I don’t quite know how I got here—maybe it’s just the luck of the draw—but I seem to have an unusual front-row seat into the emotional lives of several of my closest female friends. We’re talking about the deep stuff here. Not gossip. Not pillow talk. But the quiet, unresolved ache that lingers just beneath the surface of their marriages. The kind of conversations that begin over wine and drift into whispered confessions.
They don’t frame it this way—and I don’t think they see it quite like this—but from where I’m sitting, their marriages look… transactional. Like an exchange of goods and services rather than a living, breathing love story. A keeping of score. A bartering of expectations. Sex for security. Companionship for stability. A soft, unspoken contract of convenience dressed up as commitment.
And let me be clear: I’m not judging. I’m observing. And reflecting. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize that a certain level of transactional exchange is baked into almost every human relationship. It’s unavoidable. It’s how we move through the world.
Love, as idealized as we might like it to be, has its economics.
Love on the Ledger
We exchange kindness for kindness. We expect reciprocation. We tally emotional investments and watch for returns. We hold back when we feel we’re giving more than we’re getting. We do things for each other not only out of selfless love—but because we expect it’ll be noticed, appreciated, or returned in kind.
This isn’t wrong. It’s human.
In any relationship—marriage, friendship, business, family—there has to be some level of equilibrium. A sense that what I’m giving is not disappearing into a black hole. That it’s being received, valued, and maybe even multiplied.
But here’s the catch: if a relationship becomes entirely transactional, it begins to wither. You stop doing things because you want to. You start doing them because you have to. Obligations pile up. Passion dries up. And suddenly, you’re business partners playing house. Your intimacy is scheduled. Your affection feels performative. The magic is gone.
When love becomes too balanced on the scales, it loses its spark.
That’s the paradox. Healthy relationships need give-and-take—but they also need moments of reckless generosity, of lopsided grace, of spontaneous delight. Of doing things just because. Not because you owe, but because you love.
It’s not that transactional love is evil. It’s just insufficient. You can’t build something transcendent on trades alone.
The Photographic Transaction
And that brings me to photography. Funny how the mind works—I was thinking about this same “transactional” energy in my craft today.
How photography, for many people, operates purely as a transaction.
You take a picture. You post it. You get likes. You feel validated. Rinse and repeat.
Or you take a picture to get paid. You shoot what the client wants. You deliver the goods. Money changes hands. Done and done.
Or even in more personal terms: you photograph your vacation to prove you had fun. You document your kids to show you’re a good parent. You frame a sunset to tell the world you noticed something beautiful.
Now again, none of this is inherently wrong. Photography has always been part transaction, part expression. We’ve always used images to communicate, to persuade, to remember, to sell.
But here’s the thing. When photography becomes only transactional—when every click is a means to an end—you lose something.
You lose the joy.
You lose the discovery.
You lose the mystery.
You lose the part of photography that’s about presence, not performance.
You stop seeing and start producing.
You shoot for engagement, not for enchantment.
You chase trends instead of chasing the light.
You imitate instead of imagining.
Transaction vs. Transformation
And I think that’s the deeper connection between love and photography. When they’re reduced to transactions, they feel hollow. Predictable. Dutiful. Efficient, yes—but also dry.
But when they’re rooted in transformation—in the magic that happens when you give without calculating return—then they become something more.
Think about it.
The best photographs aren’t taken.
They’re felt.
They’re received.
They arrive in a moment of stillness, when you’re not working for them but open to them.
They sneak up on you. They surprise you. They move you.
And you don’t always know why.
Same with love.
The best moments in a relationship aren’t scheduled or earned. They’re found. In a glance. In a shared joke. In a brush of hands. In a night you both remember forever, for no reason other than the fact that you showed up.
Why the Good Stuff Only Comes When You Let Go
Whether it’s in relationships or in photography, the “good stuff”—the soul-quaking stuff, the unforgettable stuff—only comes when you let go of control. When you release your grip on outcomes. When you stop trying to get something and simply be somewhere.
Transactional love and transactional photography share the same problem: they chase outcomes.
They’re both focused on what happens after the moment, rather than what’s happening in the moment.
And that’s where the magic dies.
You never get to the good stuff—deep intimacy, artistic clarity, spiritual resonance—if you live only in the realm of exchange. If every act is a means to an end. If every gesture demands a return.
You have to surrender. To the mystery. To the moment. To the messy beauty of it all.
Bringing It Back Home
So what am I saying?
I’m saying that we all live with transactional energy in our lives. It’s not bad. It’s not evil. It’s necessary. It keeps the lights on.
But it can’t be all there is.
If your relationships are feeling lifeless—ask if they’ve become too transactional. If your photography is feeling stale—ask if you’re shooting with a ledger instead of a longing.
Make room for generosity. For randomness. For messiness. For passion. For stillness. For surprise.
Make room for the more.
Because whether it’s love or photography, the magic lives just beyond the math. In the uncalculated. The unplanned. The unapologetically human.
And if you ask me, that’s where all the good stuff is waiting.
Click.
Jack.
