Some pictures are more than memories — they’re messages from who we used to be.

There aren’t many pictures of my childhood. That’s something I’ve always just accepted — like a missing tooth or a birthmark I was born with. A fact of life. There are moments I remember, days I can still picture in my head, but they were rarely captured by a camera. I didn’t grow up in a world where every moment was documented. We didn’t have phones in our pockets. Photos were deliberate, not automatic.

So when someone sends me a picture of me as a kid — or even just as a teenager — it feels like a lightning bolt through time. Especially when it’s someone unexpected. A girl I dated when I was young, someone I hadn’t spoken to in years, messaged me last week. She’d found a few old photos in a box and thought I might want them.

She didn’t say much — just sent them over, like it was no big deal. But to me, it was. Because those images were like fragments of a forgotten life. Not gone — just tucked away in places I hadn’t looked for a long time.

We don’t get to see ourselves becoming who we are. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, we catch a glimpse of who we were just before the world got complicated.

The photos weren’t impressive. They weren’t staged or posed or filtered. In one, I was looking away, squinting at something. In another, I had my arms crossed like I was trying to look cool, but failing in that way only teenagers can fail. My clothes were terrible. My hair was even worse. But I couldn’t stop looking.

I stared at myself — younger, uncertain, still in the process of becoming — and I felt this weird combination of affection and ache. Not because I missed that version of me, but because I forgot how real he was. How confused, how eager, how stubborn. I remembered things I hadn’t thought about in years — the sound of the old kitchen fan, the carpet in the hallway, the way summer felt before everything changed.

There’s a loneliness in not having many pictures of yourself growing up. You start to wonder if parts of your life really happened — or if they only live in your own telling of them. Seeing an actual image, proof that you existed in that moment, is grounding. It’s like someone whispering, “Yes. You were here.”

It makes me wonder how much of ourselves we lose simply because no one was looking. Because no one thought to take a photo. Because we were just trying to get through the day. And how strange it is that someone else — a person you once kissed or fought with or laughed beside — might still hold pieces of you that you forgot.

I don’t know what made her keep them all these years. Maybe she didn’t — maybe they just ended up in a box by accident. But she kept them long enough to send them to me now. And in this particular season of my life, when I’ve been quietly reflecting more than usual, that feels significant. I don’t even know how to begin to thank her — for giving me back a version of myself I thought was lost forever.

We talk about closure a lot — but maybe what we really need is connection. Not to end things, but to bridge the gap between who we were and who we’ve become.

I saved those pictures, of course. I’ve looked at them more than once. Not obsessively, but carefully. I studied the angle of my face, the posture, the way I held myself. I wondered what I was thinking about when that picture was taken. I wondered if I had any idea who I would grow into.

There’s a humbling clarity that comes from seeing your younger self. It strips away your ego. It reminds you that you weren’t always who you are now — that you had to grow into this version, with all the trials and detours that came along the way. And it reminds you that there are still pieces of you, scattered in other people’s lives, waiting to resurface when you least expect it.

I think we underestimate the power of being seen. Not just now, but then. Being seen when you didn’t know how to present yourself, when you didn’t yet know what your life would become. Those photos remind me that even in the chaos of growing up, someone thought I was worth remembering. Even if it took fifty years for me to see the proof.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find more pictures from those days. I’m not going to start digging through attics or calling people up out of the blue. But if one day, another photo arrives — in a message, in an envelope, in some unexpected way — I’ll be ready. And I’ll welcome it like a visitor from a forgotten part of myself, returning home.

🕯️ We are made of memories — but sometimes, it takes a photograph to remind us we were real.

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