Just Me...

As I was looking back through old photos, piecing together a collage for my son's upcoming 21st birthday, I stumbled across something I had forgotten was there.

Or perhaps more accurately, something that wasn't.

Me.

There was a period of time where I was almost entirely absent from our family photos. It wasn't a new discovery, not really. Just one I had pushed to the back of the memory bank.

Back then, my relationship with my body was complicated. A photograph could send me spiralling into relentless self-criticism. I'd zoom in on every perceived flaw, scrutinise every angle, and convince myself I needed fixing. What followed was often self-deprivation and punishment disguised as self-improvement.

I was so uncomfortable with how I looked that I insisted on approving photos before anyone was allowed to share them. A single image could ruin my mood for days. I wasn't seeing memories being captured; I was seeing flaws being documented.

Looking back now, I realise how much energy I spent analysing photographs instead of simply enjoying the moments they represented.

This wasn't the first time I'd noticed the gap.

Years ago, I had the same realisation and made myself a promise: I would be in the pictures, not just the person taking them.

Since then, I've become much better at stepping into the frame. Not because I suddenly loved every photo of myself, but because I finally understood that being present in the memory mattered more than being happy with every angle.

Over time, and especially after my health journey, something shifted. I stopped searching for perfection. I stopped worrying so much about angles, lighting, or whether I looked my best. Instead, I reached a place where I became content with whatever I looked like in each season. The focus slowly shifted from how I appeared in the photo to simply being in it.

The change wasn't limited to family photos either.

When I look back at older videos of myself singing, I can see how much effort went into making sure I was "presentable" to the world. The camera had to be positioned just right. The angle had to be flattering.

It wasn't just how I looked, either. Sometimes I would record a song five, ten, or however many times it took before I felt it was good enough to share. I chased perfect notes, perfect timing, and flawless performances.

But over the past handful of songs, something has changed.

The camera angles haven't always been flattering. The performances haven't been perfect. There have been missed notes, imperfect takes, and moments I once would have re-recorded.

And yet, I've shared them anyway.

My Dad passed away when I was sixteen. We have only a handful of videos of him singing. Technology like we know it today simply didn't exist then, and I often wish it had.

Not once have I watched those recordings and analysed how he looked.

I don't notice whether the angle was flattering.

I don't care if every note was perfect.

What I see is my Dad.

The handsome, talented man who helped make me.

A man sharing his gift with the world through song.

And every one of those recordings is priceless.

Perhaps that's why my approach to sharing my own music has changed.

The purpose is no longer to present a polished version of myself.

It's about preserving the music.

The lyrics.

The stories behind them.

It's about capturing a moment of creativity exactly as it existed in that season of life.

One day, those songs will become memories too.

A way for my boys to hear my voice.

To see me as I was in that season.

To know what mattered to me, what moved me, what I created.

A way for a small piece of me to remain.

Perhaps that's why seeing that missing chapter in the photo albums again affected me so deeply.

It reminded me of the memories that can never be recreated.

The birthdays, celebrations, ordinary days and milestones where I was there, but left no visual evidence behind.

And then something unexpected happened.

The photos I once would have criticised were now the ones I found myself looking at wistfully.

Not because they were perfect, but because I wished I still looked like that.

Funny, isn't it?

The woman in those photos spent so much time wishing she looked different. Yet the woman looking at them now wishes she still had the body she was so determined to change.

It's a strange paradox.

Because today, I have made peace with so much of my body. This body has carried me through motherhood, surgeries, scars, healing, grief, study, growth, and every season in between.

These days, I mostly just want to be captured.

To exist in the memory.

To leave evidence that I was there.

And yet, if I'm being completely honest, there are still moments when I look back at those photos and wish I had known then what I know now.

Not because I would have changed my body.

But because I would have appreciated it.

I would have stepped into the frame more often.

I would have smiled without hesitation.

I would have stopped waiting for a future version of myself to become worthy of being remembered.

Because the truth is, every version of us spends far too much time believing she isn't enough.

We spend our lives waiting to lose the weight, clear the skin, tone the arms, grow the hair, smooth the wrinkles, or somehow become the version of ourselves we think deserves to be seen.

And all the while, life is happening.

Photos are being taken.

Memories are being made.

Songs are being sung.

Moments are passing.

Then one day, we look back and realise the person we spent so much time criticising was never the problem.

She was simply living a life she hadn't yet learned to appreciate.

When I watch those old videos of Dad singing, I don't see imperfections.

I don't see flaws.

I don't see someone who should have waited until he looked better, sounded better, or got it just right.

I see my Dad.

The man whose voice I would give almost anything to hear again.

Perhaps that's the lesson in all of this.

The people who love us don't see us the way we see ourselves.

One day, my boys will look back at the photos and videos I've left behind.

I hope they won't see the things I spent years worrying about.

I hope they won't notice the extra weight, the wrinkles, the bad camera angles, the missed notes, or the imperfect performances.

I hope they'll simply see their mum, see me.

And maybe that's been enough all along.