Creating a beginner-friendly Photoshop course might sound like a walk in the park—until you try to do it during a record-breaking heatwave, with temperamental tech, unpredictable pets, and a neighbor with a love for chainsaws. “Photoshop For Morons” was supposed to be a straightforward digital product. What it turned into was a comedy of errors, one that almost never saw the light of day.
What started as a response to a short, seemingly innocent email—“Teach me Photoshop like I’m a complete moron”—quickly evolved into one of the most exhausting and bizarre experiences of my creative career. If you’ve ever wondered what it really takes to produce a tutorial series from scratch without a professional studio team or Hollywood budget, buckle up.
Heatwaves, Frustration, and Lessons in Patience
Creating an online Photoshop course should be a relatively straightforward task: plan your curriculum, record high-quality videos, clean up the audio, and publish the final product. But when you’re trying to film a 40+ lesson Photoshop tutorial series in the middle of a brutal summer heatwave, even the simplest steps become Herculean challenges.
It all began with a seemingly harmless decision to record during the hottest part of the year, coinciding unfortunately with nearby wildfires, smoke warnings, and power grid overloads. With outdoor temperatures climbing above 104°F (40°C), my home studio transformed into a sweltering inferno. The logical solution was to record early in the morning—around 4 AM—when it was slightly cooler and the natural lighting was softer. But even those pre-dawn sessions came with their own unique brand of suffering.
My only defense against the blistering heat was an aging, temperamental air conditioner that groaned like a dying machine from the industrial revolution. It kept the temperature barely survivable, but at the cost of audio quality. Its relentless hum embedded itself into multiple lessons, rendering clean audio a distant fantasy. The resulting soundscape was an eclectic mix of instructional clarity and mechanical background noise.
Every workaround I attempted had drawbacks. Turning off the AC meant I’d be drenched within ten minutes, my shirt clinging to my skin like a wet towel, creating an awkward on-camera presence no one wanted to see. I tried placing ice packs beneath my desk, using frozen water bottles as makeshift coolers, and sipping electrolyte drinks between takes. I even paused between lessons to fan myself with cardboard packaging from photography gear. Nothing worked for long. Every five-minute break turned into a battle for basic survival.
And yet, I persisted. Because buried beneath the sweat and overheating electronics was a commitment to help people finally understand how to use Photoshop—from the very beginning.
Camera Glitches and Meltdowns
As if the weather wasn’t enough, my primary camera decided it wanted no part in this production. The Sony A7R1V, a camera known for its high-end video capability, began throwing infuriating errors. The dreaded “Writing to the memory card was not completed correctly” alert became my new nemesis. Entire takes vanished without warning. I would complete a twenty-minute breakdown on Photoshop’s adjustment layers, only to find corrupted files or recordings that mysteriously stopped after five minutes.
The mental toll this took cannot be overstated. Every lost file felt like a direct hit to my motivation. Eventually, I had to make the painful decision to abandon the A7R1V entirely and dust off my much older Sony A7RII. The irony was almost poetic—the older camera, with its cracked screen and wheezing batteries, proved far more reliable.
Sure, I had to charge batteries constantly and couldn’t monitor my framing in real time, but the recordings were clean, and the files saved. After days of torment, even minor progress felt like a monumental victory. With my new-old setup finally functional, I was able to regain momentum and actually start filming multiple lessons in a row without catastrophic failure.
Microphone Mishaps and Audio Nightmares
Just as I settled into a groove, my audio equipment began its own rebellion. I had chosen a wireless lavalier system by Rode, known for its compact design and decent quality, especially useful for solo creators filming in tight spaces. But disaster struck when a tiny, seemingly innocent strand of windscreen fur lodged itself in the mic jack.
Suddenly, my audio resembled the chaotic crunch of popcorn exploding in a metal drum. Hours of clean takes were obliterated by static, crackle, and interference. The most frustrating part? I didn’t notice the distortion until playback. Which meant I had to re-record several entire lessons. Again.
