Before She Was Mom: How an Old Photo Showed Me Why Stories Matter

There's a photo of my mom I can't stop looking at. She's in the back of a car, caught mid-laugh, her hair wild in the wind. It's from before I was born—a version of her I never knew firsthand. I don't know where she was going or what made her laugh like that, but something about this moment keeps pulling me back. Maybe it's because her joy feels both achingly familiar and completely new to me.

I find myself studying the details: the way her head is thrown back, the finger of someone else tickling her feet, how her eyes are squeezed shut with laughter, the slight blur that suggests the car was moving. It's strange how a single frozen moment can feel so alive.

My mom mid-laugh sometime before she was my mom

What We See, What We Miss

This photo lives on my desk now, and sometimes when I'm working, I catch myself staring at it, trying to piece together the story behind it. Was someone telling a joke? Did something ridiculous just happen? Who was behind the camera? The questions I can't answer somehow make this image more precious to me. It's like holding a puzzle piece from a life my mom lived before she was "Mom."

The mystery of it reminds me of conversations we had before she passed—how there were always stories she meant to tell me, details that slipped away, moments she wished she'd captured. Now I find myself playing detective with whatever traces remain, including this photograph that somehow managed to survive dozens of moves and years of storage.

The Stories That Stay

Working with stories has become my way of making sense of these fragments we're all left with. I think about that photo of my mom. I think about how someone, decades ago, thought to capture that moment—had no idea that years later, their snapshot would become one of my most treasured snapshots.

It's changed how I approach my own storytelling. When I'm documenting something—whether it's a personal project or work for others—I'm always looking for those unguarded moments that reveal something true. Not the posed, perfect shots, but the in-between moments where people forget they're being watched. The real laugh, not the camera laugh. The quiet glance between friends. The small gestures that speak volumes.

Beyond the Frame

Sometimes I wonder what my mom would think about how much meaning I've attached to this single photo. Would she even remember that day? Would the story behind it be as remarkable as I've imagined? Maybe not. But I've learned that's not really the point.

The power of stories—whether they're told through photographs, words, or film—isn't just in the moments they capture, but in how they let us connect across time, across experiences, across all the spaces between what was and what is. They give us permission to wonder, to imagine, to piece together our own understanding of the people and moments that shape us.

That's why I keep coming back to this work. Because every time I help tell someone else's story, I'm hoping to create something that will matter to someone the way this photo matters to me. Not just content, not just information, but a bridge between hearts, between generations, between what we know and what we long to understand.

That photo of my mom laughing in the back of a car taught me this: the best stories aren't the ones that tell us everything. They're the ones that leave room for us to find ourselves in them.