Lately, one of my favorite activities has been scrolling through the countless photos on my phone. It’s incredible how a vivid timeline of my life is available at my fingertips, allowing me to reminisce for hours. I can easily look back at my children at just three months old or even revisit the early days of my marriage. And whenever I crave a glimpse of a sunrise over the ocean, I can effortlessly find several photos from our many beach vacations.
However, there’s one aspect of my photo collection that I find quite embarrassing. If a stranger or even a friend were to browse through my phone, I would be mortified and feel the need to explain myself. It would be hard for them to overlook the fact that my phone is overflowing with selfies.
This habit began when my daughter was born. During those late-night moments, I wanted to capture the two of us without waking my husband, so I began taking a selfie or two. There was no specific intention behind it, like framing them or posting on social media—I just wanted to document those special yet exhausting times together.
As the months passed and those late-night sessions dwindled, my selfies became less frequent, but the overall number of pictures on my phone continued to grow. Yet, for every hundred photos, only two or three featured me, which honestly made me feel a bit melancholy.
It’s worth mentioning that my husband is a wonderful dad and shares in all our family activities, but he doesn’t have that instinct for capturing moments like I do. He takes photos when I ask, but unlike me, he’s not inclined to snap pictures spontaneously.
Having a camera readily available is something I cherish. I know my mom would have loved to have had that capability when I was a child. So, while some might criticize my selfie habit, the truth is I simply want to be included alongside my kids in our digital memories.
Initially, I mostly took selfies when my husband wasn’t around—like when I was watching TV with the kids snuggled up, dancing in the kitchen, or watching them enjoy the swings. I wanted to be part of those memories, so I inserted myself into the pictures.
Over time, this habit expanded to nearly every outing. On hikes, I’d snap a photo of the kids splashing through a creek and then take one of myself resting on a nearby rock. During special events—like picking out our Christmas tree—I’d capture images of my husband and kids cutting the tree, followed by a selfie among the evergreens.
I understand that a picture isn’t necessary to prove I was there, and I know my kids will love me regardless of whether I’m in front of the camera or behind it—the important part is that I was with them.
But for me, these selfies carry deeper significance. They are a representation of my presence in every family activity, capturing both the monumental and the ordinary moments of our lives. I want my family to have visual memories of me during these times, and if selfies are the easiest way to achieve that, then I will continue to take them.
So, while I have a love-hate relationship with my selfies, I’ll keep snapping away. Maybe one day, I’ll look back at them and appreciate their value. Instead of just reminiscing about my joy, I can see it captured in the form of a bright, smiling selfie.
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