Trying to keep your tone enthusiastic while repeating the same tutorial for the third time is harder than it sounds. Explaining Photoshop’s masking techniques and layer blending modes starts to feel robotic when you’re fighting off the deja vu of phrases you’ve already spoken twenty times.
After isolating the issue, I swapped mics and ran every single recording through noise-cleaning software. It slowed the workflow down significantly, but at least it preserved what was salvageable. Still, nothing in the guidebooks prepares you for this level of tech-induced despair.
Cats, Interruptions, and Studio Mayhem
Working from home might sound idyllic, but it comes with its own flavor of chaos—especially if you live with two cats who consider themselves part of the creative team. Leo, my vocal Siamese mix, developed a personal vendetta against my recording sessions. The moment the red recording light blinked on, he would unleash a piercing “Wah!” that echoed through the walls. It wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate.
Then there was Sterling, the more affectionate feline who decided the best time for attention was mid-sentence. Whether by jumping on the desk or clawing at my legs from below, his interruptions were as persistent as they were painful. And if I picked him up? He’d twist out of my grip and vanish—only to return minutes later with more determination.
I tried locking them out, of course. But their scratching, yowling, and general mayhem proved more distracting than their actual presence. So I let them in, against the strict no-cat policy of Amanda, who helps manage my workspace. Hopefully, she never reads this.
In the end, some of those lessons bear the subtle audio scars of cat chaos—tiny paw thumps, faint meows, and the occasional crash in the background. I debated cutting them out entirely, but in the spirit of authenticity, a few survived the editing process.
Chainsaws and Other Unexpected Guest Stars
Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, my neighbor fired up his chainsaw. No, not once. Repeatedly. For hours. It turns out he was on a landscaping spree and decided his trees needed “sculpting.” What that meant for me was another full day of postponed filming.
Trying to teach Photoshop’s retouching tools while a chainsaw growls outside your window is an exercise in futility. The high-pitched screech sliced through my noise gate settings like butter. I eventually had to pause production entirely, pace around in frustration, and wait for the infernal buzzing to cease.
There were moments when I truly believed this course was cursed. Every time I solved one problem, another emerged—like a sadistic version of creative whack-a-mole. But surprisingly, once the chainsaw ran out of gas—or tree limbs—silence returned. And in that silence, I found the will to continue.
FrankenPC Versus the Sluggish Studio Setup
Let’s not forget the computer itself. Normally, I use my powerhouse rig—lovingly nicknamed FrankenPC—for all my editing, rendering, and heavy-duty Photoshop tasks. It’s custom-built, water-cooled, and practically purrs even under pressure. But for visual consistency, I opted to film the tutorials in the print studio, which houses a sleeker, less capable machine.
It looked great on camera—clean, minimal, modern. But under the hood, it struggled with everything. Running Photoshop while recording high-resolution screen captures, managing a webcam feed, and processing live audio was simply too much for it to handle.
Lag became my constant companion. Cursor movements froze, windows crashed mid-demo, and exporting files took exponentially longer than usual. I spent more time rebooting the system than actually editing footage.
That said, I included several tips in the course to help others avoid similar performance bottlenecks. From customizing scratch disk preferences to optimizing RAM usage and disabling GPU acceleration where necessary, I’ve embedded every survival tip I learned into the curriculum itself.
The Moment It All Made Sense
Through the fog of stress, setbacks, and mild sunstroke, a single email sparked a shift: “Teach me Photoshop like I’m a complete moron.” It was raw, honest, and exactly the kind of challenge I needed. That one line helped me reframe the entire project.
This course didn’t need to be perfect. It didn’t need a Hollywood setup or flawless execution. It needed to be real. Relatable. Helpful. I threw out the script, simplified the structure, and started talking directly to the beginner—the person terrified of the toolbar, confused by layers, and overwhelmed by jargon.
