The Myth of Momentum

On waves, pauses, and the long view

Momentum is a word that gets used a lot in creative industries.

You’re told to build it. Protect it. Keep it going. As if careers move forward in a steady upward line, gathering speed the longer you stay in motion.

From the outside, that can seem true. Announcements stack up. Projects are released. Work appears regularly. It looks like continuous growth.

From the inside, it rarely feels that way.

Creative work moves in waves. There are stretches of intensity, back-to-back shoots, deadlines, everything happening quickly. Then there are quieter periods. Jobs fall through. The inbox slows. Projects sit in development longer than expected.

The rhythm is uneven.

I’ve been self-employed since 1999. During that time I built agencies with teams of four to sixteen people. I resisted an early buyout, even though the money was attractive, because autonomy mattered more and the cultural fit didn’t feel right. Years later, I was forced out of the agency I had started. I nearly went under during the financial crisis in 2009. I moved countries, from the Netherlands to Portugal and eventually to the UK. I changed direction more than once, gradually finding my way toward working as a freelance director and photographer.

None of that felt like momentum while it was happening.

At times it felt like reinvention. At others, like survival. Sometimes it felt like starting again entirely. Looking back, it forms a coherent path. Living through it, it felt uncertain and fragmented.

We’ve learned to equate movement with progress. When things are busy, it feels like evidence that we’re building something. When they slow down, doubt creeps in. Have we lost momentum? Have we stalled? Did we miss something?

The idea of momentum is reassuring because it suggests stability. It implies a trajectory. It makes the future feel predictable.

The problem is that creative careers don’t behave that way.

Work doesn’t always lead directly to more work. Some projects open doors. Others don’t. Some periods are visible and public. Others are spent writing, planning, reaching out, refining, or thinking. From the outside, those quieter stretches can look like stagnation. From the inside, they are often structural.

A script written in a slow month can shape the next year. A relationship built over coffee can lead somewhere unexpected. A personal project made without budget can reposition your portfolio entirely. None of that feels like momentum in the moment.

It feels like waiting.

We also live in an environment that amplifies visibility. Social feeds show constant output, constant progress. It’s easy to mistake curated highlights for uninterrupted movement. Comparing your internal reality to someone else’s external presentation can distort your sense of where you stand.

Believing too strongly in the myth of momentum creates pressure. You start forcing work to keep things moving. Saying yes for the sake of continuity. Measuring your value by how full the calendar looks rather than by the quality of what you’re building.

Over time, the pattern becomes clearer.

Careers stretch over decades, not quarters. When I look back at more than twenty-five years of self-employment, the shape only makes sense in hindsight. What felt like detours were necessary turns. What felt like pauses were recalibrations. What felt like setbacks forced sharper decisions. Moving countries, shifting roles, losing ground and rebuilding, all of it shaped how I work now.

Growth rarely announces itself while it’s happening.

Quiet periods aren’t comfortable. But they aren’t proof of failure either.

Creative work accumulates. Skills deepen gradually. Judgement sharpens slowly. Relationships strengthen over time. None of it is linear. None of it moves at a constant speed.

Momentum, in reality, might be something quieter.

It might be staying in the game long enough for the waves to matter. Continuing to show up when things are slow. Adapting when the landscape shifts. Choosing direction deliberately rather than chasing speed.

You don’t need to feel like you’re accelerating to know you’re still building.

Sometimes the path only becomes visible once you’ve walked far enough to look back.