My Love-Hate Relationship with Photos
My friend took a picture of me a couple weeks ago. This picture sparked this blog post. Also, we are getting professional family photos taken this weekend, and I need some advice (end of post).
I have a love-hate relationship with photos.
On one hand, I love how photos spark my memory for moments that I wouldn’t remember otherwise.
Photos are sacred to me as a person with the memory of a goldfish. For real - I have a terrible memory. Ask anyone in my family, and they’ll confirm this for you.
A movie I saw three years ago? Couldn’t tell you one thing about it.
Memories from my childhood? Gone.
Details about new friends in my life? Can’t remember a thing.
(Side note: forgetting information about people in my life bothers me deeply because I really, truly do care about people…and I show someone I care about them by remembering what they have told me. I keep a detailed note about almost every person in my life in my phone with their family members’ names, biographical information, wedding anniversary, where they work…)
With just a single glance at a photo, big chunks of the storyline of my life are immediately filled in once again. Swiss cheese memory turns into a hardened block of cheddar. From blurry (or black) to crystal clear.
On the other hand, I hate how photos make me focus on my body, trigger body dysmorphic symptoms, and (usually) make me feel insecure.
I have worked long and hard to heal what this cruel culture has done to me.
Teaching me from a young age that my worth is wrapped up in my weight.
That to be valuable in society I must be beautiful.
That instead of building strong female bonds with the other girls in my third grade class, I should instead hang my head low, look down at my legs resting on my chair, and compare my thigh circumference with that of Ashley’s next to me.
To chase after an unattainable and completely unrealistic female beauty standard that ultimately perpetuates our misogynistic, patriarchal society by keeping women preoccupied (with nutrition, exercise, fashion, makeup), controlled (so we don’t challenge systems or seek something greater for ourselves), and small (literally and figuratively).
That’s some heavy shit to sift through, and it’s taken me a decade of work to get to where I’m at now. But I am not “healed.” There is no finish line with healing from this stuff. It’s never over.
This disordered culture is the water in which we swim, the oxygen we breathe. It surrounds us. We absorb it unconsciously. And even the most evolved, healed woman will never be able to stop doing the work. As my mom says, we must intentionally put on our armor every day to fight against our culture. It’s a daily battle. A daily practice.
One of my daily practices has been to spend less time thinking about my physical body. I have significantly reduced the amount of time I spend in front of the mirror every morning. I don’t even own a full-length mirror. I threw away my scale nearly a decade ago. I simplified my hair and makeup routine. I continually update my wardrobe so I always have comfortable clothing options that fit my body today. I bought multiple colors of the same shirts and sweaters so I don’t have to think about what I’m going to wear. (Defaulting to this “uniform” has been one of the most freeing things I’ve ever done for myself! I highly recommend it.) I take fewer photos of myself.
I love that photos help me remember my life.
I hate that photos make me focus on my body.
When I do see a photo of myself that triggers me, I have to remind myself that a) my body is the least interesting thing about me, b) photos capture but a single moment in time, and c) something I heard once about how you can never capture the true beauty of a sunset with a picture and it only something that can be appreciated in real time.
So back to the picture my friend took of me a couple weeks ago.
She took a few pictures of me as I was playing with my son and her son. I didn’t know at the time that she was taking the pictures. And when I saw the pictures, I loved them. And it wasn’t for the normal reasons I love a picture because I look skinny or my hair looks great. (I have to be honest. Even though I’ve healed and have come so far, I still feel relieved to see a picture where I look skinny. Gah. Isn’t that so frustrating?)
I loved it because of the joy I remembered feeling as I pushed two giggly boys on the truck.
Because of the freedom I remembered feeling by not caring about what I was wearing that day and being with a friend who didn’t focus on clothes or makeup or appearances.
Because of the gratitude I remembered feeling for being able to move and run and bend and play with the boys. (My rheumatoid arthritis was really good that day and my joints didn’t hurt as much as they normally do.)
Because of the hope I remembered feeling as I witnessed my son playing with a peer after having limited interaction with any children (or humans in general) his first two years of life because of the pandemic.
This photo helped me remember feelings that had nothing to do with how skinny I looked or how beautiful I was. And those feelings were so strong that they outweighed the cellulite I saw on the backs of my thighs or the extra padding of fat that I saw gathered around my knees. Those superficial societal stupidities faded to the background. Faded in comparison to my joy and freedom and gratitude and hope.
And now I ask you for help: this weekend we are getting professional family photos taken. We haven’t had professional photos taken since our wedding day. I’m excited to capture our sweet little trio, and I’m nervous that the way I will feel about my body will ruin a special moment. Does anyone have any advice about how to approach these family photos? Thank you!
“Today I finally overcame
Trying to fit the world inside a picture frame
Maybe I will tell you all about it when I’m in the mood to
Lose my way but let me say
You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
It brought me back to life
You’ll be with me next time I go outside
No more 3x5’s
Just no more 3x5’s”