Learning to step into the frame

We’ve all seen the collective eye-roll that happens when someone pulls out a phone to take a selfie. Our culture has a prevailing disdain for it, a quick judgment that labels the act as vain, self-absorbed, or superficial. But when we view every self-captured photo through a lens of cynicism, we miss a much deeper, quieter truth about the camera: sometimes, the hardest place to be is in front of it.

My mother passed away over twenty years ago, and one of the quiet griefs of losing her is looking at what she left behind, or rather, what is missing. When my wife and I were gathering photos for our ofrenda for Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), I discovered that we had very few photos of her. I inquired with my dad and my brother, and they didn't have many either. 

 

I was thankful that I had a few from her younger years, but the photos seem to become scarcer as she became older. Most would assume that she was afraid of having her photo taken because of her aging, but I don't think it was that. I think that her reluctance to be in photographs was because of her weight.

For most of my mom's adult life, she struggled with her weight. She would try many different fad diets, but nothing really seemed to result in permanent weight loss.

The tragedy is that for a very long time, I did the exact same thing.

I spent decades running from the lens, carrying that same heavy self-consciousness. When I finally picked up a camera myself, I realized it wasn't just a creative outlet—it was the perfect shield. Being the photographer meant I had a legitimate excuse to never be in the picture. I could document life, capture memories for everyone else, and remain completely invisible. I convinced myself I was just being useful, but the truth was I was hiding.

It took looking at the scarcity of my mother’s photos to realize what I was doing to my own timeline. When we let self-criticism win, we aren't just protecting ourselves from a temporary moment of discomfort. We are robbing the future of a memory. We are leaving a blank space where a cherished face should be for the people who will eventually miss us.

Now, life has moved into a new chapter. I have grandchildren, and when I look at them, the perspective shifts entirely. I don't want them to grow up, look back at their childhood histories, and find a ghost where their grandfather should have been. I don't want them to inherit my hesitation, and I certainly don't want them to endure the same scarcity of memories that I have of my own mother. They deserve to have photos of me—messy, imperfect, aging, and completely present.

So, I've become conscious that I do this and I've tried to stop judging the selfies and the front-facing camera shots. A photo born out of a moment of "vanity" is infinitely better than a blank space left behind by self-doubt.

I’m learning to step into the frame. Not because I’ve suddenly cured my own insecurities, but because I know what it feels like to look for a face you love and find an empty chair instead. If you're someone who always hides behind the lens or steps out of the room when the cameras come out, consider this a gentle nudge. Step into the light. The people who love you won't see the flaws you're worried about—they'll just see you.