Technically, I belong to the millennial generation, as my birth year is 1980. However, I often don’t resonate with the typical millennial experiences. A candid friend once joked that I might just be the oldest millennial in existence, a label I accept more readily than the former. I didn’t own a cell phone until I was well into college, and I joined Facebook only after it had lost its initial appeal. Still, I do take my fair share of selfies, capturing moments with my friends, children, and husband, filling my iPhone with images of us.
My motivation for taking selfies isn’t to achieve the perfect expression, lighting, or angle; it stems from my long arms and a touch of social anxiety when interacting with strangers. Honestly, I’m indifferent to how I appear in these photos. I don’t delete unflattering shots, nor do I request that friends refrain from tagging me in them on social media. I know this seems contrary to the millennial norm.
To me, each photo captures a moment in time. Perhaps a mere 15 seconds after one was snapped, I may have looked more appealing, but in that fleeting instant, I embraced my reality—awkward expressions included.
There was a time when I was more concerned with my appearance and how I came across in pictures. I discarded many traditional photos back then. Some of this shift may be attributed to aging; it’s often said that with age comes a decreased concern for others’ opinions.
Motherhood has also shifted my focus away from my appearance toward the more pressing task of ensuring my children’s well-being. Additionally, I’m fortunate to be married to a wonderful man who compliments me daily, an act I appreciate even if I suspect he’s just being kind. However, I believe a significant part of my evolving outlook stems from my late mother.
It has been nearly eight years since we lost her. The loss of a parent is never easy, and while every experience of grief is unique, no one emerges from it unscathed. My mother’s passing was particularly traumatic and unexpected, occurring at a time when our relationship was somewhat strained. Despite the complexity, love was always at the core of our connection.
Grieving my mother has been a challenging journey. I often found myself immersed in anger—directed at her, the universe, and the circumstances that led to her absence. Even now, I occasionally revisit that anger, much like a reluctant traveler on a family trip. Yet, I’ve largely come to terms with her death and our shared experiences. What I miss most is simply her presence.
Her birthday is especially poignant for me. Initially, I thought the anniversary of her passing would be the hardest day, but in the years following her death, it transformed into a day of reflection. Her birthday, however, is the day that truly aches. She would have turned 62 this month, and I can picture her wanting to celebrate—not for herself, but to bring us together. We would have gathered, shared laughter, and created memories, though likely without taking any pictures.
My mother disliked having her picture taken. She wasn’t vain and didn’t invest much in her appearance. This wasn’t born from confidence but rather a sense of resignation. Despite her undeniable beauty, she never recognized it in herself. At a petite 5-feet-2-inches, she lacked the long arms for selfies. She preferred to capture moments of her children rather than herself, and we never made an effort to change that. How I wish we had.
Every year on her birthday, I find myself searching for photographs of her, hoping to uncover more memories. I’m not sure why I persist; I know no new images will appear. But I still look, and I’m often disappointed by the scarcity. As a child, I would tell her how beautiful she was, wanting to brush her hair and apply makeup, cherishing every detail of her face. Yet, over time, my memories of her features have begun to fade, becoming more like a distant dream than reality. I wonder if she had known how desperately we would long to see her face and remember her smile, would she have taken more pictures? I believe she would have.
One day, far in the future, I hope my children will reminisce about me. They will share my awkward selfies with their own children, showing them the moments where I might look silly, tired, or even silly. However, they won’t care about my imperfections; they will be happy to remember me as I was in those moments.
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In summary, embracing unflattering photos can lead to meaningful reflections on our lives and the people we love. Each image tells a story, capturing who we are in that fleeting moment, and ultimately, these snapshots become cherished memories.