Veronica Keal always found herself at the intersection of two worlds. One was an image—sharp, polished, relentless. The other was a feeling—a murmur of something deeper, more personal, something that sat quietly in the back of her mind, often forgotten beneath the noise. She was a freelance creative, a photographer, a writer, an occasional designer, with a résumé as varied as her talents. Yet, despite the multitude of projects she’d dived into, there was always a part of her that felt she was, in some sense, floating. Stuck in the throes of hustle culture and craving the personal fulfillment of her own artistic vision, Veronica was always caught in the middle of it all.
Her story was one of contradiction. She loved the grind, the hustle of it all—the chaotic energy that filled every waking moment with the possibility of success, or failure, or both. Instagram was her playground, her clients found her via DMs and tagged photos, and the likes, the comments, and the reposts were an addictive reminder that her work, for better or worse, mattered in some tangible way. She had been trained for this. She had been told that success meant momentum, meant waking up at 5 AM, squeezing in a yoga session, knocking out a few client projects, then diving into her own art. “Rise and grind,” the slogans shouted from every corner of the internet. “Work harder. Work smarter. Don’t stop, won’t stop.” She had been sold on it, and she bought in.
It was easier to get caught up in the wave of it all. Everyone around her was either doing it, talking about doing it, or pretending to be doing it. But Veronica had a quiet rebellion brewing within her—a sense that there had to be more to life than just being busy. But how could she dare question the very thing that was giving her a paycheck? That was letting her do what she loved for a living? This was the dream, right?
At thirty-two, Veronica had been freelancing for six years, but she felt no closer to figuring it out. At night, she would lay in bed, scrolling through her phone, haunted by the work of others. So many creatives—artists, designers, photographers—seemed to know exactly where they were going, how they were doing it, and had seemingly figured out how to find balance. She felt lost in comparison. She was stuck between creating art that she truly loved and the reality of needing to make money. Between doing and being. Between paying her bills and following her passions.
Her days were often a blur. She would wake up to an inbox full of emails from potential clients, friends, collaborators, and sometimes even strangers who wanted to work with her. Each email was a new possibility, a potential project to take on, or a reminder of something she had promised to deliver yesterday. She would respond, negotiate prices, schedule meetings, and then spend hours—sometimes days—putting together mood boards, designing, shooting, editing, and tweaking. It was fulfilling in its own way, but it wasn’t the art she dreamt of. It was work. And work, despite being a necessary part of her life, always seemed to take her further from her heart’s true desire.
Her apartment—modern, minimalist, and flooded with natural light—was a space that screamed “creative.” It was where she shot her photography, edited her photos, where she could sit with a cup of coffee and try to gather her thoughts. But every time she picked up her camera with the intention of creating something personal, something original, her mind would wander to the demands of the freelance world: the ever-present need to network, to hustle, to post. There was always a sense that she should be doing something for someone else—something that could pay the bills.
Veronica had always been the type to prefer working alone. The art she created for herself felt different. She would take her camera and wander through the streets of her city—where she lived in a bustling urban environment—photographing moments, capturing the faces of strangers, abstract scenes, quiet pockets of life. Her photos were raw, unrefined, authentic. They weren’t made for a client or a brand, but for her. But this, too, was where the dilemma would creep in. The art she truly loved to make never seemed to be what people were willing to pay for. She struggled to justify her time spent on these personal projects when the deadline for a commercial shoot was looming. The constant tension between creating what felt right and doing what was needed was suffocating.
Social media didn’t help. The pressure to keep up, to post new content every day, was relentless. Each photo or design was an opportunity to gain visibility, to get noticed. But Veronica found herself increasingly disillusioned by it all. The algorithms dictated what people saw, how often they saw it, and who they saw it from. The constant chasing of engagement left her feeling empty. Were these likes really validating her work? Was she actually creating something meaningful, or was she simply feeding into a machine that cared little for substance?
One of the hardest parts was the fear of missing out. “Everyone is doing something amazing,” she would tell herself as she scrolled through her feed, watching as other creatives lived out their dream lives. But even in her moments of envy, Veronica knew that those moments—those filtered, carefully curated glimpses into other people’s lives—were just that: moments. She knew that everyone was wrestling with the same tension. That no one truly “had it all together,” no matter how polished their lives looked on the surface. Yet still, the comparison game was hard to escape.
Despite the noise, Veronica found herself in the middle of an unexpected breakthrough one rainy evening in her apartment. She had just finished an intense commercial project, where she had pushed her creativity to the edge, but felt no real satisfaction afterward. Instead of diving into another round of client work, she pulled out her camera and went back to the streets. This time, she wasn’t thinking about likes or reposts or deadlines. She was simply capturing moments that spoke to her, images that felt real. She realized in that quiet moment that her work didn’t need to be defined by the standards of others. She could create for herself, and if others appreciated it, that was a bonus.
It wasn’t an overnight transformation, and it wasn’t easy. But slowly, Veronica began to set boundaries. She still took on client projects, but she stopped measuring her worth by how much she could hustle. She allowed herself time to breathe and time to create for herself. She stopped comparing herself to other creatives and started to trust in her own process, her own journey. She shared her personal work on her terms—no longer feeling the need to force it for an audience.
Over time, Veronica learned to balance the grind with her artistic vision. It wasn’t perfect, and the tension never fully disappeared, but she began to feel like her work was truly her own. She no longer needed to chase validation, nor did she believe that “hustle” was the only path to success. In the end, Veronica realized that the only thing that truly mattered was staying true to herself, creating because it made her happy—not because it was the next thing on a checklist.
Veronica Keal’s journey was a reminder that creative success doesn’t always have to look the same for everyone. In a world obsessed with speed and productivity, it was the moments of stillness that gave her the clarity she needed to reclaim her artistry. The hustle culture had tried to shape her, but it was her own voice, her own vision, that ultimately defined her.
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