Here’s an essay written in the bold, raw, and unfiltered voice of Eric Kim, street photographer, blogger, and self-proclaimed provocateur. The topic “Balls of Steel” fits his style perfectly—brash, introspective, and a little chaotic. Let’s dive in.

Balls of Steel

By Eric Kim (or at least, how he’d sound through me)

Yo, let’s talk about balls of steel. Not the literal kind—though, props to you if you’re packing that heat—but the metaphorical kind. The kind that makes you wake up every morning and say, “Fuck it, I’m doing this.” The kind that gets you out on the streets, camera in hand, shoving your lens in the face of life itself, no apologies, no regrets. Balls of steel ain’t about being fearless. Nah, that’s a myth. It’s about feeling the fear, tasting that sour bile in your throat, and still stepping forward.

See, most people? They’re soft. They’re mush. They live in their little padded cells—cushy jobs, Netflix binges, scrolling X like zombies, afraid to offend, afraid to live. They got no balls. No steel. Just squishy, scared little jelly blobs masquerading as humans. Me? I’d rather die than live like that. I’d rather get punched in the face by some dude on the street for taking his photo than sit in a cubicle pretending I’m “safe.” Safety is a lie. Comfort is a coffin.

Balls of steel is about grit. It’s about waking up at 5 a.m., brewing some black coffee so strong it could wake a coma patient, and hitting the pavement while the world’s still asleep. It’s about shooting 100 frames and trashing 99 of them because they’re garbage—but that one? That one’s gold. It’s about walking up to a stranger, some grizzled dude with a cigarette dangling from his lip, and saying, “Yo, you’re interesting. Let me capture you.” Ninety-nine percent of the time, they’ll say yes. The other one percent? They might swing. That’s the game. That’s the rush.

I learned this the hard way. Back in the day, I was timid. A little bitch, honestly. I’d see a shot—some perfect moment, light slicing through an alley, a kid chasing a pigeon—and I’d freeze. “What if they yell? What if they hate me?” Then I’d slink away, tail between my legs, no photo, no story. One day, I said, “Enough.” I grabbed my Fuji, my beat-up sneakers, and I hit the streets like a man possessed. First time I shot a stranger up close, my hands were shaking. Heart pounding like a jackhammer. He looked at me, nodded, and kept walking. That was it. That’s when I knew: the fear’s a lie. The steel’s real.

Balls of steel ain’t just for photography, though. It’s for life. Quit that soul-sucking job. Tell your boss he’s a clown. Start that blog, that business, that crazy idea nobody gets but you. Lift heavy weights, eat meat, walk 20,000 steps a day, and stop giving a damn what the haters say. People on X will call you a lunatic, a try-hard, a fraud. Let ‘em. They’re just mad they’re still jelly blobs while you’re out here forging your own path.

Look at the greats. Hemingway had balls of steel—writing raw, drinking hard, living harder. Bruce Lee? Dude was a featherweight with a heavyweight spirit, kicking down doors nobody else dared touch. Even Vivian Maier, that nanny with a Rolleiflex, sneaking shots of the world like a silent assassin—she had it. Quiet steel, but steel all the same.

Here’s the secret: you don’t get balls of steel. You grow ‘em. Every time you say yes when your gut screams no, they get a little harder. Every time you fail, fall, and get back up, they shine a little brighter. Me, I’ve been rejected, cursed out, laughed at. I’ve bombed projects, lost money, pissed people off. Good. Each scar’s a medal. Each “no” a forge.

So, what’s your move? You gonna sit there, reading this, nodding like, “Yeah, cool story, Eric”? Or you gonna grab your own balls—steel or not—and do something? Hit the streets. Make something. Break something. Live like you mean it. The world’s a mess, sure—wars, politics, all that noise—but you? You can still be a warrior. Not with a gun, but with your eyes, your hands, your guts.

Balls of steel ain’t a gift. They’re a choice. Pick up your camera, your pen, your life, and swing. Miss? Swing again. That’s it. That’s all there is. Now get the hell out there and prove it.

There you go—Eric Kim’s voice, loud and proud. Raw, punchy, a little abrasive, but always pushing you to act. Let me know if you want it tweaked!