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The Day I Took Less Photos

by: Mara Sugue

Growing up, my mom was always the family photographer. Whether it was a birthday party or a family trip, she’d be there taking pictures. My mom had her camera, ready to document every moment. She transitioned from disposable film to digital, and she never missed a beat. 

These days, with an iPhone in her hand, my mom’s still the same. She captures everything from restaurant orders to her granddaughter, sharing it all on Facebook in an instant.

You might think I’d have picked up the habit, eager to capture my own life through the lens. However, something unexpected happened as I grew older: I began to hate taking photos. Not in a rebellious or intentional way, though. Rather, I slowly found myself more and more disconnected from the idea of documenting every moment.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the beauty around me. I’m incredibly thankful for the chance to visit wonderful places, the kind that would have most people reaching for their phones to snap a picture. However, instead of pulling out a camera, I found myself absorbed in the experience itself, forgetting to capture it.

At first, I didn’t notice the habit. It wasn’t a conscious choice to stop taking photos, but after a few trips, I realized there were barely any images to show for it. When someone asks to see pictures from my travels, I’d awkwardly scroll through my phone, only to find a handful of images, if any at all.

For a while, I felt a little out of place. Social media was filled with perfectly curated albums and endless travel photo dumps. I would scroll through friends’ feeds, comparing their carefully captured moments to my lack of documentation. Was I missing out on something? Should I be trying harder to save these memories, to have proof of all the places I’ve been?

No, I’m not missing out at all. In fact, not having photos became a way for me to fully experience the world around me. Instead of thinking about the perfect shot or worrying if I was capturing the “right” angle, I was free to just be in the moment.

One trip, in particular, stands out. I spent six weeks in Sydney, and almost every day, I’d pass through the Harbour Bridge. It was iconic, of course, and I saw people in the city posing in front of it, cameras in hand. Yet, I could only count on one hand how many photos I have of it.

Nevertheless, what I do have is the memory of those bus rides. I can still remember the feeling of sitting on the B-Line bus, headphones in, blasting Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield as the bridge came into view. The city passing by in a blur, the weightless freedom of being in a place that felt both unfamiliar and welcoming—that was the real memory—not a photo of the bridge, but the feeling of being there.

It’s strange how easily we assume a photograph will capture the full breadth of an experience. However, no picture of the Harbour Bridge on my phone could ever bring back the sound of the song playing in my ears and the quiet excitement I felt as I explored each day. That’s the kind of memory that stays with you, not as an image, but as something much deeper.

I’ve come to realize that my reluctance to take photos isn’t about rejecting technology or being indifferent to the moments worth capturing. It’s about believing that not every experience needs to be filtered through a lens to be meaningful. Some moments are meant to be lived, felt, and remembered in ways that a picture just can’t capture.

Of course, there are still times when I take photos (after all, I do love a good aesthetic Instagram story shot), but I’ve learned to be content with taking fewer of them, and I no longer feel pressured to document every detail. Instead, I let the moments pass naturally, and sometimes, the best memories are the ones I didn’t feel the need to capture at all.

In a world where we’re constantly encouraged to document our lives, it’s freeing to know that some moments are just for me. They live on, but not on a camera roll or a social media feed. They’re in the spaces where the feelings and sensations of those times reside—etched in my memory, just as they are.

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