The Photos We Take

Open your camera roll right now. Scroll and count.

There are blurry group photos where everyone’s eyes are closed. A screenshot of chat history that made you laugh. A photo of a grade you couldn’t believe. A sunset that felt special to you on that day. There are also photos of you. The ones you almost deleted.

A strange thing is that much of what we capture isn’t even a moment we experienced. It’s a screenshot of a text or a meme that summarized a feeling. We screenshot to hold onto something that felt true for a second. Then we forget about it, buried under the next hundred images. Until one day, when we scroll back through years of saved conversations. We see texts from people we don’t talk to anymore. Evidence of that relationship, even if it doesn’t exist anymore.

There’s a whole group of photos saved in a hidden album. The ones we took but couldn’t bring ourselves to share. Maybe we looked wrong, or maybe the moment was ours and posting it would diminish it. These are often the most honest photos we take. No pressure to perform. Just a record of being alive at a certain time.

On a special moment, why do we pull out our phones instead of watching? There’s a fear woven into it. A fear that if we don’t capture something, it will disappear. That the memory won’t hold without proof. But sometimes capturing the moment means you’re not actually in it. You have the photo. But do you have the memory? Or do you have a picture of a memory you never fully experienced?

Not all photos are equal. The shot someone took when you weren’t looking; you’re laughing, unaware, and it’s the most real you’ve ever looked. The group photo from a night that wasn’t supposed to be special but became one of the best pictures. The photo of something ordinary, a hallway, a parking lot, that will someday be extraordinary because it’s gone. That photo, the one you almost deleted, becomes the one that matters most. Because it’s not posed. It’s just real.

Maybe taking photos isn’t about the photos themselves. Maybe it’s about trying to hold onto something that’s always slipping away. High school moments, these friendships, this version of ourselves… We take pictures because we know this won’t last. The faces we see every day will fade away from our memory. The people we are now will evolve into someone else. So we capture. We fill up our storage with evidence that we were here, that this happened, that it mattered.

There’s a photo you’ll take toward the end of a school year. You won’t know it’s significant when you take it. Maybe it’s of the empty hallway after the last bell. Maybe it’s of your friends standing in the parking lot. Maybe it’s something ordinary: your locker, your spot at the lunch table. Months or years later, you’ll scroll past it. And you’ll stop. You’ll remember the light, the sounds, the feeling of that place at that time. And you’ll be grateful you took it. Not because it’s a good photo. But because it’s proof. You were there. It happened.

Image Credit:

https://www.cartoonize.net/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/taking-picture.jpg