

At home, my editing space stayed small. A corner of the kitchen table. A laptop. A chipped mug that never quite stayed warm. I worked in the early mornings before classes or late evenings after dinner. The house was never perfectly quiet. The refrigerator hummed. Cars passed outside. Those sounds anchored me. I liked knowing my photos were made and edited inside real life, not outside of it.

There was one image I almost did not submit. A bus stop at dawn, empty except for a single glove on the bench. The light was flat. The colors were muted. Nothing about it screamed importance. But it stayed with me. I kept coming back to it, opening the file, closing it, reopening it again. In the past, that would have meant endless revisions. This time, it meant attention. I made one small adjustment and let it go. Submitting it felt oddly peaceful.

I did not win anything. That did not bother me. What mattered was how normal the act had become. How little drama surrounded it. I realized that was what I had been missing for years. Not recognition, but continuity. A sense that photography could move alongside my life instead of waiting for a perfect version of it.

Students continued to rotate through the lab. Some graduated. Some disappeared halfway through the semester. New faces replaced them. Their work changed too. Trends shifted. Aesthetic cycles came and went. Watching all of that from my position made me aware of how temporary everything is, including the fear of sharing. That fear only feels permanent when you never test it.

Free photo contests kept showing up as small markers in my calendar. Deadlines I could choose to respect or ignore. Invitations, not demands. That framing mattered. It kept me from turning the process into another obligation. I stayed selective. I skipped themes that felt forced. I waited when nothing felt right. I trusted that participation did not have to be constant to be real.

Over time, I noticed my conversations changing. When students asked what I shot, I answered more directly. I talked about light and patience and letting images rest. I did not overshare, but I stopped deflecting. That felt like progress. Not loud progress. Just honest progress. The kind that settles in quietly and stays.

Looking back, I can see how easy it would have been to keep standing on the sidelines. Helping forever. Watching forever. Entering these competitions were not some dramatic turning point. They were a practical nudge. A way back into making without making it a performance. They reminded me that participation does not require permission, only willingness. And for the first time in a long while, that felt enough.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of contests as a separate category of photography and started seeing them as part of a larger rhythm. They became markers in time, like semesters or seasons, giving shape to months that might otherwise blur together. I noticed this most when I looked back at my folders. Images clustered around certain deadlines. Light changed. Subjects shifted. The work told a quiet timeline of where my attention had been, both visually and emotionally.

The lab itself began to feel different to me, even though nothing about it had changed. Same rows of computers. Same taped notes reminding students to log out. Same uneven stools by the workstations. What changed was my relationship to the space. I was no longer just maintaining it. I was absorbing from it. Being around constant creation stopped feeling like background noise and started feeling like a shared environment I belonged to again.

I paid more attention to process conversations. Students arguing with themselves about whether to crop tighter. Others debating black and white versus color. Those small indecisions felt familiar now. I recognized them in my own work. I started asking better questions when they wanted feedback. Not just what they were trying to fix, but what they were trying to say. Sometimes they did not know. That was fine. I knew now that uncertainty could still lead somewhere worthwhile.

Outside of work, my camera came with me more often, even when I did not plan to use it. It sat on the seat during errands. It rested on the floor during visits with friends. Sometimes I never took it out. Sometimes I noticed something simple that would have slipped past me before. A hand gesture mid-conversation. Light bending around a corner. A reflection that only lasted a second. Having a reason to submit later made those moments feel less disposable.

I also became more selective about what I consumed visually. I unfollowed accounts that made me feel rushed or inadequate. I spent less time scrolling through endless highlight reels. Instead, I revisited books and prints that had first pulled me toward photography years ago. Slower work. Quieter work. Images that trusted the viewer to stay a little longer. That shift was subtle, but it changed how I shot and how I edited.

There was a point when I realized I was no longer thinking about free photo contests as a test. They had become a container. A place to put finished thoughts instead of letting them pile up unfinished. That framing mattered. It kept me from attaching too much meaning to any single outcome. One submission did not define me. Neither did one rejection or silence. The work moved on, and so did I.I noticed my confidence growing in a way that felt grounded, not inflated. I was not suddenly bold. I was simply less afraid of being seen a little. That showed up in small ways. I shared a print with a colleague. I talked more openly about my own shooting habits. I allowed myself to say, I am working on something, without apology. Those were things I had avoided before without realizing how heavy that avoidance had been.

Even my failures felt different. When an image did not land the way I hoped, I could trace why. Not in a harsh way, but in a practical one. I learned where my instincts were solid and where they still needed sharpening. That kind of feedback loop had been missing when everything stayed private. Sharing gave me reference points I could actually use.

