What I Learned from Running a Photography Club

I never planned to be the president of our high school's photography club. In fact, I thought it was boring—just another one of those clubs trapped by people who seemed to lack any fresh ideas.

The Grand Vision

It all started on March 2024 when I had this wild idea. I was sitting in my room, listening to music, when it hit me... What if we created a photography magazine? Not just any magazine, but a monthly publication that would showcase students' work. Nobody in our school, at least in my knowledge, had ever done anything like it before. The more I thought about it, the more exciting it became. We had this special program for art students who were learning digital design and drawing, and I figured: why not bring them together with the photography club? The possibilities seemed endless.

I remember crunching numbers on my calculator. How much would printing cost? What could we charge? Could we make this sustainable? The math looked good, in fact really good. My mind raced with visions of photo editing workshops, print sales, and even an online store. I could build the website myself. Everything seemed to align perfectly.

Those ten days of March break were electric. I pulled together a small group of students who shared my enthusiasm, or at least seemed to. We started building the foundation for something that quickly grew beyond just photography. Our vision expanded into an all-inclusive art magazine. I spent hours coding the website, setting up the infrastructure, getting everything ready. Looking back, it's amazing how much we accomplished in such a short time.

But here's the thing about dreams—they often collide with reality. While I was fortunate to have some "bird courses" that left me with free time, my fellow students were drowning in assignments and unit test prep. I'd see their stressed "kms" messages in the group chat, their apologetic messages about missing another meeting. Slowly, reality began to sink in. I was asking them to build Rome in a day while they were trying to keep their academic worlds from crumbling.

The magazine project quietly faded into the background. It wasn't a sudden end, more like a slow acceptance that sometimes timing is everything. And timing wasn't on our side.

I stepped back from the club after that, only showing up occasionally. The old structure I had criticized remained unchanged, and I found myself becoming exactly what I had initially disliked, just another inactive member. As summer approached, things were shifting in the club too. The previous president was graduating, and most of the executive team members were heading into their final year of high school, they started backing away, prioritizing their academics. I couldn't blame them, grade 12 is when everything starts feeling real.

At the time, I was riding high on confidence. My grades were solid, and I had just finished grinding through five summer school courses online in just two months. Those were probably the most miserable two months of my life. Endless assignments, constant deadlines, barely any social life. I hardly ate anything during those weeks, just rushing from one deadline to the next, surviving on snacks and whatever I could grab between study sessions. But I made it through, and somehow, that only fed my ego even more.

I had this unshakeable belief that I could handle anything. STEM programs at top universities? Sure, why not? Physics, calculus, advanced functions, bring it on! I was convinced I could juggle it all. Looking back, I have to laugh at my own cockiness. I had no idea what was coming.

But it was this same overconfidence that pushed me to run the club this year. My university applications were looking a bit thin on the leadership side, and hey, if I was going to "ace" all these STEM courses anyway, why not add running a club to my plate? The decision felt almost casual at the time, like adding an extra side dish to an already full plate. Little did I know that this decision would teach me more about leadership, human nature, and myself than any classroom ever could.

Taking the Helm

The club fair was our first real test. We spent hours creating our display board, determined to make it different from hastily thrown-together posters. Every detail mattered. The layout, the font choices, the photo selections. We poured all of our effort into making something that would catch people's eyes. It worked better than I could have imagined. By the end of the fair, our sign-up sheet was filled with around 60 names. Sixty. The number both thrilled and terrified me.

Reality check: our meeting room was just a standard classroom, barely enough space for 30 people. I tried to convince myself that not everyone would show up to the first meeting. People sign up for clubs all the time and then forget about them, right? But when the day came, I walked into that room and felt my heart skip a beat. Students were flooding in, filling every available seat. More kept coming, and we had to borrow chairs from neighbouring classrooms. The room was packed, buzzing with excitement and expectation. All those eyes were now on me.

Standing there, I felt a wave of panic wash over me. Sure, I had prepared slides, beautiful ones, if I do say so myself. Design wasn't the problem. I could whip up professional-looking presentations in my sleep. But this was different. This was leadership. This was public speaking. This was responsibility. And did I mention I'd only been in this country for two years? My mind raced with worries about my English, about whether I'd be able to express myself clearly, about whether these students would take me seriously.

