The weight of photos & the stories they hold
Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love a good photo. Whether it’s a glimpse of a sunset, abstract imagery, or capturing moments of people and places, photos have always had a special place in my heart.
Cyril Edward Swain
Picture paints a thousand words
As I look back, I realise that my love for photos didn’t just come from me, it stemmed from my mother’s patterns of behaviour. She adored genealogy and treasured photographs. I inherited not just her collection, but also the generational habit of holding onto these visual memories.
Barb & Deb
This is literally something that is replicated daily with Raevyn - didn’t know … Even Raevyn said “this is like us”
When I first looked through them, I was worried about what emotions might arise, guilt, sadness, or remorse.
These photos captured the memories she had reminded me of countless times, images etched in my mind long before I saw them again. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel any of those emotions. Instead, I felt guilt. But not my own, it was the guilt passed onto me, a burden to carry, even after her passing.
Many of these photos show a life before my father’s death, images of myself and a family that once was. I even have my father’s own album, complete with photos of his wedding to his first wife. These pictures are heavy in a way that goes beyond nostalgia. They carry stories, some of which I don’t even know.
Deb & Eddy
Loving life at our favourite restaurant the oyster bar
I wanted to write this post not for myself, but for others. As many of you know, I’m a natural perfumer, and I’ve always been drawn to aromacology. The idea that fragrance can recapture moments and memories. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I fell in love with fragrance, not just for its aroma, but for its power to transport us to a time, a place, or a feeling.
Recently, I shared with Matt,
“There are so many photos of people’s relatives, grandparents, romances, and friends… but why do we keep them unless they have a shared memory or story we can pass on? What purpose do they serve?”
I hardly knew my father, being too young to remember most of my time with him. You would think that photos of him would feel like a treasure trove, but instead, they are just images of faces and places without context.
What is the value in holding onto them without the stories that breathe life into those frozen moments?
And then there’s the guilt again, this time, it’s the burden of guilt that doesn’t entirely belong to me. As I sift through these photos, I am reminded of the complicated relationship I had with my mother. At her service, people only spoke of the good, but so much of the truth was left out. The memories, though captured in pictures, felt incomplete, fragmented, and often at odds with reality.
Photos from my youth, from birth to the age of five, show me in the arms of my mother or my father, evidence of a love that once existed. But the reality of how things unfolded makes me question these moments. Looking at the piles of pictures I’ve inherited, I can see the contrast between my memories and those of my siblings. Their photos tell a different story, a story of absence, of emotional distance. And with that contrast, I feel shame.
I had the best of her during those early years, and I almost want to hide these memories to avoid causing hurt to others.
It’s difficult. It’s hard to reconcile these images with the truth of what life became. The memories feel detached, like they belong to another world entirely. They are remnants of a life I once thought I knew, but now they seem like shadows, unreal and distant.
There are photos of past relationships too, my old beaus, moments from a life before “the one” came along. I used to keep them, along with letters and mementos, thinking they held some kind of meaning. But now, I wonder why did I hold on to them? What purpose did they serve? I think part of it is grief. We keep these pieces of the past because we fear the loss.
We think that holding onto them will spare us from the pain of letting go, even if those relationships were brief.
But as I’ve sat with these photos, my perspective has shifted. I’ve come to realise that what I see through my eyes doesn’t always need to be passed down. It’s not just about capturing moments; it’s about ensuring those moments are expressed, shared, and given meaning.
If these memories are to matter beyond ourselves, we must be intentional about passing on the stories that accompany them.
I’ve inherited so many photos, images of a past I’m no longer sure I want to hold onto. Today, I write this post to encourage others to pause and reflect. If you have an album, share the words, the stories, and the feelings behind those images. If it’s family, let them know they mattered, that they were loved.
Be intentional with your photos, and don’t be afraid to let go when the time comes. Walk away from what no longer serves you, and be okay with that.
After this past week, photos have taken on a whole new meaning for me.
