When Memory Is Fragmented, Intention Becomes a Gift

Turning absence into a legacy of presence

I’ve been thinking lately about how few photos and memories I have from my childhood. Not out of blame or disappointment—just an honest noticing. Life looked different back then. Cameras weren’t always nearby, and my parents were busy doing the best they could with the responsibilities in front of them. Still, as I get older, I find myself wishing I had more glimpses into those early years. That longing has taught me to treasure the moments I do remember and to be more intentional about capturing the ones I’m living now. While I don't have an answer as to why there are no physical photos of me as a baby, I know I had to have been one by the sheer knowledge that I am alive today. The ache is still there, though—the one that longs to see a photo of me as a baby in my mother’s arms.

I think not having this has caused me to be far more intentional about capturing precious moments of my own children’s and grandchildren’s lives—probably sometimes to a fault… maybe. Now I have a sundry of photos, and when they pop up in my memories, I can smile and know that for years after I have left planet earth, my family will be able to look back, reflect, and hopefully smile and be grateful that I took the time to capture the special days and the ordinary days—the candid shots I so love to take.

I still grieve what I do not remember about my childhood; however, there is a great freedom in releasing that grief and using it to create something better for the generations to come.

If you grew up with only fragments of your story captured, I hope you know that your life still holds depth, meaning, and beauty. Sometimes the memories we don’t have invite us to create new ones with greater intention. And maybe, just maybe, that’s its own kind of gift.

With grace,

Cindy

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