There were weeks when I submitted nothing at all. Busy weeks. Tired weeks. Weeks where nothing felt ready. I did not punish myself for that. I trusted the pattern I had built. Participation did not mean constant output. It meant staying open. Staying attentive. Staying willing to reenter when the moment felt right.

What surprised me most was how little validation I needed once the habit settled in. The act itself carried weight. The quiet satisfaction of finishing something and letting it go. Of choosing instead of stalling. Of remembering that photography is not only about results, but about engagement with the world around you. These contests simply gave that engagement a place to land.

There was a stretch of time when I almost stopped again. Not because anything went wrong, but because things felt busy in a dull, draining way. Mid-semester chaos. Equipment requests piling up. Students needing more help than usual. I went home tired and told myself I would shoot later, edit later, submit later. That word later can stretch a long way if you let it. I felt that old pull toward the sidelines creeping back in, quiet and familiar.

What helped was not motivation. It was noticing. I caught myself making the same excuses I used to. Too tired. Too distracted. Nothing worth sharing. Once I noticed the pattern, it lost some of its power. I did not force myself into big projects. I just picked up the camera again in small ways. Ten minutes outside. One short walk. One frame that made me pause. I reminded myself that participation did not have to be intense to be real.

Around that time, I helped a student prepare work for a small juried show. Not a contest, just a local exhibit. She was nervous, but excited. We talked about how she chose which images to include. She said something simple that stuck with me. She said she wanted the photos to feel like they belonged together, even if they were not perfect. That idea carried over into my own submissions. I stopped thinking about single images in isolation and started thinking about continuity in my work.

I noticed themes I had not named before. Waiting spaces. Early light. Objects left behind. Nothing dramatic, but consistent. Seeing those patterns made me feel less scattered. It helped me trust that my instincts had a shape, even if I could not fully describe it. Submitting work reinforced that sense of direction. It was not about chasing attention. It was about tracking myself over time

Contests continued to serve as low-pressure markers. Some months I sent one image. Some months I skipped entirely. The flexibility mattered. It kept the process from turning into another obligation. I liked knowing I could engage when it felt right and step back when it did not. That balance made the habit sustainable in a way nothing else had been for me creatively

I also became more thoughtful about endings. When a photo was done, I let it be done. I resisted the urge to revisit files endlessly. I archived things properly. I labeled folders clearly. Those practical steps might sound boring, but they gave me peace. They marked closure. They told me it was okay to move on and look forward instead of backward.

At work, I saw how much fear comes from not knowing where something will land. Students worried about grades. About acceptance. About whether their work was good enough. I recognized that fear because it lived in me too. The difference now was that I had proof that sharing did not break me. That trying did not undo anything. That realization made me steadier when offering support. I was no longer speaking from theory. I was speaking from lived experience.

I started to think about photography less as a performance and more as a practice. Something ongoing. Something allowed to change. Competitions fit into that mindset because they did not demand a fixed identity. I did not have to decide what kind of photographer I was forever. I only had to decide what felt honest right now.

There were moments when I surprised myself. Choosing a quieter image than expected. Leaving flaws visible. Trusting restraint. Those choices felt risky in a small, manageable way. And each time I made them, it became a little easier to trust myself again. Not completely. Not all at once. But enough to keep going.

By then, I realized the biggest shift had nothing to do with outcomes. It had to do with permission. Permission to participate without a spotlight. Permission to grow slowly. Permission to be both cautious and curious at the same time. That combination, I learned, is more powerful than confidence ever was for me.

By the sixth section of this process, something had settled in me that I had not expected. A sense of steadiness. Not excitement exactly, and not ambition either. It felt closer to alignment. My actions matched how I thought of myself again. That may sound abstract, but it showed up in very concrete ways. I stopped flinching when someone asked what I did with photography outside of work. I stopped minimizing it. I did not inflate it either. I just answered plainly.

The lab kept teaching me things, even when I was not looking for lessons. I watched how students reacted to outcomes they could not control. Some took rejection personally. Others brushed it off. Most landed somewhere in between. What I noticed was how quickly the emotional spike faded once they moved on to the next thing. That perspective was easier to see from the outside. Applying it to myself took practice, but repetition helped. Each submission became another data point, not a defining moment.

I also paid attention to how much energy it took to avoid participating versus how much it took to simply try. Avoidance had always felt safer, but it was heavy. It required constant justification. Trying required effort too, but it was cleaner. The energy moved somewhere instead of looping back on itself. That difference mattered more than I realized until I felt it in my body. Less tension. Better focus. More patience.