That’s when the course came alive. Suddenly, each frustrating moment—every glitch, delay, and error—became fuel. I knew how it felt to be lost, to struggle, and to keep going anyway. And that energy shaped every module.
The Great Camera Breakdown
Few things can derail a video course production quite like a camera refusing to do its job. And not just any camera—this was the Sony A7R1V, a top-tier piece of gear known for its remarkable image quality, high-resolution sensor, and reliable autofocus performance. At least, that’s what the brochures promised. But as I stood in front of that lens, ready to record a crucial Photoshop tutorial, the only thing that flashed back at me was an ominous message: “Writing to the memory card was not completed correctly.” It wasn’t just a warning. It was the start of an ongoing digital nightmare.
The message showed up intermittently, just enough to destroy trust in the gear. I’d hit record, speak clearly and confidently about Photoshop’s pen tool intricacies or the subtleties of the liquify filter, and then discover the file was either missing or corrupted. No recovery, no fix—just time wasted and sanity slipping.
What began as a confident production turned into a frustrating game of Russian roulette. Restarting the camera, swapping memory cards, updating firmware, resetting settings—I tried it all. I formatted cards more times than I brushed my teeth that week. But the error remained, unpredictable and infuriating. Eventually, my focus shifted from teaching Photoshop to begging expensive gear to do the one thing it was designed to do: record video.
Returning to the Ancient A7RII
In desperation, I unearthed my old Sony A7RII from a drawer. It hadn’t been used in years, and for good reason. The screen was cracked and permanently black. The batteries were weak and couldn’t last beyond 20 minutes. But it had one advantage over its modern sibling: it actually recorded footage.
The A7RII had seen countless shoots in its prime and somehow still carried a quiet dignity despite its age. Setting it up felt like visiting an old friend who’d gone slightly mad but was still dependable in a pinch. I had to shoot blind—literally, since the screen didn’t work—but I trusted my instincts, used muscle memory, and hoped for the best.
Strangely, there was something liberating about working with limitations. Gone was the obsession with getting the perfect focus, the sharpest background blur, or the cleanest 4K output. My new goal was simple: just get the footage recorded, and pray it’s usable. There was no room for perfectionism. I wasn’t crafting a cinematic documentary—I was trying to show people how to use Photoshop’s lasso tool without the footage self-destructing.
When Expensive Gear Becomes Your Enemy
We often fall into the trap of believing that the best equipment will guarantee the best results. It’s a myth that many content creators chase—myself included. I bought the A7R1V expecting flawless performance, smooth 4K footage, and professional-grade results. What I got was the digital equivalent of a diva: temperamental, high-maintenance, and completely unreliable under pressure.
Ironically, it was the older, battle-worn A7RII that saved the day. That experience changed how I approach my work. It reminded me that tools are just tools—they either function or they don’t. Reliability, not reputation, matters most when you're producing something on a deadline.
I found myself appreciating the imperfections of the A7RII. Sure, the battery life was atrocious. Sure, I had to record in smaller chunks, babysit the file system, and constantly second-guess my framing. But I was recording. And more importantly, I was able to keep teaching.
Redefining Productivity and Workflow
When your equipment begins working against you, you’re forced to redesign your entire workflow. Instead of shooting multiple lessons in a day, I reduced my goal to one or two lessons per session—just enough to ensure the old camera could handle it without overheating or crashing. Every take became sacred. Every second mattered.
I also had to reconsider how I organized content. Complex Photoshop demonstrations that once stretched 15 minutes were now broken into shorter, manageable segments. I trimmed down excessive explanations and relied more on visual cues within Photoshop. Not only did this lighten the strain on the camera and batteries, but it actually improved the learning experience.
Students don’t want lectures. They want clear, actionable steps. Ironically, my equipment failure forced me into a teaching style that was more direct, digestible, and student-friendly. Sometimes, obstacles become catalysts for better decisions.
