Learning From My Failures

Korey Hart

I'm sitting at one of the many round tables in the warehouse break room, scrolling on my phone. Normally, I’d be watching YouTube or browsing Instagram while I eat my sandwich, but today, I’m glued to my emails. My phone is slick with sweat, my leg won’t stop bouncing, and at this point, people were starting to look at me like, "I wonder what this kid's on...".

Please. Please. Please!

The page loads a little slower this time. My heart jumps. I hold my breath.

Nothing.

Break’s over. Time for work.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours.

I check my phone every chance I get, but it’s the same empty inbox staring back at me. The weight in my chest grows heavier as the day drags on—did I seriously waste three thousand dollars and 5 months on nothing? I feel anxious but disappointed; sad but also frustrated. Then—just as my shift comes to a close—my phone buzzes.

I glance down with a gulp. I fumble around trying to quickly grab my phone. I grab it and open up the email.

A sale. A real sale. My first ever print.

I did it. This is the start. This is just the start! Soon, I’ll be running a thriving business, seeing my work on walls across the world, and living the dream I’ve chased for years. It’s all happening. Let’s go!

The next morning, another sale.

At 4:30 AM, I’m out the door, heading to the gym, feeling unstoppable. While I’m working, another notification pops up. Another order. Another print sold. This is it. It's all coming together. 

But after a few more hours working in the warehouse, I'm starting to feel some doubt. I expected it to be slow at first—I told myself to prepare for that—but deep down, I thought this thing would explode. Like, ‘shut-down-the-website-due-to-overwhelming-demand’ explode. Instead… the internet still remains fully operational and I’m celebrating three sales. It’s good. It's nice. It’s just... not what I imagined.

But I have a plan. Tomorrow, I’m launching my Facebook ads and dropping off my flyers at the post office. I spent months designing these flyers and a thousand dollars to develop and distribute them. I go to bed picturing a flooded inbox with a little red bubble saying “99+ notifications”. They will work. They have to.

But when I wake up—silence. It’s okay, it’s still early. I’ll give it some time.

Later, two more sales come in. For the next few days, orders trickle in—one here, one there—but it’s nothing close to what I hoped. And then, one day, the notifications stop. The sale is over. And I’m left sitting in the silence.

I really thought this would work. I told myself it might not and I tried to convince myself to leave room for high expectations and the lack of knowledge, but if I’m being honest, I didn’t do that really, at all. I clung to the idea of success. I could see it happening. But now, it’s just... gone.

Disappointed and frustrated, I walk away from photography for a while. I tell myself it’s a break, but it feels more like a period of mourning. Five months of planning, preparing, and executing—all for a result I can’t stomach. I didn't even make back the money I invested in this short-lived venture. I shift my focus to other things: fitness, reading, expanding my mind in different ways. I need space from this. I need to breathe. I feel burnt out.

Two months later, I come across a new course on Peterson Academy entitled: Successful Mistakes in Business. It’s the first business course they’ve offered, and even though I stepped away from photography, I haven’t let go of the dream. If I still want to make this work, maybe this will help me understand where I went wrong.

I start watching. The lecturer quotes Socrates: “All that I know is that I know nothing.” I nod along, thinking, That’s… that’s humility. That’s admitting when you don’t know something so you can actually learn it.

Then, the lecturer says something that makes me think: “Growth requires honest analysis of failure—claiming ‘I did my best’ often becomes a shield against learning from mistakes.” I pause the video. My chest tightens as I, for the first time, realize the mistakes I had made. I open a blank document and start typing. I reflect…

"I know this is true in my own experience. Deep down, I didn’t do my best. I wasn’t proud of my offerings. I tried, I put effort in, but I rushed it. The prints weren’t where they should have been. I wasn’t excited about them, not fully. I told myself I was, but in some ways, I felt embarrassed—like I’d sold something to people that I wasn't entirely confident in. I felt sick about it. Ashamed." 

And then it hits me.

“No wonder the sale didn’t work. How do you sell something you’re not proud of? How do you convince people it’s worth buying when you don’t believe that yourself? Thank God it wasn't a success, I didn't give it my best effort!"

My entire perspective starts to shift…

"I thought this failure was proof I wasn’t cut out for this. That I’d given it my all and still come up short. But now, I see it for what it really is: proof that I didn’t give it my all. And if that’s true… then maybe, just maybe, if I actually do my best next time, I’ll see a different result. 

Maybe this failure wasn’t a dead end. Maybe it was a lesson."

The fog in my mind starts to clear. For the first time in months, I feel hope and inspiration.

I finish the lecture, eyes glued to the screen the whole time. Then, I sit back in my chair and start looking things up.

First, I buy a monitor calibrator. If I’m going to print my work, I need to do it right—no cutting corners. I’m going to learn everything: the technical side, the artistic side, the business side. I’m going to create a process I believe in.

Then, I start researching paper. I think I want to try a luster paper this time, maybe dabble with a little metallic paper as well.

Now, all I have to do is figure out the first batch of photos I want to test print.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the research in front of me. The calibrator. The paper. The test prints. This time, I’m not guessing. I’m not hoping. I’m building. I crack a grin and whisper the words every protagonist before a redemption arc has said—I’m back, baby.

Mistakes and failures suck. They hurt like hell sometimes. They drag you down and leave you feeling hopeless. But they’re inevitable. If you have the courage to face them head-on, to look at them honestly and openly, you will find something valuable—a small but powerful piece of knowledge. And when you carry that knowledge out of the darkness, past the doubt and disappointment, you don’t just get wiser—you get stronger. And maybe, just maybe, you find the courage to try again. 

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Reflection

Several months have passed since I wrote the story about my first real attempt—and failure—in business. Looking back now, I’m grateful for it. That first limited edition print sale in December 2024 was humbling. I rushed. I cut corners. I gave myself a deadline I couldn’t realistically meet if I wanted to do things with care and excellence. It was a good first attempt, and I’m glad it’s behind me.

Because now, I don’t cut corners.

That failure taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far: if you’re going to put your name on something, it better be something you believe in. Every part of it—from the paper, to the process, to the story behind the image—deserves to be done with intention and heart.

I’ve come a long way since then. The work I’m creating now is work I’m proud of. I’ve spent half a year of intense work refining every step—from test prints and calibrated monitors to building frames with my own two hands. Every print I offer today reflects not just the beauty of the wild places I’ve explored, but the care and craftsmanship I’ve fought to bring into my art. These new Artist and Signature Edition prints aren’t just products—they’re stories, they’re effort, and they’re me giving it my all.

I’m proud to stand behind that.

“Leave Me To Dream” X Figured Cherry | 30” x 45” — My first artist edition piece. Bliss.

Korey Hart looking at Artist Edition — “To Kingdom Come” X Fine Walnut | 24” x 36”

Korey Hart holding Artist Edition: “Healed” X Rustic Oak | 16” x 20” — A stunning Arizona scene of sunset, with a garden of cacti under a magenta rainbow.