But I took a deep breath and launched into my carefully prepared speech. I talked about exploring creativity, about learning new skills, about having fun with photography. I outlined our goals with what I thought was inspiring confidence: "Learn and improve your photography techniques. Encourage creative expression through fun activities and challenges. Create a supportive community of photography enthusiasts." The words sounded good, felt right. I even surprised myself, my English wasn't the problem at all. The students seemed engaged, nodding along as I unveiled an ambitious list of planned activities for the year.

Looking back, I can see how naive I was. Those weren't exactly empty promises, I genuinely believed we could do everything I was proposing. The photo walks, the editing workshops, the exhibition plans, the collaborative projects, they all seemed so achievable in that moment. The energy in the room was intoxicating, and it felt like anything was possible.

That first meeting was a success, at least on the surface. People were excited, asking questions, sharing ideas. We did an introductory survey, and the responses were enthusiastic. Everything seemed perfect. Too perfect, as it turned out. Because what I didn't realize then was that running a high school club isn't just about having great ideas or making beautiful presentations. It's about understanding people, managing expectations, and knowing the complex reality of student life.

I went home that day feeling like I was on top of the world. I had conquered my fears, delivered a great first meeting, and had a room full of eager members ready to go on this journey with me. If only I had known what was coming next. The real challenges weren't in that first meeting, they were lurking just around the corner.

The Unravelling

It's funny how quickly things can change. That initial burst of enthusiasm from our first meeting faded faster than an overexposed photograph. By our third meeting, the change was already visible, literally. The classroom that had been bursting at the seams now had empty chairs scattered throughout. But it wasn't just the numbers that were dropping, I could see the energy draining from the faces of those who did show up.

The problem? We had to start with the basics. And I mean the real basics. While I had been dreaming up advanced editing techniques and magazine layouts, most of our members were still trying to figure out how to use their camera's manual settings. I found myself explaining concepts like aperture and shutter speed to blank stares and politely suppressed yawns. It was like trying to teach someone to run before they could walk, except in this case, some hadn't even learned to crawl.

Each meeting became a balancing act that I was clearly failing at. Try to move too fast, and people would get lost. Go too slow, and the more experienced members would get bored. I watched helplessly as attendance dwindled week after week. The enthusiastic questions from the first meeting were replaced by the sound of people quietly packing up their bags early, mumbling excuses about homework or other commitments.

Then came the technical roadblocks that I should have seen coming but somehow didn't. I had grand plans for editing workshops, but reality hit hard when I realized most students only had Chromebooks. Those stripped-down laptops that can barely run anything beyond Google Docs. The few who had proper computers weren't about to shell out money for Adobe Creative Suite subscriptions. I mean, who was I kidding? These were high school students who could barely afford to buy lunch, let alone professional software.

We tried to adapt. Snapseed became our go-to editing tool, but let's be honest—trying to teach advanced photo editing on a mobile app feels like trying to paint a masterpiece with crayons. The limitations were frustrating for everyone, especially me. All those ambitious plans I'd outlined in that first meeting started to feel like promises I couldn't keep.

By mid-semester, our once-crowded classroom had dwindled to a handful of regulars. The photography club had essentially transformed into a casual hangout spot where occasionally someone would borrow a camera to shoot some photos. It wasn't what I had envisioned, not even close. Those dreams of a photography magazine, collaborative projects, and exhibitions seemed almost laughable now.

The worst part wasn't the dropping numbers or the failed plans. It was the creeping feeling that I was letting everyone down, including myself. Every meeting became a reminder of the gap between my ambitions and my abilities. I'd look at the few remaining members and wonder if they could see through my increasingly transparent attempts to maintain enthusiasm. Some days, I felt like a conductor trying to lead an orchestra with half the instruments missing, still waving my arms around while the music gradually fell apart.

Finding Our Rhythm

But was it really all doom and gloom? Looking back now, I can see something I missed while I was busy beating myself up over our "failures." In the midst of all this chaos, we actually had moments. Real, genuine moments, where everything just clicked.

