Speaking of Photos

Photos are incredible. They tell a story. They track who we are, what we look like, our style, our interests, our personalities.

Looking back on photos from when the boys were toddlers I see things in myself (excuse the shallowness of my posts lately, I see it as a part of accepting and maybe, just maybe, hopefully, embracing my age right now) that I thought were new. Things that had been there all along - freckles, wrinkles, indentations in my face, muscle lines. Who knows maybe I had come to accept a photoshopped version of myself from Brando's gorgeous edited photos - an image I would back up with the few unedited photos of myself that would look just like the edited ones, but in reality those weren't the norm. It's so fun looking back on pure, unedited photos that show me as exactly who I am in all my young mom, young dorky unstylish 20s, acne prone, unmakeup wearing, running around two little boys. Not that impressive, let me tell you. But I didn't let that stop me then. Heck, I wasn't even AWARE of it. So why I should let it stop me now? Especially because I AM aware of it and realize it's not true. I do have style, I do wear makeup when I want to and am fine not wearing it when I don't want to, my skin is clearer, and I've matured to look like a woman, not like a little girl.