I’ve been looking through old photographs lately. Some from years ago, some much more recent. And somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that I must have gained and lost the same fifty or sixty pounds twenty-five times.
That may be an exaggeration. Although, looking at the photographic evidence, I’m not prepared to say by how much.
I can usually place a picture somewhere in the story by the size of my face, the fit of a shirt, or a particular pair of pants. There were seasons when I felt good about how I looked and seasons when I would have preferred to be the one holding the camera.
It is remarkably easy to look at a photograph of yourself and begin taking inventory of everything you would change.
But as I kept looking, I began to wonder how much else I was overlooking.
What was I learning then? Who was I beginning to understand? What had life asked of me by that point, and how had I answered?
My body was changing through all those years. So was the person living in it.
Some of that growth is harder to see in a photograph.
I was learning to love people more deeply. To listen longer before deciding I understood. To appreciate what someone could give without always measuring it against what I had hoped to receive.
I was learning that caring about people meant carrying concerns I could not always resolve. My circle of worry grew as my circle of love grew. There were more people whose disappointments mattered to me, more lives I wanted to see go well.
I’m still learning how to care that much without believing I have to fix everything.
There were years when I was so focused on what came next that I’m not sure I gave enough attention to what was already happening. I was waiting for the big movement. The accomplishment, the change, the arrival at whatever I thought would make life feel complete.
Meanwhile, people were sitting across from me. Conversations were unfolding. Ordinary days were giving me things I would later wish I could have again.
I want to get better at recognizing those moments while I’m still in them.
The unhurried conversation. The familiar laugh. Sitting with someone I love when neither of us has anything particularly important to say. Those small, quiet moments have begun to mean more to me. I find myself wanting to stay a little longer, ask another question, pay closer attention.
And somewhere in all of this, I’m learning to offer myself a little more of the affection I so readily offer other people.
That has taken some practice.
I can look at the person in an old photograph and immediately remember what he was struggling with, what he hadn’t accomplished, how much weight he wanted to lose. I have to be more deliberate about remembering what he was giving, what he was carrying, and how hard he was trying.
I’m beginning to feel some tenderness toward him.
He didn’t know everything I know now. He was working with what he had. And through all those changes, he kept building a life filled with people who matter to me.
I want to appreciate those circles more fully. The people who have stayed, the people who joined along the way, the people whose part in my life was brief but lasting. I want to notice what is particular and irreplaceable about each of them.
I’m learning to believe there is something particular and irreplaceable about me, too.
I still have a long way to go. There are habits I’d like to change, things I need to understand, and moments I will probably recognize a little later than I wish I had.
I may gain and lose some weight along the way. The historical record suggests we should leave that possibility open.
But when I look at the next photograph, I hope I remember to look a little longer before I judge the person in it.
There is a whole life happening there.
And I’m still becoming someone I’m glad to know.
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