Take the photo booth practice day, for instance. That was unexpected. The room was half-full again, but this time with a different energy. We had set up a simple backdrop, arranged a few light sources, even brought in a light bouncer. Nothing fancy, just basic studio equipment. But something magical happened. People suddenly came alive. They were taking turns posing, directing each other, experimenting with the lights. There was laughter, genuine excitement. For once, nobody was checking the time or making early exits.

Then there was the day we collaborated with the science club during their mole day activity. It wasn't planned as some grand event, just our photographers showing up to document their lunch hour celebration. But our members liked it. They got to practice event photography in a low-pressure environment, capturing candid moments of their peers enjoying themselves. It was simple, practical, and most importantly, fun.

The group photo practice sessions turned out to be another hit. It was fascinating to watch students who barely spoke during our technical lessons suddenly become animated, directing their friends into poses, playing with lighting angles. They weren't worried about f-stops or ISO settings anymore. They were just creating, experimenting, enjoying the process.

What I began to understand was that while our grand plans had crumbled, something else had taken root. The handful of students who stuck around weren't there for complex photography techniques or magazine dreams. They came because they found something they enjoyed, something that let them be creative without the pressure of grades or expectations.

Our club had evolved into something different from what I'd planned, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Instead of being a structured, curriculum-style photography program, we'd become more of a creative sanctuary. A place where students could escape the pressure of their academic lives for a while, play with cameras, and just... breathe.

Yes, we were smaller than when we started. Yes, we weren't producing a monthly magazine or running sophisticated editing workshops. But the students who remained were actually engaging with photography in their own way. They borrowed cameras, shared their photos with each other, asked questions when they were genuinely curious about something.

The irony wasn't lost on me. All those complicated plans I'd made, all those ambitious goals I'd set - and in the end, what worked best were the simplest things. Just giving people cameras and space to create. Letting them discover their own interest in photography rather than forcing my vision upon them.

It wasn't what I had imagined success would look like. But maybe that was the point. Maybe success doesn't always wear the face we expect it to.

Growth

Now, sitting here at the end of the semester, I find myself asking: Do I regret any of this?

Sure, if you measured our club's success against those grand plans I outlined in that first meeting, we failed spectacularly. No monthly magazine. No sophisticated editing workshops. No seamless integration with the art program. But measuring success by unrealized plans is like judging a photograph solely by its technical perfection, you miss the story it's actually telling.

What I got instead was something no amount of successful club meetings could have taught me. I learned what real leadership feels like. It's not the polished, presentation-ready version I imagined, but the messy, complicated, human version. Leadership isn't about having the best ideas or the most ambitious plans. It's about adapting when those plans fall apart. It's about recognizing when to push forward and when to step back.

Remember how I mentioned I'd only been in this country for two years? I was so worried about my English, about not being able to express myself properly. Turns out, that was the least of my concerns. Communication isn't just about language proficiency, it's about understanding your audience, reading the room, connecting with people on a human level. Sometimes the most fluent English speaker can fail to connect, while broken English spoken with genuine enthusiasm can bridge any gap.

I also learned something crucial about high school students, something I should have known, being one myself. We're all juggling so much already: classes, assignments, post secondary applications, family expectations, social lives, and for some, part-time jobs. When students join a club, they're not looking for another class to stress about. They're looking for an escape, a place to breathe, to create, to just be.

That realization came too late to save my original vision for the club, but it came just in time to help me appreciate what we actually became. A smaller, more intimate group where people could explore photography at their own pace. Where mistakes were okay, where experimentation was encouraged, where the only real requirement was curiosity.

And those technical limitations that frustrated me so much? They taught me about working with what you have, about finding creative solutions instead of perfect ones. Snapseed isn't Photoshop, and a phone camera isn't a DSLR, but they're tools that can still tell stories.

The most valuable learned, though, was about expectations—both managing them and letting them go. I started this thinking I knew exactly what success should look like. I ended it understanding that sometimes success wears a different face than the one we imagined. Sometimes it looks like a student finally understanding how to use manual mode. Sometimes it's the quiet student suddenly becoming animated while directing a photo shoot. Sometimes it's just creating a space where people feel comfortable enough to try something new.

So no, our photography club didn't change the world. We didn't revolutionize high school publications or create the next generation of professional photographers. But we created moments, learned lessons, and grew in ways I never expected. And isn't that what high school is really about?