Pharmacist to Photographer

The truth was I was terrified. I thought there was a better-than-average chance I might starve at the bottom of a crevasse or lose my team in a blizzard. I was also certain I had no idea what I was doing as a photographer. Turns out I was right about at least one of those things.

Self-Portrait. Somewhere in the middle of the Greenland Ice Sheet- 2007

I’m instantly awake. My bladder knows way before my mind; this is a red alert. I need to get out of this mummy bag, find my boots, and pray the storm that's kept us pinned inside this tent for the last 48 hours graces me with a small window of opportunity. I have no idea what time it is or the date. Grabbing what I think is a jacket, I breach our shelter with all the grace of an ostrich in a shopping cart and stumble headlong into a blinding shock of white light. Here in the big empty void that is the Greenland ice sheet, two things jump to mind as I stand butt cheeks to the wind. First, this is not my jacket, and second, is it too late to renew my pharmacy licence?

It wasn’t the first time I had questioned my decision to quit my job, sell everything, and ski 2300 km across the second-largest body of ice in the world, and it wouldn’t be the last. But the thought was fleeting. Standing alone, pants around my borrowed ski boots, and a low amber sun blazing above an infinite horizon, I settled back into this new reality. I was no longer a pharmacist; I was an expedition photographer. Of course, all that would change as soon as I got home. But for now, it would have to be enough. And enough is all you need to get started.

THE POWER OF POTENTIAL

Let’s back up a little. It’s 2007, and I’m working full-time as a pharmacist in the Nunavut capital of Iqaluit. I don't hate my work, but I do not love it. Goals change, priorities shift, and I am given an opportunity to choose something different. I remember it was scary and confusing but also louder than my desire to stay where I was. People often ask me, “Why leave pharmacy for photography?” The simple answer is that I didn’t. At first, I was a little taken aback by the question. I did not see my decision as strange or even all that interesting. I have come to realize that most people are genuinely curious. Some are in a similar position. They’re on a fence, facing a choice, summoning the courage to take those first clumsy steps toward a full-time creative career.

My path to freelance photography was as indirect as it gets. Like many origin stories, mine starts with that seductive word, potential. As a hobbyist, I had a good job. I could afford gear to get started and had a safety net if things got too uncomfortable. Unconditionally backed by family and friends, I was full of unearned confidence and pluck. These are not bad qualities; effort and passion count, but I had no real focus. I had a desire to change my reality but was lacking the spark. I needed a catalyst. 

Side quest with me for a moment as I introduce you to my good friend, Sarah McNair-Landry. A polar guide, a world-class adventure athlete, and for a brief time – an eager broomball player. Yes, broomball – the middle child of winter sports. I mention it here because, on one fateful night after a rousing game of community broomball, I found myself staring opportunity in the face. Somewhere between the second round of drinks and the fourth plate of chicken wings, Sarah dropped a bomb. “We are heading to Greenland to complete an expedition. Our third member dropped out, and we need a photographer. Are you interested?” Elbows deep in hot sauce and wincing from a regrettable embrace of the rink boards with my torso earlier that night, I said yes - spark meet gasoline.

My first and forever favourite photographic subject, qimmiit the Inuit Sled Dog. Iqaluit, Nunavut

PULLING THE THREAD

In the months following, I prepared for what many of my friends had baptized, An Arctic Hobbit’s Tale: There and Maybe Back Again. No joke, they were placing bets on my chances of survival. Sure, I was new to this whole winter camping thing, so what if I didn’t own skis? I had a direction, I had potential, and I had a Canon Rebel XT. I was ready for the big leagues. I gave my manager my notice, put my truck up for sale, and decided it was finally time to figure out what RAW was. The truth was I was terrified. I thought there was a better-than-average chance I might starve at the bottom of a crevasse or lose my team in a blizzard. I was also certain I had no idea what I was doing as a photographer. Turns out I was right about at least one of those things. 

Despite the self-doubt, against all logic and the potential for disaster, the expedition was an incredible success. This was all largely due to my teammates, who kept me alive and on the sunny side of most crevasses, always with a seemingly endless supply of chocolate. I arrived home with a newfound belief in what I could accomplish, what was possible, and absolutely no idea what to do next. What I did have was a choice. I could keep pulling this thread to see where it went, or consider it an adventurous detour on my road to pharmaceutical redemption.

