As someone born in 1980, I technically fall into the millennial category, though I often feel disconnected from that label. A friend once jokingly referred to me as the world’s oldest millennial, which seems fitting. I didn’t even own a cell phone until I was well into my college years and joined Facebook after it had already peaked in popularity. Yet, I do take my fair share of selfies—mostly with my family, capturing moments with my kids and husband. My iPhone is filled with candid images of us.
Interestingly, I don’t take selfies to curate my image or craft the perfect lighting—rather, I embrace my long arms and the social anxiety that makes approaching strangers daunting. The reality is, I don’t mind how I look in these photos. I rarely delete unflattering images, nor do I ask friends to avoid tagging me in them. In an age where many are obsessed with perfection, I find solace in the authenticity of the moment captured—messy expressions and all.
There was a time when I was overly concerned with my appearance in every snapshot. I discarded many old photos purely based on my self-image at the time. Perhaps this shift in attitude is a natural part of aging; it’s said that as we grow older, we care less about others’ opinions.
Motherhood has played a significant role in this transformation. With the daily challenges of raising children, my focus has shifted from my looks to ensuring their well-being. I also owe a lot to my supportive husband, who routinely tells me I’m beautiful, regardless of my self-doubt. Yet, I suspect my biggest influence has been my mother.
It’s been nearly eight years since losing her, and the absence has left an indelible mark on my heart. Every loss is unique, but the hurt remains universal. My mother’s passing was sudden and came during a tumultuous period in our relationship. Despite our complexities, she was my everything, and I was undoubtedly hers.
Grieving her has been a complicated journey. I’ve navigated the familiar stages of grief, often lingering in anger—angry at her for leaving, at the universe for taking her, and even at myself. Occasionally, I revisit that anger, yet I’ve managed to find acceptance over time. Above all, I simply miss her.
Interestingly, I’ve found that I feel her absence most intensely on her birthday. I had expected the anniversary of her death to be the hardest day, but as the years have gone by, that day has turned into a time of reflection. Her birthday, however, is a painful reminder of the joy and love she brought into our lives.
She would have turned 62 this month, and I can imagine her wanting to celebrate that milestone—not for herself, but as an excuse to gather us all together. We would have shared laughter, good food, and made memories, even if we didn’t snap any photos. My mother had a deep aversion to being photographed. She wasn’t vain but rather resigned to the belief that she wasn’t beautiful, despite her undeniable beauty.
Each year on her birthday, I find myself searching for old photos of her and our family. I know that more pictures won’t suddenly appear, yet I yearn for those memories. As a child, I often told her how beautiful she was and wished to play with her hair and makeup. I had no clue that, over time, her image in my mind would start to fade. I wonder if knowing this, she would have taken more photos. I believe she would have.
In the future, I hope my children will reminisce about me, sharing my photos—my silly selfies, tired expressions, and imperfect moments. What matters is that they will cherish the memories of who I was, not the perfection of those moments.
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In summary, embracing unflattering photographs can serve as a powerful reminder of the moments that define us. They capture our lives authentically, showcasing the beauty in our imperfections and the love we share with others.