Learning to Let Go of Perfectionism
There’s a unique kind of madness that comes from aiming for perfection in a medium that refuses to cooperate. I would spend hours setting up the ideal lighting, adjusting my backdrop, aligning the camera with obsessive detail—all to have it undone by a single system error. Eventually, I had to make peace with the fact that perfection wasn’t going to happen.
I stopped trying to make every shot look like a cinematic masterpiece. Instead, I focused on clarity. Could viewers see the Photoshop interface clearly? Could they follow along without getting lost in jargon? Was the audio understandable, even if a bit of background noise crept in? If the answer was yes, then that was enough.
This shift in mindset was freeing. It allowed me to create without the constant fear of flaws. I wasn’t trying to win awards—I was trying to help someone understand how to use Photoshop’s content-aware fill, or how to adjust hue and saturation non-destructively. Those are the lessons that matter. Not the lighting temperature or the bokeh in the background.
Authenticity Over Aesthetics
The gear breakdown taught me that authenticity often trumps aesthetics. Viewers don’t care if your footage is shot in pristine 6K resolution. What they care about is whether your content is useful, honest, and easy to follow. My audience didn’t know—or care—that my camera was older than the laptop I was editing on. They cared that I was explaining Photoshop’s clone stamp tool in a way they could finally understand.
That lesson became a guiding principle for the rest of the course. I embraced the flaws, the unexpected shadows, the occasional battery warning that appeared mid-shot. Rather than hiding them, I acknowledged the struggles when appropriate. I even joked about it in a few videos. That human element—the visible imperfection—created a stronger connection with my audience.
Perfection can be cold and distant. Imperfection, when shared honestly, becomes endearing. And in an online world filled with overly polished content, sometimes what we need is a little more raw honesty and a little less cinematic flair.
Moving Forward With Better Expectations
After surviving the great camera breakdown, I’ve completely rethought how I approach video production. I no longer start projects with the assumption that everything will go smoothly. Instead, I prepare for setbacks, delays, and technical hiccups. I build margin into my schedule, backup systems into my workflow, and flexibility into my mindset.
Would I like a new camera that works without crashing? Absolutely. But more importantly, I want tools that support the creative process rather than derail it. Whether it’s recording a Photoshop selection tutorial or explaining the intricacies of layer masks, I now prioritize consistency and simplicity over fancy features.
The real takeaway? Don’t wait for the perfect setup. Don’t assume better gear will fix your content. The camera doesn’t teach—you do. Your ability to connect, explain, and deliver matters far more than frame rate or resolution.
Audio Troubles from the Depths of Hell
When it comes to producing a digital course, video might take the spotlight, but audio is the unsung hero that can make or break the experience. Nothing shatters immersion faster than crackling, distorted, or low-quality sound. As fate would have it, just as I wrestled my camera issues into submission, the next wave of technical torment arrived: catastrophic audio failure.
I had opted for a wireless mic system by Rode—one that many creators swear by for its flexibility and respectable clarity. On paper, it was a sound investment. In practice, it turned out to be the next villain in my cursed production saga.
Everything started smoothly. I connected the receiver, clipped the transmitter to my collar, and used an external lavalier mic to keep things clean and crisp. But unbeknownst to me, a single microscopic strand of synthetic fuzz from the windscreen—the so-called dead cat—had lodged itself deep into the mic jack. The result? An infuriating burst of static interference that danced through the recordings like radio ghosts.
Recording Doomed From the Start
The problem wasn't immediately obvious. I recorded full-length Photoshop tutorials with energy and confidence, diving into topics like blend modes, adjustment layers, and smart objects with the kind of enthusiasm only caffeine and false hope can fuel. Then I hit playback—and was greeted by what sounded like electrical popcorn exploding underwater.
