You’ll regret the photos you didn’t take

Lesson #28 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #28. You can read the full series here.

Scenes from a New Year’s Day hike.

I’m not great at taking photos.

Okay, scratch that: I’m pretty good at the technical side. I’m no professional photographer, but I enjoy the process. Many moons ago, when I had a Canon T2i, a friend and I challenged each other to take and edit a photo a day. I kept it up for 271 days. At the time, it felt like a slog. Now, that collection, as amateur as it may be, is a treasured time capsule. Less than a decade later, my dad, husband, and dog had all passed away. Some of my favorite photos of them were captured as part of that project.

I’m also good — maybe too good — at taking photos of my daughter. My phone’s camera roll is a mosaic of her playing, dancing, eating, concentrating, dressing up, taking risks, being silly, being sweet, making friends and everything in between. If she’s doing something new or notable, I’m there, phone in hand, making sure it gets documented.

There are currently 11,989 photos of her on my phone. She’s four. That’s nearly 3,000 photos a year!

In contrast, there are less than 3,000 photos of me — many of them insecure, awkward selfies I’d rather delete. And while I haven’t counted, I know the number of photos of me with others is far too few.

So here’s the real truth: I’m not great at taking photos when I’m in the frame.

Dad, Henry, Jamie. Three handsome dudes.

These days, taking photos is a breeze. There’s no need to lug around a DSLR like I did in 2011. If I wanted, I could easily start another photo-a-day challenge with the phone in my pocket. But I don’t.

I wish I could say it’s because I value being present. That I don’t want to interrupt the moment. That my memory is sharp enough to hold onto every beautiful experience.

The truth is much less noble. I simply don’t like how I look in photos. Sometimes, I hate how I look. I cringe. I think or say mean things. More than once, I’ve had professional headshots taken and cried upon seeing them.

It doesn’t take much digging to understand where this comes from. I grew up with examples of women who ran from the camera — my aunt, my grandma, my mom. (And since my mom dutifully reads every newsletter, I’ll take this opportunity to tell her what I’d like to eventually tell myself: I love your face, and I treasure each and every photo of you.)

One day, my mom will die. I will pore over the photos we have together. I’ll wish that there were more. And I’ll be immensely grateful for the ones we did take.

One day, I’ll die. My daughter might do the same with photos of me.

I treasure photos of us together. I hope one day she does, too.

You’ll regret the photos you didn’t take. As I began working on this lesson, I fell into a photo rabbit hole and texted some old pictures to Becca. They were from 15 years ago, back when we’d crossed that invisible threshold from good friends to friends for life.

We looked so young.

“I hope we’re looking at these same photos another 15 years from now,” Becca replied.

“Me too,” I said, adding that I hoped we’d have plenty of new photos by then.

“And we’ll comment upon how young we were when we were commenting now about how young we were then,” Becca texted back, tossing in a head-explosion emoji for good effect.

It’s funny how that works. Whenever I see myself in a new photo, my first thought is how old I look. I notice the wrinkles; the grays; the bags; the chins, plural; the way my once-broken nose gets a little more crooked with time. I debate deleting it. Sometimes, I do.

But if I stumble on that photo a while later? I don’t look nearly as bad as I thought I did. I’m glad I kept it.

I wish there were more photos of me and Becca, but the ones we have are wonderful.

I’m not the type to suggest a group selfie or ask a stranger to take a photo. I rarely think about pulling out my phone in social settings (unless, of course, I’m documenting my daughter, niece, or their cute friends). I almost always regret it later.

The last time this happened was just a week ago, on New Year’s Eve. A friend hosted a small gathering for our families to celebrate the end of 2024. There were sparklers, party snappers, and a Bluey-themed countdown at a random time, like 7:47 p.m. The kids clinked sparkling apple juice and posed in their tiaras and novelty glasses. It was all very cute, very sweet, and very well-documented.

As the evening wound down, the moms gathered together, exchanging hugs and gratitude. We talked about how much we valued our friendship — how lucky we were to watch our kids grow up, support one another, and find joy and connection in books.

We should take a photo! I thought. Then, I hesitated. My hair was frizzy. The lighting wasn’t flattering. We were all tired. Before I knew it, the kids were tugging us in different directions. The moment had passed.

Later that night, I regretted not suggesting that snapshot. We have hundreds of photos of our children together. Of us? Barely any.

The next morning, my family went for a New Year’s hike. The sky was bright blue and the air was crisp with possibility.

At one point, the trail ahead was blocked by a fallen tree. We stopped, and in that pause I remembered my regret from the night before.

“Can you take a photo of Mom and Dad?” I asked my daughter.

She nodded eagerly and held out her hands, pleased with the responsibility. Billy and I perched together on the fallen trunk, smiling as she balanced the phone and tapped the shutter button — a tricky task for such small hands. She beamed as she handed it back, clearly proud of her work.

The photo turned out beautiful. The surroundings were beautiful. We looked relaxed and happy: in other words, beautiful.

I’m glad we interrupted all that beauty to capture it.

Here’s to more photos with the people we love.

I recently heard that growth is made possible through reduction. In order to grow, we must let go of things.

Something I’d like to let go of this year is my reluctance to getting in front of the camera. I want to take more photos with dear friends. Suggest the group selfie. Stop myself from grimacing or saying something unkind after seeing the result.

To do that, I need to let go: of unkind thoughts, limiting beliefs, and long-held perceptions of beauty.

I think I’m ready for that.

I’m ready to let go of the regret, and to hold onto the people I love.

xoxo
KHG