Take the Picture

Because you belong in the memories, too.

All through junior high and high school, I was told my eyes disappeared when I smiled.“Don’t smile too hard in pictures,” they’d say. “We won’t be able to see your eyes.”

So I didn’t.

Not really.

Senior pictures? I played it safe. Kept the smile small, the laugh tucked in.

After a while, I didn’t want to be in the picture at all.

Add to that the thighs I hated, the stomach I sucked in for photos, and the subtle-but-steady drumbeat of ‘perfection’ from every 80s and 90s magazine cover—and you get a girl who stayed behind the camera more than she ever stepped in front of it.

But Here’s the Thing

I still took the pictures.

I’ve always taken the pictures.

Even when I didn’t want to be in them.

It started when my dad passed away. I didn’t have many photos of him with my boys.

That grief—that absence—lit a fire in me. I couldn’t fix what I’d missed, but I could make sure we didn’t miss anything else.

I snapped photos of birthday cakes and muddy football cleats.

I gathered up my grandma’s photos, her parents’ portraits, the black-and-whites that tell stories no one remembers to write down.

I scrapbooked. I chronicled. I preserved.

When my boys hit junior high and high school, I picked up a real camera—mostly because I was cheering a little too loudly on the sidelines.

I was the proud, enthusiastic, sometimes-a-bit-too-obnoxious parent.

So instead of yelling through every play, I started photographing them.

I still watched every moment, but trying to get the perfect action shot gave me something to do with all that energy.

And yes, it helped me keep the volume down. (Usually. I plead the fifth.)

Somewhere in all that snapping and cheering, I developed an eye—not professional, but practiced.

I learned to see things through a different lens, quite literally.

It became a way to love the moment without interrupting it.

But somewhere along the way, the lens turned on me.

I Was Still Missing

Even as I filled photo albums and hard drives with moments we’d never get back,

I started to notice something: I wasn’t in any of them.

I had documented everything but myself.

Not out of neglect, but out of habit… and shame.

Because if I didn’t like the way I looked, why would I want to be remembered that way?

Let me tell you why.

Because someone will remember you that way—whether you’re in the photo or not.

So you might as well show up for it.

For the Ones Who Are Always Behind the Camera

To the moms, stepmoms, dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles—To the “picture takers,” the “memory keepers,” the ones who say, “I’ll take it, you go ahead and smile”:

You have to get in the picture.

You have to hand your phone to a stranger.

You have to let someone else press the button.

You have to be willing to look imperfect, squinty-eyed, tired, windblown, sweaty, or less-than-posed.

Because one day, someone will go looking for you.

They will flip through old albums, scroll through files, swipe through moments,

and they will want to see the face that made it all feel like home.

And if you’re not in the picture,

you’re missing from the memory.

Don’t Wait to Love the Way You Look

Don’t wait until your hair is how you want it.

Don’t wait until your body is where you wish it were.

Don’t wait until your smile is perfectly framed or your arms look smaller or your eyes don’t disappear.

Because the people who love you?

They already see what matters most.

They see your laugh.

They see your hugs.

They see the way you show up.

And if you are the glue in your family—the constant, the heartbeat, the arms that open wide—then it is your face they will want to remember.

Take the Picture.

Take the Picture.

Take the Picture.

But also?

Get in it.

Your tired eyes, your unfiltered face, the smile that’s all your own.

That’s the face they love.

That’s the one they’ll remember.

🧷 Quote of the Day:

“It’s not just about taking the picture. It’s about leaving a piece of yourself in the story.”