At first, I blamed the software. I reinstalled drivers, changed gain levels, reconfigured channels. Nothing helped. The issue remained, mocking me with its inconsistency. Sometimes it would vanish for five minutes, only to return with renewed vengeance halfway through a perfect explanation of layer masks. Other times, it was there from the very first word, a shrill undercurrent that destroyed every syllable I spoke.
The worst part? These weren’t just rough drafts or warm-ups. They were polished, focused takes. I had nailed the pacing, the tone, the technical clarity. And all of it was ruined by a problem so absurdly small it defied logic. Who would expect a single fiber from a windscreen to sabotage entire lessons?
Re-recording and the Soul-Crushing Process
Once I discovered the root of the problem, I had no choice but to scrap several completed modules. Reshooting meant not only redoing the visuals, but summoning the exact same energy and cadence I had during the original sessions. That’s no easy task—especially when your day starts before sunrise to beat the heat, and your cats treat every recording as their cue to start a turf war.
There’s a strange emotional fatigue that sets in when you’re forced to repeat yourself over and over, not for clarity, but because of technical sabotage. My explanations of Photoshop’s healing tools and cloning methods became robotic after the third retake. My voice cracked from overuse. My patience wore thin. But I persisted.
Eventually, I switched to a different mic entirely—one that didn’t rely on an easily sabotaged jack. It wasn’t as sleek, but it delivered clean, dependable sound. I ran multiple tests before every session and even began recording dual audio tracks for redundancy. Paranoia? Maybe. But after weeks of fighting fuzz and static, I wasn’t taking any more chances.
When Sound Fails, Your Story Suffers
Good audio is what bridges the gap between you and your audience. It’s how people connect with your tone, your intention, your presence. When that audio is compromised, the entire learning experience suffers. It doesn’t matter how well you demonstrate the intricacies of Photoshop’s dodge and burn tools—if the audience is distracted by pops and crackles, the message is lost.
Even worse, poor audio subconsciously devalues your content. Viewers equate clear, professional sound with trustworthiness and credibility. Static-laden voiceovers create distance, skepticism, and sometimes outright irritation. That’s a dealbreaker when your goal is to educate people and keep them engaged.
This wasn’t just a matter of technical preference. It was an existential threat to the course itself. Either I solved the audio issues, or everything else—the lessons, the humor, the entire curriculum—would be undermined.
The Importance of Preemptive Testing
If there’s one thing this ordeal taught me, it’s the importance of proactive testing. Not just once, but before every session. Before I ever hit record again, I built a checklist: test mic input, run a short sample, monitor for interference, and listen with headphones—not speakers. I also stopped assuming anything was “plug and play.”
I even learned to test background noise levels using spectrum analysis tools and started isolating frequencies that clashed with my voice. Did I need to do any of this for a basic Photoshop course aimed at beginners? Probably not. But after losing hours of content to one rogue hair of fuzz, I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
I applied the same diligence to my editing workflow. I began using noise-reduction plugins, EQ balancing, and compression techniques to clean up every track. I optimized for vocal clarity, normalized volume levels, and ensured that even my asides and off-script comments came through clearly.
Creating a More Resilient Studio
The audio disaster also prompted me to make long-overdue upgrades to my studio. I installed acoustic foam to dampen reverb, used a shock mount for my new mic, and stopped using any cheap adapters or flimsy audio extenders. Everything was now robust, durable, and over-engineered—exactly what you want when you're trying to teach Photoshop techniques without interference from phantom fuzz.
The experience changed how I approached studio design entirely. I stopped relying on brand reputation and started prioritizing field-tested reliability. Just because a mic looks good in a product photo doesn’t mean it’s ready for real-world use, especially in a solo studio where every mistake costs time and momentum.
Resilience became the theme—resilience in sound, in workflow, and in mindset. The course wouldn’t be built in an ideal environment, so my studio had to be battle-ready.
