I’ve started making my annual calendar again, wading through the wilds of my hard drive, pausing on the photos that make me smile, and noticing which ones tug the hardest at me.
And it’s never the perfect smile-to-camera shot.
It’s always the moments in between breaths, the ones you can feel when you look at them. The ones you can hear or smell or step right back into. The tiny threads that remind us who we are, who we love, and what it is we love about them.
This year, I’ve loved coming across the the little scenes of my girls in their every day clothes hair wild, hands full of chalk - knees dusty, sunlight catching their laughter.
But while I’ve been thinking about the photos that matter, and the people who matter, there’s one moment I keep circling back to.
And I don’t actually have it.
It’s my mum.
Every time we visit, she cooks her heart out for us. It doesn’t matter if we show up early, or much later than we said we would. She’ll still be there in the kitchen, moving with that effortless speed: chopping vegetables, the wok clattering, steam curling into the air, soup pouring into bowls.
That’s how she shows she loves us. Not just by filling our bellies, but our hearts.
It is so her. And so wonderfully ordinary.
And I’ve realised… I want a photo of that.
Of her in the kitchen. Of the chaos. Of the familiar mess and warmth and noise. Of us, exactly as we are.
So I’m promising myself that before the year is out, I’ll take it. Because it feels like home.
And if you feel like sharing…
I’d love to hear about a photo you love, the one you always pause on, the one that brings you back to yourself.
Or tell me about the photo you don’t have yet, the moment you wish existed, the one you’d love to hold onto.
Let’s share our stories, let’s spread our love, let’s make a little magic happen this Christmas.