It’s a funny thing being labeled a millennial. I was born in 1985, which technically places me in that category, but I often find myself questioning that identity. A wise friend once teased, “So you’re basically the oldest millennial,” and, honestly, that feels more accurate. My first cell phone didn’t appear until my college days, and I joined social media long after it lost its shine. Despite this, I do indulge in the occasional selfie with friends, family, and my partner, filling my phone with snapshots of our lives.
I take these selfies not to create a perfect image, but because my long arms make it easier to snap a quick photo rather than strike up conversation with strangers. In all honesty, I’m not concerned about how I appear in these images. I don’t delete those awkward shots, nor do I request friends to spare me from unflattering tags online. I realize this might not align with typical millennial behavior, but hey, that’s just me.
To me, every photo captures a specific moment in time. Even if I look like I’m making a face reminiscent of a confused baby, that’s the reality of that instant. Who knows? A mere fifteen seconds later, I might have looked a little more composed, but that’s not the picture that got taken, and that’s perfectly fine.
There was a time I was much more concerned about my appearance in photos. Many old pictures ended up in the trash because I couldn’t bear to look at them. Part of this evolution might stem from age; it’s often said that as we get older, we care less about others’ opinions.
Becoming a mother has also shifted my focus. Now, I’m more invested in ensuring my kids thrive than worrying about my looks. Plus, I’m fortunate to have a wonderful partner who reminds me daily of my beauty. He might be exaggerating, but I appreciate it nonetheless. However, I believe a significant part of my change is linked to the loss of my mother.
It’s been nearly a decade since we lost her, and losing a parent is never easy. Each experience is unique, and while some cases are more shocking than others, the pain is universal. My mother’s passing was sudden and particularly challenging, especially since we hadn’t spoken in months. Our relationship was complicated, filled with love but also struggles. She was my world, and losing her affected me deeply.
Grieving is a journey, and I’ve spent more time in the “anger” phase than I’d like to admit. I’ve been frustrated with her, the universe, and even myself for not doing something to keep her with us. It’s an emotion that occasionally resurfaces, like an unwelcome guest I can’t quite shake off. However, I’ve reached a point of acceptance regarding her death and our shared experiences. What I miss most is her presence.
My mother’s birthday is especially poignant for me. Initially, I thought the anniversary of her death would be the hardest day, but as time passed, that date became one of reflection. Her birthday, however, is a reminder of all that she brought into our lives. She would have turned 62 this year, and I can only imagine how she would have wanted to celebrate. Not out of vanity, but as a reason for us to gather and create memories together.
Interestingly, my mom had a complicated relationship with photographs. She wasn’t vain; in fact, she rarely invested time or energy into her appearance. I believe this stemmed from her own insecurities. Beautiful as she was, she never saw herself that way. Standing at just 5’2”, she lacked what we now refer to as “selfie arms” and didn’t have the luxury of filters or editing tools. She was a devoted mom, capturing countless memories of us but leaving very few of herself. Looking back, I wish we had done more to preserve those moments.
Every year on her birthday, I search for photos of her, hoping to find something new. Each time, I’m met with disappointment at the limited collection. As a child, I would tell her how beautiful she was, often wanting to brush her hair and apply makeup to her face. I wish I had understood back then how much I would want to see her face after she was gone. Would she have taken more pictures if she had known? I think she might have.
One day, my children will reflect on my life. They’ll share my pictures—even the goofy, imperfect selfies. It won’t matter to them if I looked tired or silly. What will matter is that they remember me for who I was in those fleeting moments of time.
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In summary, embracing our unflattering moments can lead to a deeper understanding of ourselves and those we love. Life is about capturing memories, not perfecting our images.