Over the New Year, I’ve been reading and watching online influencers talk, incessantly, about how remarkable and uncommon each is, or should I say, how remarkable and uncommon they think they are or claim to be.
It’s exhausting. And a bit dishonest too.
When I think about “uniqueness”, as an objective concept—whether in photography, personality, or life—I find myself walking a fine line.
On one hand, we all crave to be seen as special, distinct, and one-of-a-kind.
It’s a deeply human desire to feel irreplaceable and incomparable. On the other hand, when I step back and think about the bigger picture, I wonder: are we really that unique? Or is the idea of “uniqueness” just a story we tell ourselves to make sense of our place in the world?
I don’t honestly know? But my gut tells me that our proclaimed uniqueness is insecurity in disguise.
In photography, we love to believe that our work stands apart. We obsess over finding our personal style, crafting images that are unmistakably “ours,” and separating ourselves from others with our vision.
It’s exhilarating to think that we see something no one else sees, that we can frame the world in a way only we can.
And yet, I can’t help but notice that no matter how unique we think we are, we’re all borrowing from the same raw materials- light, shadows, colors, and time.
The tools we use and the subjects we photograph are shared.
A sunrise doesn’t belong to any one person, and neither does the act of capturing it. Are we truly creating something new, or are we remixing the raw material of existence in a way that feels personal to us?
It’s not just about photography. Think about life itself. Aren’t we all made of the same stuff? The same carbon, the same stardust, the same emotions and experiences of joy, pain, love, and loss.
We share stories, archetypes, and struggles. Even our differences often emerge from shared roots: a scar from an old wound, a boundary shaped by past hurts, a strength forged in adversity.
In that way, perhaps our uniqueness is more about the specific combination of these elements—the way the pieces come together in each of us—than about being entirely original.
For people who hold their uniqueness close to their hearts, this perspective might feel unsettling, even diminishing. After all, if we’re not as unique as we believe, does that make us less special? Less important? I don’t think so.
Honoring our shared humanity doesn’t erase individuality; it deepens it.
It reminds us that while we may not own the building blocks of who we are, the ways we assemble them still matter.
Your story, your experiences, your scars—those are yours, even if they’re made from the same raw materials as everyone else’s.
That said, we often face the hurdle or fear of being compared to others.
It’s natural to want to stand apart, but comparison doesn’t have to diminish us.
Instead, it can be a reminder of our shared humanity and an opportunity to see the beauty in how we each interpret the world differently.
Embracing comparison as a chance to learn rather than a threat to our identity can free us to grow.
And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Our individuality doesn’t have to rest on being completely different from others.
Instead, it can rest on how we bring our essence to the shared world. How we give meaning to what’s universal.
How we create connections by showing that we’re both unique and the same.
So yes, you are unique. And no, you’re not entirely unique. Both can be true. Maybe the challenge isn’t proving how different we are, but learning to embrace both our individuality and our commonality.
In doing so, we don’t just honor ourselves—we honor everyone else, too.
As photographers, we are not good because we are unique; we are unique because we are good.
Like most photographers, I relish thinking of my work as unique, singular, and special snowflakes and thumbprints.
But in the greater cosmos of things, I think, humbly, commonality trumps individuality.
After all, I piss and shit, burp and fart, eat and sleep, bleed and heal, laugh and cry, live and die… like everyone else.
We are the same stardust.
…We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devil’s bargain
And we’ve got to get ourselves
Back to the garden
Joni Mitchell
Click.
Jack.
