Ageing Through Frames: A Gradual Shift in Perspective

Recently, Google Photos reminded me of pictures from my marriage seven years ago—right on cue as our anniversary approaches. I smiled at the screen,

I remembered how I had posed in all possible styles, switching outfits, adjusting my dupatta, asking the photographer if the lighting was right. I had two albums made—one traditional and one candid—plus a digital version that captured every laugh, every ritual, every tiny detail. Back then, I wanted nothing to slip away. I wanted everything preserved.

And that notification sent me down a familiar rabbit hole: opening old albums (yes, I still have so many—from my childhood all the way to my early twenties), scrolling through childhood pictures, and diving into the archives of my early adulthood. Every photo felt like a portal to a younger me—the girl who believed that clicking a picture was the only way to celebrate a moment.

I wanted to capture everything—especially when I looked good or when I was visiting a breathtaking place. Back then, taking photos felt like my way of holding on to life, like bottling up joy before it could slip away.

But lately, I’ve noticed something surprising: there are very few photos of my recent self. And my solo photos are completely missing.

The few ones I had, thanks to my husband and his love for photography or to my friends who travel with us during vacations.

For a long time, I wondered why. Had I stopped documenting my life? Had the spark faded? But when I truly sat with the thought, I realised this shift had nothing to do with disinterest. It had everything to do with maturity, presence, and the quiet wisdom that ageing brings.

Somewhere along the way, I began to enjoy moments by simply being in them. Soaking them in fully. Feeling them instead of freezing them into frames. I started capturing memories in my heart and soul rather than through a lens. There have been days when I’ve completely forgotten to take pictures—and instead of guilt, I felt peace. I didn’t feel the need anymore.

I would sit by the sea and watch the waves hit the shore, break, and step back only to come back fiercer and then repeat the same over and over again. Watching the waves is kind of meditative for me. I want to just sit by and enjoy that moment, rather than capturing the waves or the beautiful sky that turns into a vibrant hue.

The only photos I still click are of sunsets or the moon. I know the sun will set again and that the moon will light up the night sky again—but because they remind me how beautifully insignificant I am in a Universe that runs perfectly and so smoothly.

The fear of losing a moment or capturing a moment so that it can be revisited has slowly transformed into something tender and accepting. Ageing, for me, has become the understanding that life will continue to offer beautiful moments—some captured, some lived, some remembered. And all of it is enough.

No offence to anyone who loves capturing every moment—photos are beautiful keepsakes. But for me, the meaning of ‘capturing’ has quietly shifted over the years. We all celebrate life differently.
But for me, the meaning of “capturing a moment” has changed with age.

Ageing, for me, hasn’t been about lines on my face. It has been about lines that run far deeper: lines of understanding, patience, and gentleness with myself.

What once felt like scarcity now feels like surrender. Whatever the situation—joyful, ordinary, or challenging—accepting it is a form of making peace with life’s rhythm. There is always a day beyond the night, and a night after every day. Both have their purpose. Both are needed.

Maybe this is what aging truly means to me:
Not the fading of youth, but the deepening of presence.
Not the loss of moments, but the trust that life has many more to offer.
Not the need to hold on, but the grace to let life flow.

PS: This post is a part of #BlogchatterBlogHop

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