I still remember the thrill when I first decided to get serious about photography. Like many, I started small—a basic DSLR with a kit lens. At first, it felt like magic: capturing the world with just a click, freezing moments that I could revisit forever. But soon, that magic turned into something else—something darker. I fell into the endless cycle of gear acquisition syndrome (GAS), chasing the perfect shot not through practice, but through purchases.
My first temptation was a prime lens. Every forum swore by it. “Your images will pop like never before,” they promised. So I bought a 50mm f/1.2. And for a while, they were right. The shallow depth of field was mesmerizing—until I read about wide-angle lenses. Suddenly, I was convinced I needed a 16-35mm f/2.8 to truly “capture the scene.” My credit card burned, and my hands trembled as I unboxed it, imagining the breathtaking landscapes I’d create. But those sweeping vistas never came—not the way I envisioned them. Instead, my compositions felt uninspired, and my photos lacked life.
Then came the obsession with speedlights. I convinced myself that natural light was no longer enough. I bought one, then another, and eventually a portable softbox, thinking I’d become the next big portrait photographer. Instead, the flashes gathered dust in the corner, their batteries corroding as I returned to natural light out of frustration.
The breaking point, though, was a telephoto lens. I wasn’t even interested in wildlife or sports, but some part of me thought I might be. I imagined myself capturing eagles mid-flight or athletes frozen in time. But when the lens arrived, I struggled to carry it. I could barely justify using it, much less lugging it around. It made me feel like a fraud, weighed down not just by its literal heft, but by the growing realization that no amount of gear could fix what I lacked: vision, patience, and practice.
Looking back, I see how blind I was. My camera bag grew heavier, but my photography didn’t improve. Instead, it stagnated under the pressure of all that gear I barely understood. I was chasing shortcuts, hoping that the next shiny thing would magically make me a better photographer. But it doesn’t work like that. The regret hit hardest when I opened my closet one day to find a graveyard of equipment I rarely used. Thousands of dollars spent on dreams that weren’t even mine—dreams sold to me by ads, influencers, and the whisper of inadequacy in the back of my mind.
Now, I stick to one camera and two lenses. A simple setup that forces me to think, to work within limits. GAS still tempts me sometimes—especially when I see new gear reviews or glossy YouTube tutorials. But I remind myself that photography is about seeing, not buying. The best camera is the one you know how to use, and the best lens is the one you have with you.
If you’re just starting out, let me save you some heartache: don’t fall into the trap. Invest in yourself, not just your gear. Because the most important thing isn’t in the camera bag—it’s in your eyes and your hands. Trust me, no lens can ever replace that.
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