Sometimes I scroll back far enough on my phone or dig through an old album, and I find her — the version of me that existed before cancer.
She’s smiling without trying. Standing without pain. Hair thick, skin glowing, eyes clear. She doesn’t know how precious that body is yet. She doesn’t know how much is about to be taken from her.
The Before
In those photos, I see someone who planned years ahead without hesitation. She made commitments without wondering if she’d be alive to keep them. She bought clothes without thinking about whether she’d lose too much weight to wear them. She said yes to plans without first checking her treatment schedule.
She took her health for granted — not in a careless way, just in the normal way most people do when they’ve never been given a reason not to.
The After
Now, photos look different. My hair might be thinner or gone. My skin carries the map of my battle — scars, bruises, radiation burns. My smile is still there, but there’s something behind it now. Not sadness exactly… more like awareness.
I don’t pose the same way anymore. I don’t always want to be in the picture. Sometimes I take photos because I’m afraid of disappearing from my own story. Other times I avoid them because I can’t stand to compare myself to her.
The Grief in the Gaps
Looking at those old photos, I feel a kind of grief that’s hard to explain. It’s not just about how I looked — it’s about who I was. Carefree in a way I’ll never be again. Innocent to the weight of certain words. Unaware that my future would become so uncertain, so conditional.
And there’s a part of me that still misses her.
Why I Take Pictures Anyway
Even on the days when I hate how I look, I still take the picture. Because one day, this version of me will also be the “before” in someone else’s memory — maybe my husband’s, my family’s, my friends’.
I take them so the people I love will always have something to look at when they miss me.
I take them so they can remember the details — the way my eyes crinkle when I laugh, the way my hair grows back in stubborn little curls, the bracelets I wore to every appointment, the dog curled up in my lap.
I take them because, one day, I might even miss this version of me — the one who’s tired but still showing up, the one who’s in the fight, the one who is still here.
A Different Kind of Beauty
It’s not easy to see myself this way. The camera doesn’t lie about the exhaustion or the side effects. But it also doesn’t lie about the love in the photo, the joy that still exists, the fact that I am here.
Maybe one day I’ll look back at these pictures and realize they were never about the hair or the weight or the skin — they were about the life still being lived.
Mojo’s POV:
Hey, Mojo here. I don’t care which version of Mom I’m looking at — before cancer, during cancer, hair or no hair — she’s still the one who sneaks me snacks and scratches my ears just right. As far as I’m concerned, every picture is perfect, because she’s in it. 🐾
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