Naturally, like any self-respecting artist facing big life decisions, I found myself sleeping on my folk's couch. There is little in this world that makes a parent more proud than a brooding university-trained 30-year-old grappling with his purpose in the universe while eating cereal in his underwear. Eventually, I made my way back north. I didn’t want to return to the pharmacy, but I wasn’t sure about photography either. Nunavut still felt like home. Whatever the next chapter, at least I knew I wanted it to be there. If I was going to make a go of the full-time photo thing, I needed experience. A few decent landscapes, my neighbour’s dog’s seventh birthday, and a trip across an icecap, while commendable, are not the cornerstones of a professional portfolio. I started taking any and every job I could get my hands on – corporate events, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, headshots, airport stock, and even a few weddings. In my spare time, I chased the images I wanted to create – sled dogs, aurora-filled skies, and adventure travel. I was not yet a self-supported full-time photographer, but I was orbiting it. 

Legendary teammates Sarah and Eric taking a snack break on the Greenland Ice Sheet.

THE TRUE COST OF SENDING A PHOTOGRAPHER INTO ORBIT

The problem with orbiting anything for too long is that you burn a lot of fuel without ever committing to a landing. With my savings dwindling and my new career not quite bridging the financial gap, the cold hard reality of responsibility set in. After crunching the numbers and making a few phone calls, I swallowed my burgeoning pride and took temporary jobs to help keep the lights on. Lesson learned. I needed a solid handle on my finances, this transition costs money. You can measure money in dollars, time invested, time away from loved ones, creative compromise, or opportunities lost. Choose anything you value, and freelance will show you its true cost. 

I was beginning to have a much clearer idea of the life I would need to set up for myself to reach my goals. I had some real-world experience now, had been knocked around enough to have a few war stories, and was gaining the confidence to pitch clients on the content I would like to make. If, for example, I wanted someone to hire me to create images for tourism campaigns, I needed a body of work to support my pitch. I decided to build shots that looked like the jobs I wanted to land. I had to work with intention. In my case, that meant arranging outdoor adventure shoots, family camping shoots, and community and natural attractions. None of these were commissioned or directly put money in my hand, but they taught me how to manage time, a set, a team, troubleshoot in the field and deliver. More importantly, it proved to potential clients and myself that I was capable. This period of investing in myself financially to help open doors at a future point was a big step forward. I felt like I was really embracing the freelance lifestyle now.

BACK TO THE PRESENT

Experience and a willingness to keep trying have instilled trust in myself – it will work. I can make this work. This realization came with a tremendous amount of help and support. I have found that aligning myself with compatible partners and organizations is incredibly important. I’m a photographer who performs well in isolation but truly excels in a community. The community works because I never take it for granted. Practice gratitude, be kind, do more good than bad, and own the mistakes you will inevitably make.

Still the best part of my job, the people I have the good fortune to call teammates and friends. On assignment in Antarctica with Intrepid Travel - 2023

It’s ten years on, and here I am on a Wednesday morning, sockless and making a second cup of coffee. I’m sketching logo ideas for a new business venture while attempting to balance a budget from a photo workshop the previous week. I’m also repairing my wide-angle lens for the ninth time after another recent stint camping on the Greenland ice sheet. It was much smoother this time around. Now making commercial and personal work that feels on-brand, I have set my sights on travel, leading workshops, and multi-year projects. I’m less concerned with the longevity of my work and more focused on quality interactions. Your work may get you noticed, but it is you as an individual that people will remember.

IN THE END

This sort of career change wasn’t the idealistic leap of faith most self-help gurus would have us believe. For me, it was never about "doing what you can’t not do" or finding a true calling. It was about unlocking trust in myself that I could be something else. That I could grow beyond what was comfortable. To take one opportunity and then keep taking them. There were big gambles and sometimes huge breakthroughs. But there was also a healthy dose of sacrifice, compromise, and disappointment. There was a lot of doubt in those first few months, even years. But there was never any doubt I had to move forward.

I did eventually find my jacket that morning in Greenland. My pharmacy licence remains expired.

This article was originally published in Photo Life magazine, in April 2020 titled “The Switch Up”