Freezing Time

I’ve realized something about myself over the years.

I am a photo-o-holic.

Not in a cute, aesthetic way. I mean I feel a pull to capture moments. To freeze time. Because once it passes, you don’t get it back.

I take photos constantly. I take videos too. Short ones. Not for posting. For voices. For laughs. For the way someone sounds when they say your name. Baby coos. Life stages. The last celebrations before someone is gone. Those clips turn into time capsules, and once you’ve lost someone, you understand how priceless that is.

If you ever scrolled through my Google Photos, you’d probably be overwhelmed.

Thousands and thousands of images. And even then, that archive only goes back to 2017.

Before that, photos lived on phones, memory cards, printed albums. Technology wasn’t always kind to memory.

I lost all of Kelly’s baby and toddler photos in my divorce. Over 2,000 of them. Physical albums that didn’t come with me. I was lucky enough to have emailed a handful to myself years before, and I don’t take that lightly. Those few photos are sacred.

Growing up, my mom was a picture taker. One giant album per kid. We still pull them out. Sit around. Flip pages. Laugh. Remember. Seeing your life documented through someone else’s hands stays with you.

Sometimes I ask myself why I take so many photos. Ten shots of the same thing.

Milliseconds matter.

A smile shifts. A posture softens. A horse’s ears flick. The light changes. I’m chasing the one frame that holds the feeling. Maybe there’s a photographer in me. Or maybe there’s fear.

My grandma Marcia was my best friend. Dementia took her from us in 2017, but it started years before. Slowly. Quietly. Watching someone lose themselves leaves a mark. There is a genetic component to dementia. Add epilepsy in my family, my own neurological history, a brain aneurysm, hemiplegic migraines, and suddenly memory doesn’t feel guaranteed.

So no, dementia isn’t an abstract fear for me. It’s a real one.

That’s why photos matter.

I want my kids to see themselves through my eyes. Even if I’m not here someday. Even if my mind can’t hold everything anymore. Photos don’t forget. They hold what our brains might not.

If you scroll my photos, you’ll notice something else.

Most of them aren’t of me.

So I became the person who takes them for others. Messy hair. No makeup. Mid-life. Supporting their kids. Almost every time, they tell me later they’re glad I did.

Recently, a few barn moms started taking photos of me teaching. Real moments. Unposed. Focused. Those stopped me. Because I forget those are memories too.

Photographs capture time.

Time never stops, except in photos.

So I’ll keep taking them.

Not because I’m afraid to live.

But because I want proof I did.

And if someday my memories loosen their grip, these won’t.

They’ll still tell the story.