I don’t really know if people still read blogs anymore.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I know some of you do, because every now and then I’ll get a message about something I wrote years ago, and I’ll be reminded that somewhere out there, somebody is still finding pieces of me that I left behind on the internet.

But this one feels a little different.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write it for a while now. Not because I don’t know what I want to say. Lord knows I’ve never had a shortage of things to say. But because, for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I’m standing at the beginning of something without knowing exactly what the ending is supposed to look like.

And for somebody who has spent most of his life with a plan, that’s a pretty uncomfortable place to be.

But here we are.

So, allow me to reintroduce myself.

My name is Sidney Baker-Green. I’m a photographer, a cinematographer, a colorist, a pilot, a creator, a dreamer, and probably a dozen other things that don’t fit neatly into a website navigation menu.

And somewhere along the way, I think I forgot that I was allowed to be all of them.

For most of my adult life, I’ve been known for what I do.

For some of you, I’m the wedding photographer. The guy who talks about the importance of photographs, preserving memories, and creating something beautiful enough to be passed down for generations.

For others, I’m the guy on YouTube who taught you how to color grade in DaVinci Resolve, reviewed a camera you were thinking about buying, or somehow convinced you to spend an unreasonable amount of money on filmmaking equipment. Sorry about that, by the way.

Maybe you’ve followed me because of aviation. Maybe we met at a wedding, at a conference, on an airplane, or in some completely random corner of the internet.

However you got here, I’m glad you did.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about something that I don’t think I’ve ever really given myself the space to say.

A lot of people know what I do. I’m not entirely sure how many people know who I am.

And I think, for a while, I was starting to forget, too.

I want to tell you a little bit about how I got here.

Not the polished version. Not the version that makes everything look like some perfectly executed ten-year business plan. Because, baby, if there’s one thing I can tell you, it’s that absolutely none of this went according to plan.

Aviation was my first love.

Long before I ever picked up a professional camera, I was the kid spending thousands of hours flying virtual airplanes, dreaming about the day I could do it for real. Eventually, I made my way to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, earned my pilot’s license, and started building the life I had imagined since I was three years old.

Photography was my second love. It came into my life almost by accident, through curiosity, creativity, and a desire to make the things I saw look the way they felt in my head.

I loved it. I still do.

But what started as something I loved eventually became something I needed.

When my mother lost her job, our lives changed in ways I never could have anticipated. There were evictions. There were hotel rooms. There were days when we were trying to figure out how to make what little money we had last just a little bit longer.

I remember watching our belongings being put out on the curb. I remember people from the university driving past, and the overwhelming feeling that somehow, despite everything I’d worked toward, I had failed.

It’s a strange thing to be young, ambitious, and full of dreams while simultaneously trying to figure out where you’re going to sleep.

I put aviation on hold. Not because I stopped loving it, but because life had other plans, and survival didn’t leave a whole lot of room for negotiation.

So I picked up a camera.

I built websites from hotel rooms. I studied marketing. I photographed just about anything somebody would let me photograph. I took whatever opportunities I could find, learned from every mistake, and kept going.

Eventually, one wedding became another. Then another. The work started getting noticed. The business grew. I went from wondering how I was going to make it to photographing weddings I once couldn’t have imagined being hired for.

Later came filmmaking, color grading, YouTube, brand partnerships, and opportunities to work with companies I had admired for years.

And somewhere in all of that, I built a career.

A pretty remarkable one, actually.

I’m proud of that. I need to say that, because I think sometimes when we talk about wanting something different, people assume it means we’re unhappy with everything that came before.

That’s not true.

I am incredibly proud of what I’ve built. I’m proud of the couples who trusted me with their memories. I’m proud of the creators who learned something from one of my videos. I’m proud of the kid who kept going when he had absolutely no reason to believe any of this would work.

But there’s something else I’ve had to come to terms with.

I became very good at surviving. I’m not sure I ever learned how to stop.

For years, the things that motivated me were fear, necessity, ambition, and, if I’m being perfectly transparent, a little bit of spite.

I wanted to prove people wrong. I wanted to prove that the circumstances I came from didn’t have to determine where I ended up. I wanted to make enough money that I would never have to experience that kind of uncertainty again.

And for a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because eventually, you reach a point where the very things that once motivated you no longer feel like enough.

You accomplish something you’d dreamed about for years, and instead of feeling fulfilled, you find yourself wondering what’s next.

You hit another milestone. You book another client. You sign another agreement. You make another video.

And the world keeps telling you how successful you are.

Meanwhile, there’s this little voice in the back of your head asking a question you’ve become very good at ignoring.

Are you happy?

That’s been a difficult question for me to answer.

