If there was ever a year Murphy himself packed his camera, rented my studio, and photobombed my entire business, it was this one.
It all started in January. New Year. Fresh goals. A vision board pinned with big dreams. Bookings. Bold shoots. Brand growth. I had just launched a new campaign. Posted polished reels. Ran targeted ads that cost me more than I care to admit. I even upgraded my gear, thinking this was the final push I needed to break into that six-figure income bracket. I was ready for the rise. Or so I thought.
Then came Tiwa the Fashionista. She slid into my DMs with excitement hotter than the Lagos sun.
“Your work is giving. We need to work together as soon as possible.”
She picked a date. I cleared my calendar. I prepped three different mood board directions. I even borrowed a designer dress from a friend for her. I was hyped. I was hungry. And then silence. Days passed. My follow-up messages were read but never replied to. Eventually, I saw new pictures on her page. A fresh shoot. Different photographer.
No heads up. No apology. Just vibes. Or betrayal, depending on how you define it.
In February, I met what I now call the Valentine’s Illusion. A popular couple booked me for a romantic vintage fashion session. They sold me a dream. Rose petals. Satin sheets. Candlelit concepts. I was in. So much so that I postponed another client to make space for them. That client didn’t come back. But I was confident this couple would deliver the content and exposure I needed.
On the day of the shoot, Lagos said not today. The sky opened. Rain everywhere. My flash unit died midway. The stylist never showed up. The couple? They argued halfway through the shoot and ended it with a line I will never forget.
“We’re going to reschedule.”
They never did.
March came in with promise. Three bookings in one week. I told myself, finally. But it was just the universe warming up for another joke. One client changed the location three times in twenty-four hours, then ghosted me entirely. Another said I didn’t vibe with her aesthetic, despite booking me based on my aesthetic. The third client canceled due to a family emergency. I empathized. Until I found out her cat had died. She doesn’t even own a cat.
By April, I should have been numb. But I’m a creative. I always hope again. This time, a fashion brand from the mainland contacted me. Big plans. They said they were finalizing payments. They sent a detailed mood board. Even mentioned the possibility of future retainer contracts. I imagined months of steady work. Then they hired a TikTok content creator with an iPhone instead. Their reason?
He’s cheaper and does nice transitions.
It’s the transitions that got me.
May topped them all. I collaborated with a stylist who promised exposure and juicy connections. I went all in. Creative direction. Fire lighting setups. Post-production that kept me up for nights. The images were stunning. Clean. Colorful. Cover worthy. She posted nothing. Not a single frame. I reached out.
“Oh, I forgot,” she replied. “But your watermark is on it.”
My watermark. That was supposed to be enough. Apparently.
That month, I began questioning everything. Was my work not good enough? Was my face or my feed sending the wrong energy? Was I not praying enough? Posting enough? Charging too much? Too little? I found myself staring at my camera like it had let me down. Like maybe this wasn’t what I was meant to do. I even started researching how to become a real estate agent. Or a chef. Let’s be honest. I can’t cook anything past noodles.
June arrived, and I stopped planning. Anytime I dared to believe something was finally locked in, it unraveled. I started avoiding my calendar altogether, afraid to look at another canceled booking. I was tired of hearing my family ask why I was still at home when Instagram made it look like I was living the dream.
“But you’re always working,” they said.
Yeah. Working on not losing my mind.
But now, looking back, it wasn’t the missed payments that hurt the most. It wasn’t the ghosting or the fake promises. What broke me a little each time was the hope. The belief that this client would be the one. That this shoot would be the breakthrough. That this moment would be worth posting about, not another lesson dressed in frustration.
Still, I didn’t quit.
Somehow, I’m still here. Camera in hand. Heart still too stubborn to stop believing. Clients may have bailed. Shoots may have flopped. But the vision didn’t die. I’m still that photographer. The one who believes that fashion is art. That light is a mood. That even in chaos, there is always a shot worth capturing.
Because if everything that could go wrong did go wrong this year, that only means the comeback story will be unmatched. And I plan to be here, lens focused, when it finally goes right.