This is a picture of my mom. I lost her to ovarian cancer on October 19th, when I was only five years old. She was just 37. For most of my life, I’ve worked quietly and desperately to make sure no part of her slips away from me—her voice, her hair, her contagious laugh, and the fierce, unconditional love she had for me and my sister.
Because I was so young, my memories of her are fragile and incomplete. Sometimes I don’t know if what I remember is real, or if it’s something my mind created from stories others shared or from the imagination of a small child trying to hold on. That uncertainty can be heartbreaking in its own way.
My mom died young, and I wish more than anything that I had more photos of her. I rely heavily on the pictures I do have to keep her close to me, to remind myself she was real and she was mine. Unfortunately, there are only a handful. Most are posed, and only a few are truly candid moments. I treasure them so deeply that if my house ever caught on fire, they are the one thing—aside from my family—I would try to save.
I am now 32 years old and the mother of a two-year-old son. As I inch closer to 37, my anxiety grows stronger. I worry about meeting the same fate as my mom and leaving my child behind the same way I was left. I feel anxious thinking that one day I might outlive my mother, a thought that genuinely makes me feel sick. And I worry that I haven’t done enough to make sure my son will remember me if I’m gone.
If my husband were to die today, I would have hundreds of pictures and videos to show my son—clear, tangible proof of how deeply he loved him. Memories my child could hold onto forever. But if I were to die today, my son would mostly be left with selfies. Some of just me, some of us together, some of my husband and me. There are hardly any candid photos, and almost no videos. To him, I might look like a woman who relied too much on Instagram filters, not someone who devoted every single day to loving and caring for him.
He wouldn’t remember how many times we went to the park, or the countless little efforts I made to give him new experiences and help him learn. He wouldn’t remember any of it—he’s simply too young. And that realization is devastating.
So why am I sharing all of this? Because I want you to demand that you are seen. I want you to get in front of the camera, even on the days you’re exhausted, even if you’re on day three of dry shampoo, even if you don’t love how your body looks right now. If you were to die today, your child would not care about any of that. They would only want to see you as they remember you—not as an overly filtered version on social media, but as the real you they knew and loved.
There is nothing wrong with posed selfies. I take them too. I just ask that you give your child more. More moments. More memories. More proof of your presence in their life.
My favorite picture of my mom isn’t the one from her wedding day. It’s a photo of her sitting on the floor, painting a chair. I love it because I make the exact same expression when I’m deeply focused on something. In that picture, I catch a glimpse of her personality. I stare at it, hoping my brain will suddenly remember something—anything—about who she really was.
We live in an incredible time of technology. Everything we need is right at our fingertips, and chances are you’re reading this on your smartphone right now. Because of that, I challenge you, moms—once a week or more, ask someone to take your picture. Have them capture you sitting on the floor with your babies or walking through the park together. And please, don’t delete it just because you don’t think it’s cute enough.
You are your own worst critic. Not every photo needs to be social-media worthy. But I cannot explain how much your children will cherish these images one day. When everything else fades, this may be all they have left. Make sure they have enough to truly remember you—and how deeply, fiercely, and endlessly you loved them.
