Remember when you wanted to be an influencer?
You toted your husband around the neighborhood, stopping in front of every brightly-colored wall as if that was #aesthetic.
As you watched the RAW images load to your phone, your stomach loaded with poison. The photos weren’t polished, they weren’t awkward in a cute way, either. All you could see was the dying tooth your dentist pointed out. And the crooked nose that the genie of genetics gave you without you expressly wishing for it.
But wait—
do you not now have a hundred photos documenting how precious you were on a sunny day at 28 years old? How nice.
And did you not learn the basic language of photography? [Akin to asking “¿Donde está la biblioteca?” with a lens] It doesn’t matter how poorly, it only matters that you still enjoy the weight of a camera, the rustle of a blue dress in the Pacific wind, the golden afternoons of telling your husband “don’t zoom in that close.”
Each photo a practice in self-respect and celebration, even if you never shared it with the world. (Too many outfit repeats. THE BLUE DRESS DAMNIT.)
You felt it then, the rub. Your obstinancy ignored it, but your toxifying tummy knew the medium wasn’t right for you—some people are just born with Instagrammable faces and a high threshold for bullshit captions. Good for them, truly. I said good for them.
But it is not a loss—nothing has changed but your mind. Everything is softly waiting for your return, keeping a sweet “welcome” on the tip of its tongue.
And if you never come back, that’s sweet too.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, take a selfie, and remember how dearly you loved this picture of you pretending to be a jedi. Then ask yourself WHY GOD, then remember this gem and smile.