My shooting continued to evolve in small ways. I leaned into consistency rather than novelty. I revisited places instead of chasing new ones. The same intersection at different times of day. The same stretch of sidewalk across seasons. Repetition deepened my seeing. It taught me that familiarity can sharpen attention instead of dulling it. That lesson carried into how I chose what to submit. I trusted quieter work. Work that stayed with me even when it did not announce itself.

There were moments of doubt, of course. Days when everything felt flat. Weeks when nothing clicked. I let those stretches exist without trying to fix them immediately. I had learned that forcing output usually led to work I did not care about later. Waiting, when done intentionally, felt different from avoidance. It felt like listening. That distinction was important.

At some point, I realized I was no longer thinking about outcomes at all when I clicked submit. I was thinking about completion. About honoring the time I had already given the image. That shift made the act feel grounded. Less about being chosen. More about choosing to finish. Choosing to share. Choosing to stay in motion.

Free photo contests were still part of the picture, but they no longer felt central. They were simply one place among many where my work could land. That perspective gave me room to breathe. It reminded me that photography does not have to funnel through a single path to be meaningful. There are many ways to participate, many ways to stay connected.

I noticed how this mindset spilled into other parts of my life. I made decisions more decisively. I trusted my initial reactions more often. I accepted uncertainty without trying to resolve it immediately. Those are not dramatic changes, but they are durable ones. They stick.

Looking back, I can see how fragile my relationship with photography had become without me noticing. How easily it slipped into something observational instead of active. Reengaging did not require a dramatic overhaul. It required structure, permission, and repetition. Small steps taken consistently. A willingness to be seen a little.

That is what this process gave me. Not confidence in the loud sense. Not validation. But continuity. A thread that connected who I was at work with who I was when I picked up the camera on my own time. That thread feels strong enough now to carry forward, wherever it leads next.

I started to think about how long it had been since I first touched a camera. Not in a nostalgic way, just factually. Years had passed. So had versions of me. Student. Graduate. Assistant. Technician. Somewhere in there, photographer slipped from the front of the sentence to the end, then disappeared entirely. Getting it back did not feel like reclaiming a title. It felt more like remembering a habit that once kept me attentive to the world.

The lab mirrors that idea in strange ways. It is a place built for output, but also for waiting. Files upload slowly. Prints dry. Students pace. That waiting used to irritate me. Now I see it as part of the rhythm. Photography has its own waiting too. Light takes its time. Meaning does too. I stopped rushing both. I stopped expecting clarity on demand.

I noticed how my taste sharpened once I trusted it. Not louder. Sharper. I could look at my own images and know, fairly quickly, which ones belonged and which ones did not. That skill felt earned, not granted. It came from making choices repeatedly and living with them. Submitting helped with that. Each decision carried a small consequence. Not a punishment. Just a result. That feedback loop taught me more than any tutorial ever had.

There were conversations with colleagues that surprised me. Casual mentions of my work. Genuine interest. No pressure. I did not oversell or underplay it. I just shared when asked. That balance felt new. It felt adult in a way I had not expected. Like I could hold my work without gripping it too tightly or letting it slip away.

Free photo contests showed me something else I had not anticipated. They showed me how much community exists without performance. Quiet communities. People working in parallel, submitting work, reading guidelines, making choices alone at their desks late at night. That image stayed with me. It made the act of submitting feel less lonely. Less like standing on a stage and more like joining a long table where everyone is focused on their own piece of the work.

I began to understand why the cost mattered less than the context. Removing fees removed excuses, yes, but it also removed weight. It kept the act of sharing from feeling transactional. It felt like participation rather than investment. That distinction mattered to me. It kept my intentions clean. I was not trying to get something back. I was trying to stay in motion.
‍
There were days when I thought about stopping again. Not seriously, but briefly. Old habits do not vanish completely. They wait. The difference now was that stopping felt like a choice instead of a default. I knew what it cost me to disappear from my own work. I knew what it gave me to stay present. That awareness made the decision easier, even when energy was low.

As the year moved on, my archive grew in a way that felt meaningful. Not bigger, just clearer. Fewer images. Stronger connections between them. A sense of throughline. I did not need to name it yet. I just needed to notice it. Submitting along the way helped me track that growth without overthinking it.

I am still cautious. That part of me is not going anywhere. But it no longer runs the show alone. Curiosity has a louder voice now. Not an urgent one. A steady one. It asks what happens if I keep going. If I keep finishing. If I keep letting my work leave my hands. So far, the answer has been simple and sufficient. Things keep moving. And that, for me, is enough to continue.

‍

‍