The past few years have been complicated. There have been beautiful moments, absolutely. But there have also been disappointments, relationships that changed, friendships that didn’t survive the seasons I thought they would, opportunities that didn’t work out, and moments when I felt like I was giving everything I had and somehow still coming up short.

I’ve had to confront the fact that some things I desperately wanted weren’t meant to work out the way I imagined.

And perhaps even harder, I’ve had to accept that some things did work out, and I still wasn’t happy.

I think there’s a particular kind of grief that comes from realizing you’ve outgrown something you once prayed, worked, or fought so hard to have.

Because what are you supposed to do with that?

How do you explain to people that you’re grateful for the life you’ve built, but you don’t necessarily want to keep living it the same way?

How do you walk away from expectations you’ve spent a decade creating?

How do you change when the world has already decided who you’re supposed to be?

I don’t have perfect answers to those questions. I’m still working through them.

But I know this much.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being loyal to a version of myself simply because that version worked.

And I think that’s where this entire journey began.

Somewhere over the past year or two, I started feeling increasingly disconnected from the things I was creating.

If you follow me on YouTube, you probably noticed that I went quiet.

I didn’t stop loving filmmaking. I didn’t suddenly lose interest in cameras, photography, or color grading. I still think all of those things are fascinating.

But I had spent so much time turning my interests into things that were useful, marketable, and profitable that I had almost forgotten what it felt like to simply be curious.

Every interest had the potential to become a tutorial. Every experience could become content. Every opportunity had to make sense for the business.

And I was exhausted.

Not necessarily by creating, but by feeling obligated to keep creating the same things simply because they were the things people expected from me.

The truth is, I have so much more to say.

I want to talk about creativity, yes. But I also want to talk about life. About failure. About relationships, ambition, reinvention, growing older, chasing dreams, and what happens when the dreams you had at twenty no longer fit the person you are at thirty.

I want to talk about the things that worked and the things that absolutely did not.

I want to fly airplanes. I want to photograph beautiful weddings. I want to make films, travel, tell stories, build things, learn things, and occasionally talk about something that has absolutely nothing to do with a camera.

I want to be a human being with interests that don’t all need a business model attached to them.

And, perhaps more than anything, I want to enjoy the life I’m working so hard to build.

Because here’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately:

For most of my life, I’ve been building a future I could escape into. Now, I want to build a life I actually enjoy living.

I think there’s a difference.

And I think I’m finally starting to understand it.

There’s a scene in The Legend of Korra where Avatar Aang says:

“When we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change.”

I’ve always loved that line. But lately, it has taken on an entirely different meaning.

Because sometimes change doesn’t arrive as this beautiful, exciting opportunity wrapped in a bow.

Sometimes it arrives as exhaustion.

Sometimes it looks like losing people you thought would always be there. Sometimes it looks like staring at something you worked incredibly hard to build and realizing you don’t recognize yourself in it anymore.

Sometimes it looks like sitting alone with your thoughts and finally admitting that whatever you’ve been doing just isn’t working.

And sometimes the lowest point isn’t losing everything.

Sometimes it’s realizing that you have so much of what you thought you wanted, and something still feels missing.

I think that’s been one of the hardest lessons of my adult life.

There’s a reason Taylor Swift’s You’re on Your Own, Kid has resonated with me so much.

It’s that feeling of looking back at everything you’ve sacrificed, the people you’ve lost, the things you thought would save you, and realizing that somehow, through all of it, you’re still here.

Maybe not exactly where you thought you’d be.

Maybe not with everybody you thought would be standing beside you.

But here.

And there’s something incredibly powerful about that.

Because I’ve spent a lot of time looking at the things I haven’t accomplished, the opportunities I missed, and the roads I didn’t get to take.

I’ve watched other people live versions of dreams I once imagined for myself. I’ve wondered how different my life might have been if certain things hadn’t happened.

But I’m starting to understand that the years I spent building this creative career weren’t wasted years.

They were my life.

Every wedding, every flight, every hotel room, every failed idea, every relationship, every uncomfortable lesson, every unexpected success. All of it brought me here.

I don’t have to resent the journey just because the destination has changed.

And I don’t have to throw away everything I’ve learned just because I’m ready to do something different.

Maybe that’s what growing up really looks like.

Not becoming the person you imagined you’d be when you were younger, but learning to love, understand, and make room for the person you’re actually becoming.

Which brings me to this website.

If you’ve been here before, things probably look a little different.

That was intentional.

For years, my online presence was built around what I could offer someone. Wedding photography. Filmmaking. Tutorials. Education. Services.

And those things still matter to me. They always will.

But I wanted this next version of my website to feel less like a collection of things I sell and more like a reflection of the person behind all of them.

A place where all of my interests, experiences, and curiosities could exist together.