Embracing Realism Over Studio Perfection
One unexpected benefit of all this trouble was a deeper connection with the content itself. I wasn’t just teaching Photoshop anymore—I was living through a version of what my students often face. Things don’t always work. Mistakes happen. Settings get overlooked. Files corrupt. And yet, you still have to move forward.
That spirit began to seep into the tutorials. I talked openly about common mistakes people make when adjusting levels or misusing blend modes. I included lessons on how to troubleshoot Photoshop crashes, how to recover autosave files, and how to work smarter when things inevitably go wrong.
In a way, the audio problems made the course more authentic. More grounded. I wasn’t preaching from a polished pedestal—I was right there in the mess, problem-solving alongside anyone trying to get a grip on layers, masks, or filters.
Recording with Claws and Catcalls
When you're trying to maintain a clean audio track, cats are not your friend. Leo, my especially vocal feline, seemed to have an uncanny ability to time his yowls with the start of every recording. As soon as the red light blinked on, he’d scream his signature “Wah!” from somewhere in the background.
Sterling, the more affectionate of the two, had a different tactic: ambushes. He’d leap onto my lap mid-sentence, dig in his claws to demand attention, then vanish in disgust the moment I reciprocated. A few of the tutorials were interrupted not by software crashes or human error—but by actual blood drawn during live takes.
The irony, of course, is that I’d promised Amanda, who helps manage the studio space, that no animals would be allowed during production. Let’s just say that’s a promise I spectacularly failed to keep. And yet, the cats became part of the experience, embodying the unpredictable nature of solo content creation.
Chainsaw Symphony: A Neighbor’s Creative Choice
Just when the production was finally moving smoothly, with Photoshop lessons flowing and recordings stacking up, my neighbor decided it was time to embark on his personal landscaping renaissance. Out came the chainsaw.
Now, chainsaws are loud. But when they’re operated two feet from your window during a screencast on Photoshop’s healing brush tool, they’re infuriating. Every tutorial came to a grinding halt, and I found myself staring at the waveform in my editing software, watching the saw’s roar completely overpower my voice.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of idle waiting, he either ran out of gas or interest. Blessed silence returned, and I finally resumed the tutorials. If nothing else, I now know which brand of chainsaw I never want to own.
FrankenPC and the Struggles of Digital Processing
Photoshop is infamous for demanding a lot from your hardware. Add in real-time screen capture, video overlays, and live voice recording, and you’ve got a stress test that would make even high-end systems sweat. Normally, I rely on FrankenPC—my custom-built editing beast—for all my heavy-duty processing. But for the sake of a better filming background, I opted to shoot in the print studio using a smaller, sleeker machine.
Big mistake.
Crashes, freezes, and lag plagued nearly every session. Trying to demonstrate Photoshop's complex layer hierarchies or adjustment layers while the system choked and sputtered was a nightmare. I improvised solutions—disabling GPU acceleration, optimizing cache settings, and even scripting certain repetitive actions—but I learned a valuable lesson: a prettier filming backdrop isn’t worth sacrificing performance.
Still, these performance tweaks were so helpful that I decided to include them in the course. If your computer starts wheezing the moment you load multiple adjustment layers, you’ll thank me later.
From Failure to Focus: The Course Pivot
The Photoshop course wasn’t the first video project I’d planned that season. In fact, most of my energy had been going into Chapter 4 of a much more complex Composition course. That project involved outdoor filming, long hikes to remote locations, and navigating brutal weather conditions. After an ankle injury and three failed attempts to shoot usable footage, I shelved it entirely.
Then I found a message buried in my inbox. One line: “Teach me Photoshop like I’m a complete moron.” That was it. The simplicity, the honesty—it lit a spark. Suddenly, everything made sense. I didn’t need to hike into the wilderness or spend hours setting up elaborate camera rigs. I just needed to teach Photoshop in the most straightforward, relatable way possible.
And that’s exactly what “Photoshop For Morons” became—a no-nonsense, often irreverent course designed to demystify digital editing for complete beginners.
