I took this photograph at Heceta Head Lighthouse on the Oregon coast just after sunset. The beam was cutting through fog as daylight faded. I waited about forty-five minutes in the cold to get the conditions right.
The finished image looks dramatic, doesn’t it? A lighthouse on a cliff with the beam slicing through darkness and waves waves below.
What don’t you see in this photography? People. Specifically, the people that are running the lighthouse….or more correctly, the people that aren’t running the lighthouse.
Heceta Head was automated decades ago. The light turns on every night at the same time, systems run diagnostics and sensors check themselves. The beam rotates on schedule when its supposed to.
Someone built those systems and maintains them. Technicians show up occasionally to service equipment. But the lighthouse runs most nights with nobody present.
The work that keeps the light on is invisible.
Most of what I've done in my career doesn't photograph well. Building data pipelines that run while everyone sleeps. Creating systems that work so reliably people forget they exist. Building processes that continue to work long after there’s turnover on a team.
None of that makes for a good LinkedIn post. Nobody celebrates the systems that quietly do their job for years without breaking.
The automated lighthouse doesn't care about recognition and it doesn't need someone standing watch to prove it matters. The beam cuts through darkness every night whether anyone's there or not.
The best work often runs unattended. The systems you built well enough that they don't need you anymore. The processes that keep working after you've moved on. The decisions that prevented problems people never knew could happen.
Most careers are made up of building things that eventually run without you. Designing systems that work when you're not watching. Creating reliability that becomes invisible because it's so consistent.
The lighthouse sits on that cliff because that's where ships need warning. Not because the view is spectacular. Not because anyone's there to witness it. Because that's where the rocks are.
The automated lighthouse doesn't question whether it's impressive enough. It doesn't wonder if other lighthouses get more attention or have better technology. It doesn't worry about the comparison. It just keeps the light on.
That beam cuts through darkness whether there's fog or clear skies. Whether anyone's taking photographs. Whether anyone's present. Whether anyone notices.
The work you can't see is usually the work that matters most. The system that prevents a disaster by running correctly and the infrastructure that works so well people forgot it could fail.
None of that makes for impressive stories at dinner parties. None of it builds the narrative we're told success should look like. None of it makes for viral stories on LinkedIn or other social media.
The lighthouse doesn't need an audience. It just needs to work.
The work that needs doing doesn't always get recognized and the path that matters doesn't always get seen. The best systems are the ones people forget are even there.
Maybe that's what the lighthouse has been trying to tell me all along.
Nobody's there, but the light still works.
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