We frame smiles. We pin them to walls. We tuck them into albums, boxes, the corners of forgotten drawers. Photographs, the captured stillness of moments we swore we’d never forget. Weddings, birthdays, reunions, sunsets, summer skin. Proof that we were happy once, that we belonged somewhere, with someone, but notice this: we don’t take pictures of the pain. There are no glossy prints of the fight that ended everything.

No selfies from the night we felt invisible in a room full of people. No candid shots of grief, shame, betrayal. The camera is rarely pulled out when life unravels. And so, we’re left with an imbalance. A curated record of good times, while the bad ones are stored in high definition inside our minds. That’s the paradox, we remember the worst without needing to be reminded, but we need photographs to recall the best.

Maybe it’s because joy feels fleeting, and pain feels permanent. Maybe it’s because we reach for a camera when we want to hold on, but when we hurt, we just want to get through. Still, there’s a quiet lesson in this. Photographs remind us that goodness existed, even when our memory tries to convince us otherwise. That even in a life that has known sorrow, there were days’ worth freezing in time.

So yes, keep the pictures. Frame the laughter. But don’t fear the memories that never made to film. They shaped you too. And perhaps, in their own way, they taught you to treasure the light even more.