Some people don’t like being in pictures. That’s fine. That’s normal. That’s a whole personality type now—let’s call it anti-photo syndrome. It’s a cocktail of self-consciousness, rebellion against vanity, a vague hatred of how you look in fluorescent lighting, and a philosophical distrust of the idea that anything meaningful can be captured in JPEG form. I get it. I’ve been that guy.
There’s always been something suspicious about people who enjoy being photographed, who lean into the lens with unblinking enthusiasm, like they were born with a ring light instead of a belly button. And if you’re one of those people who always ducks out of the frame—who volunteers to be the one taking the picture because “you look better in it anyway”—you probably think of that as humility. Maybe even authenticity.
But here’s the secret nobody tells you when you’re young and cool and a little emotionally constipated: Photos aren’t really for the moment they’re taken. They’re for when that moment’s gone. They’re not a record of how you looked. They’re a record that you were there. That you existed. That you mattered to someone who wanted to remember.
The weirdest thing about growing older is how time starts feeling like a rumor. You know something happened—summer 2008, that road trip to New Mexico, the night everyone ended up on the roof listening to Radiohead and arguing about the moon landing—but the details get blurry. You can’t remember what shirt you were wearing, what your friend’s laugh sounded like, or whether the sky was actually that purple or if you just think it was. That’s when photos start to matter. Not for proof, but for anchoring the mythology of your own life.
And here’s where it gets a little spooky: someday, someone you love will try to remember your face. Maybe a niece, a grandkid, a best friend who lives too far away and thinks about you while doing laundry. And they’ll go searching. Through hard drives, through cloud folders, through dusty photo boxes. And what will they find? Will you be a ghost? Always just out of frame, always behind the camera, always invisible in your own story?
Look, I’m not saying you need to start posing like you’re auditioning for The Bachelor. I’m not even saying you need to smile. Honestly, the best photos are the candid ones where you’re mid-laugh or mid-thought or mid-chew—where you look weird and real and completely unaware. Just… show up. Let someone point a phone at you. Be part of the record. Not because you owe the internet content, but because your future self—or someone who loves you—might desperately want to remember something small and sacred. Like the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, or how your hair never laid flat, or the time you wore that ridiculous jacket and made it work somehow.
You don’t have to love the way you look in pictures. But someday, you might love the reminder that you were here. That this happened. That it wasn’t just a dream.
And if that’s not enough? Just take the damn photo anyway.