A place where the photographer and the pilot don’t have to compete for space. Where the cinematographer can talk about life, where the entrepreneur can admit he doesn’t have everything figured out, and where the person behind the work finally has room to speak.

That’s also part of why I’m building Dream Chaser, my podcast, and why I’m approaching this next chapter of creating with a different mindset.

I don’t want to spend another decade putting myself into a box just because it’s a box I know how to succeed in.

I want to explore. I want to have conversations that matter. I want to share what I’ve learned, including the things I’m still trying to understand.

And I want to connect with people who are figuring things out, too.

Not just photographers or filmmakers. People.

People who’ve had to start over. People who feel stuck. People who’ve done everything they thought they were supposed to do and still find themselves wondering if there’s more.

People who’ve outgrown their jobs, their environments, their relationships, or even their own expectations.

People who are scared to change because they’ve already invested so much time becoming who they are.

I understand that feeling more than you know.

And while I certainly don’t have all the answers, perhaps we can figure some of it out together.

I also know that not everybody is going to come along for this next chapter.

Some people followed me for a very specific reason. Some people will prefer the things I used to create. Some people may not understand why I feel the need to change anything at all.

And that’s okay.

I’ve spent enough of my life trying to prove myself, explain myself, and make myself fit into spaces that weren’t necessarily meant for me.

I’m learning that I don’t need to be understood by everybody.

I’d rather build something that genuinely reflects who I am and find the people who connect with it than spend another ten years trying to be everything everybody else wants me to be.

That’s not always easy to say, especially when your livelihood has depended on being liked, watched, booked, and supported.

But I’m learning that being successful at something and being fulfilled by it are not necessarily the same thing.

And I want both.

I want a meaningful career. I want financial stability. I want to create things I’m proud of. I want the freedom to chase the dreams I’ve carried with me since childhood.

But I also want peace.

I want friendships that feel like friendships. I want to laugh more. I want to experience things without immediately wondering how they could become content.

I want to be present in my own life.

And I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

So no, this isn’t a goodbye to photography. It isn’t a retirement announcement from filmmaking or a declaration that I’m never going to make another tutorial.

It’s something much simpler.

I’m giving myself permission to change.

Permission to be interested in something new.

Permission to pursue something I thought I’d missed my chance to pursue.

Permission to change my mind without treating the last ten years like a mistake.

Permission to stop chasing a version of success that no longer feels like mine.

And permission to be a little more myself, even if that means some people don’t quite know what to make of me anymore.

I don’t know exactly what this next chapter is going to look like.

There are still things I’m working through. There are dreams I haven’t achieved, questions I haven’t answered, and parts of my life that are nowhere near where I want them to be.

I’m not writing this from the other side of some great transformation, pretending I’ve figured it all out.

I’m writing it from the middle.

From the messy, uncertain, sometimes frightening place where you know something has to change, but you’re still discovering what that change is going to require of you.

And strangely enough, I think that’s the most hopeful I’ve felt in a while.

Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not asking myself what I need to become to make everybody else happy.

I’m asking myself what kind of life I actually want to live.

And I’m starting to believe that question deserves an answer.

If you’ve been following my journey for years, thank you. Truly. Whether you’ve hired me, learned from me, encouraged me, challenged me, or simply watched quietly from somewhere out there, you’ve been part of a story that means more to me than I could probably ever explain.

And if you’re new here, welcome.

I hope you’ll find something that inspires you. Something that challenges you. Maybe even something that reminds you that it’s not too late to become somebody different.

I hope this little corner of the internet becomes a place for meaningful conversations, beautiful stories, uncomfortable truths, and the occasional completely unnecessary tangent about airplanes.

Most of all, I hope it feels human.

Because that’s what I want this next chapter to be.

Not a perfectly curated version of my life. Not another carefully constructed identity that I eventually feel trapped inside.

Just me.

Still ambitious. Still curious. Still a little stubborn. Still chasing dreams that sometimes feel impossibly far away.

But perhaps a little more willing to enjoy the journey this time.

There’s a lot I don’t know about what comes next.

But I do know that I’m not the same person I was ten years ago.

And I don’t think I’m supposed to be.

So here’s to the things that worked, the things that didn’t, the dreams we had to put on hold, the people we’ve become, and the beautiful possibility that our best chapters haven’t been written yet.

Here’s to learning that starting a new chapter doesn’t mean the previous ones were a waste.

And here’s to having the courage to turn the page anyway.

My name is Sidney Baker-Green.

I’ve spent a lot of my life telling stories about other people, teaching people how to tell theirs, and building a career around what I could create.

I think it’s time I made a little more room for my own story, too.

Allow me to reintroduce myself.

I’m still becoming.

And for once, I think I’m okay with that.

Keep climbing.

Sidney

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