Clarence Von Ponce and Wardrobe Woes
If you’ve seen the course promo, then you’ve already met Clarence Von Ponce—the fictional, flamboyant Photoshop “expert” in a ridiculous PVC leather jacket and a royal blue beret. Clarence was originally meant to lighten the mood in the intro, a kind of anti-guru who stumbles through jargon and leaves a trail of creative disaster.
What I didn’t anticipate was how hot that jacket would be. We shot during peak humidity, and Clarence (played by a very game friend) was visibly melting between takes. He won’t appear in the actual tutorials, but if there’s ever a version two of the course, and if people truly demand it, he might make a triumphant—and sweaty—return.
Final Thoughts: From Chaos to Completion
Looking back, it’s hard to believe this course actually exists. Between the technical nightmares, environmental challenges, pet-related sabotage, and my own questionable decisions, “Photoshop For Morons” should have crashed and burned before the first lesson was edited.
But despite the madness, something unexpected happened. I began enjoying the process—not the camera errors or the chainsaw solos—but the raw, honest teaching. There was no pretense. No flashy effects or overproduced gimmicks. Just me, a stressed-out cat dad, teaching Photoshop basics in the most practical, human way possible.
If you’re a complete beginner, someone who feels overwhelmed every time they open Photoshop’s labyrinthine interface, this course was made for you. And if you’re already well-versed but want to laugh at my suffering while picking up a few tips—well, there’s something in it for you too.
What Comes Next?
If the course resonates, I’ll absolutely consider creating more in this style—casual, unfiltered, and grounded in the real-world struggles of solo content creation. If it flops? Maybe I’ll take a stab at stand-up comedy. Who knows—maybe Clarence Von Ponce will be my opening act.
Thanks for sticking with this behind-the-scenes journey. No cats, chainsaws, or microphones were permanently damaged during production. Only my sanity took a few hits.
And if you ever feel like giving up because your software is lagging, your camera is erroring out, or your cat is screaming in the background—remember this: you’re not alone. Creativity thrives in chaos, and sometimes, that chaos is exactly what makes the final product worth it.
Final Thoughts:
As I reflect on the journey of building Photoshop For Morons, what stands out isn’t just the technical headaches or the relentless string of interruptions—it’s the strange satisfaction that came from seeing it through, chaos and all. Creating this course tested my patience, my planning, and—on more than one occasion—my ability to suppress loud, primal screams. And yet, against all odds, I ended up with something I’m proud to share.
This wasn’t filmed in a sleek, soundproof studio. There was no production team, no crew adjusting lights or holding up cue cards. It was just me, sweating under the weight of summer, dodging cat attacks, battling unpredictable tech, and trying to speak clearly while the neighbor shredded tree limbs like a man possessed. And somehow, that rawness made the process more genuine.
In an age where everything online feels overly curated and polished, this course became a breath of fresh air—not because it’s flawless, but because it embraces its imperfections. It’s real. It was built through problem-solving, adapting on the fly, and learning to laugh at setbacks instead of letting them derail the project. That spirit of trial, error, and eventual triumph mirrors exactly what beginners go through when learning Photoshop. The irony isn’t lost on me.
If you’re someone who’s ever felt completely lost in a sea of tools, layers, and options—this course is for you. Not the version of you that has hours to spare or the patience of a monk, but the version that just wants to learn, improve, and maybe have a few laughs along the way. I’ve stripped away the jargon, the ego, and the expectation of perfection. In its place is a series of practical, sometimes ridiculous, always relatable lessons.
So thank you—for your curiosity, for giving this course a shot, and for allowing me to share the journey. If this course helps even one person conquer their Photoshop fears, then every technical mishap, feline interruption, and heat-induced meltdown will have been worth it.
And hey, if it doesn’t? Well… at least I’ve got some incredible bloopers for the director’s cut.
