I have spent most of my life obsessed with photographs—looking
at old photos, taking photos, collaging photos, and over-posting photos on
social media (sorry, friends). I have learned a lot from careful observation of
the photographs I’ve taken or collected throughout my life. One of the most
difficult photos for me to analyze is one of my mother, which was taken just a
few weeks before she died. In this image she wears a knit hat to hide her bald
scalp, and her fragile body, dressed in blue and pink pajamas, is propped
against the back of her couch while she holds my newborn daughter, Sophie. Sophie
is sleeping, and my mother has the biggest grin I had seen through all
of her illness. She was ecstatic to be holding that baby.
This
photograph somehow warms my heart and tears it open all at once. Despite the
conflict in emotion that this photograph produces, I keep it on my desk at work
to remind me of the two most important pieces of my life: my mother, and my
motherhood. It is one of the only images I have of them both together.
 |
| My mother and Sophie. |
A few days ago, as I was sitting at my desk distracted by memories of my mother, I
stared at this photo for the majority of the afternoon. “How could she look so happy?”
I asked myself, remembering how nauseous she felt that day, how weak she was,
how much pain was radiating through her body at that exact moment. She knew she
could die any day, yet she was genuinely elated to simply hold her
granddaughter. I studied my mother’s smile in this photograph, and realized
that happiness isn’t something that happens to us. Happiness doesn’t come from
our circumstances or even our loved ones. It comes from ourselves.
My mother
loved that baby from the moment I told her I was pregnant. She loved her
until the last time she said goodbye, as I held Sophie’s car seat to the couch
because my mother couldn’t sit up that day. In that photograph, my mother knew
that terrible things were happening to her, but she decided to be happy anyway.
That is why she didn’t talk about the progression of her illness, or why she never told us how
much time she had left. That is why she concealed the pain.
I learned
a lot from this photograph of my mother, or really from my mother herself. The
past few years of my life have been littered with numerous unfortunate events,
between the passing of deeply loved ones, to fire and destruction, and even
depression, among other personal struggles. But I won’t wait for good things to
come to me. I won’t wait for others to bestow happiness upon me or become
frustrated if they never do. Happiness is an inside job, and I want to love
myself and encourage myself and build myself up enough that I’ll create my own. To expect happiness from something or someone else is to choose misery, and misery is a contagious disease. Happiness just feels good. It inspires people to promote kindness and goodness. It produces story and adventure. It soothes and heals.
So, I
have made the conscious decision to be happy. I am not delusional enough to
believe my life is or will ever be perfect. I have my struggles and pain—we all
do. But I refuse to let those things define me. I will not sink into the
negative space of anger, fear, sadness, and regret. I want to learn and
discover and encounter and explore and create. I want to love and respect
myself deeply. I want to photograph and write about everything. I want to find new sensations
and taste the best parts of life. I want to stop worrying about what I can’t
do, and focus on what I can. I want to be inquisitive and inspirational. I want to be happy. I
choose to be happy.
