When's The Right Time To Start Doing What You Love? Ft. Maham Iqbal

In this conversation I sit down with Maham Iqbal, photographer and co-founder of My Type, a lifestyle brand. We talk about the winding path that leads some of us to the work we love, and the quiet moments of doubt that come along with it. Maham is someone who has bounced between many creative pursuits, and she doesn’t pretend that she has it all figured out. That honesty is exactly why I wanted her here.

The seeds of an artist

Maham grew up in Lahore, but her roots are deeply tied to Multan. Her grandfather was the one who moved the family to the city, a decision she is grateful for because it opened up opportunities she might not have had otherwise. Still, she says, “I have a bigger touch of Multan. I won’t really call myself a Lahori.” That connection to family and tradition stayed with her, even as her own path started to twist toward art.

She was a Beaconite, then went to LGS Defence for her A levels. That move changed something. “That’s when I realized they tell you to do extracurriculars,” she says. It was also when she got her first camera, a small thing that felt like a side hobby at first. I know that feeling: the thing you love seems like it belongs on the margins, not the main stage. For Maham, art was always there, but it took a long time to see it as more than a passion project.

The corporate job that broke me

After her bachelor’s, Maham tried a corporate job. It lasted a month. “I remember this one day I was just crying in the car and I was like, I can’t do this, this is killing my brain cells,” she tells me. That moment forced her to publish a story of hers, a postcard box, and sell it on Instagram. She then decided to teach, which she loved. She did her master’s in art education from BNU and taught for two years.

But even teaching, as fulfilling as it was, didn’t quiet that restless part of her. She wanted to switch again. I asked her why she couldn’t do a corporate job. She explained that some people just aren’t built for operational work, for taking orders all day. “I feel like people like us cannot do freelance properly,” she says, but then we laughed about how that’s actually the opposite: we need ownership. We need to feel that the work is ours, not just a task handed down.

Freedom as the biggest value

When I asked Maham what matters most to her, she said, “I’d say freedom comes on top.” That hit me hard. I see it in my own life too. The podcast is a space where nobody can tell me what to say or how to say it. Maham left fashion photography because she felt the creative control was too constrained. “Maybe of course they’re selling their own clothes, you have to find that balance,” she says. But the freedom to put your own stamp on something, to have it truly reflect you, is non-negotiable for an artist.

This is why she started her moodle story page, a place for her photography and illustration without outside demands. And it’s why she and her husband Hasseb launched My Type. The brand started from a simple need: a recipe book. Maham’s mother-in-law is a great cook, and Maham kept asking for recipes. “We got the idea of a recipe book, we asked all the moms,” she says. It’s a lifestyle brand now, built on the idea of solving small, real problems. The quality is top notch because they pour themselves into it. “Full freedom and you also get to talk to people, they give you feedback,” she says. That’s the kind of work that feels alive.

The messy middle of self-doubt

I admire how openly Maham talks about insecurity. She says she wasted maybe two or three years of learning time just feeling unsure. But she reminds herself, and all of us, that self-confidence is not a destination. It’s not something you cross off a list. “Self-confidence is not something that you can like, okay I have it now I have it forever,” she says. It ebbs and flows. Some days you feel steady, other days you’re drowning in doubt.

What makes the difference is showing up anyway. “I’m not always motivated,” she says. “It’s about that consistency.” Even on the bad days, even when you’d rather disappear, you keep going. That’s what separates those who make it from those who don’t. I know this truth intimately. It’s not about waiting for the perfect moment of clarity; it’s about moving through the fog.

Motherhood and the fear of losing yourself

Maham and I are both mothers of young babies, so the conversation naturally turned to the tension between work and motherhood. She talked about how hard it was to return to work just two and a half months after giving birth, and how even that short break made her feel like she might lose herself in the mother role. “I couldn’t even imagine a five year break and then trying to get back into it,” she says. “The world is moving so fast.”

I told her that I’m not scared of the decision to step back if it’s what I truly want, but I’m terrified of regret. The key is to know yourself well enough to make a choice you can live with. If you decide to focus on your children for a few years, then you have to be okay with the consequences. But you also need a support system and a plan for when you want to return. There’s no one right answer. The only wrong answer is making a decision that doesn’t feel like yours.

The quiet power of being alone

Toward the end, Maham shared something that felt like a gentle nudge. She said the pandemic forced her to spend time alone with herself, and that’s when she really started to discover what she wanted. “I want to live with myself just for some time,” she says. “I want to figure out what I genuinely like.” She started praying regularly, and that practice became a form of self-reflection. “I realized that my inner self started to get resolved.”

I think that’s the thread running through this whole conversation: the need to stop reacting and start reflecting. To ask yourself why you’re sharing what you’re sharing, why you’re doing what you’re doing. Not to overthink, but to be intentional. For Maham, that means using her photography, illustration, and storytelling to help others who might be in the same lost place she once was. It’s not about preaching; it’s about showing up honestly and letting that be enough.

This conversation reminded me that the right time to start doing what you love is rarely announced with fanfare. It’s usually a quiet, messy, terrifying moment when you say, I can’t do this anymore, and then you take one small step toward something that feels like you. I hope listening to Maham gives you permission to take that step too.