There's a quiet beauty in the phone, one that often gets lost in conversations about being chronically online. Like every twenty something, I probably look like I'm glued to my screen, scrolling endlessly, lost in an algorithm. But beneath that assumption, there's something deeper, the privilege of preservation.
The pandemic pushed us all into URL instead of IRL. But perhaps that shift only magnified what was already true, our phones are more than just distractions. They are a vessel for memories and a tool for connection.
It is such a gift to take a picture, not just to remember what something looked like, but to capture what it felt like with a live photo.
I often find myself looking through my grandad's old black and white photos. They are beautiful, filled with a nostalgia I can't fully grasp. But they also leave me with questions I'll never get to ask, stories I wish I could hear from him directly. I'd give anything to watch a video of him as a young man, to hear his voice tell me about his life in his own words.
We owe it to ourselves, and to future generations, to document our lives. Not just the highlights, not just the curated, but the ordinary and the unfiltered.
One day, someone will look back at our photos and videos the way I look at my grandad's, searching for connection, for a glimpse into the past, for a sense of who we were.
So take those pictures, record those videos. Capture moments, not just for now, but for the future. Because one day, those moments, will mean everything to someone else.
