You’re Missing From Memories
How body shame kept me out of the frame—and what it cost
I thought I was just taking the pictures… until I realized I’d been erasing myself from them for years.
This story is the first in a short series for my Coming Home to Your Body: 7-Day Challenge starting August 18. Over the next few days, I’ll be sharing moments from my journey with body image shame — the ones that changed how I see myself — along with an invitation to join me for a week of shifting the way you see yourself, too.
A few years ago, my daughter sat on the couch, flipping through my camera roll.
She was working on a school project—a collage of her family. I watched as she giggled through the photos of her siblings, stopping to point out ones of her dad and their silly faces together.
Then she furrowed her brow.
“Mama, I can’t find any pictures of you and me.”
Her words dropped like a stone in my chest. The air between us felt heavy, my cheeks flushed hot, and my palms went clammy. She said it so casually, but to me, it was like she was holding up a mirror I didn’t want to face.
I leaned over, scrolling through image after image. And sure enough, I wasn’t there. I was always behind the camera.
I offered some half-hearted excuse—“Oh, I must be the one taking all the pictures!”—but we both knew it wasn’t the truth.
The truth was, standing behind the camera had become my safe place.
It let me feel like I was participating without having to see myself.
Because seeing myself in a photo was unbearable.
Every snapshot felt like proof of what I feared most—that I looked nothing like the version of me I thought I “should” be. My eyes went straight to the soft belly, the tired face, the ways my body had changed. I didn’t see the moment, the joy, or the love—I only saw flaws.
So I stayed in the role of the photographer, thinking I was capturing memories for my kids.
But really, I was erasing myself from them.
Year after year, the albums filled with birthdays, beach trips, ice cream stops, park days… all without me in them. I could tell you exactly what my kids were wearing, the silly things they said, the way the sun lit their hair. But if someone looked back, they’d never know I was there, too.
And that’s what gutted me—realizing I wasn’t just avoiding pictures.
I was avoiding being part of the memories.
That moment with my daughter shook me.
But the one that broke me open came years later.
When we lost my dad, we were tasked with the painful job of choosing photos for his memorial slideshow. I sifted through hundreds of images—me as a child, laughing, playing, tucked into his arms.
But when I looked for pictures of me with my mom, they were scarce. Almost nonexistent.
The few I could find were blurry, or she was half-turned away, or her hand was covering her face. And instantly, I remembered why.
I remembered her sitting on the side of the pool, cover-up pulled tight, waving me off when I asked her to come in.
I remembered her disappearing into her bedroom before outings, trying on outfit after outfit, sighing that nothing fit.
I remembered how, if someone tried to take our picture, she would duck behind me, tilt her head out of the frame, or hold up a hand as a shield.
The message was subtle but powerful: It’s safer to stay hidden.
I remember the wave of nausea, the sharp grief that stole my breath as I realized I had absorbed that message—so deeply that I was now passing it on without even meaning to.
And then the thought I couldn’t shake:
Am I doing the same thing to my children?
Am I erasing myself from their memories without even realizing it?
That night, I made a quiet vow:
No more hiding.
Even when I don’t feel ready.
Even when the old stories rise up.
Even when my instinct is to shrink, to turn away, to delete the photo.
I thought about the albums they’d flip through one day, the family stories they’d tell. And I pictured my absence—the blank spaces where I should have been. I couldn’t bear the idea of them wondering why I wasn’t there, or worse, thinking they weren’t worth showing up for.
Because I want my kids to remember a mom who showed up in the frame.
Not just for the pictures, but for the moments.
And here’s what I’ve learned:
That urge to disappear?
That’s a part of me. A well-meaning protector who learned long ago that visibility meant vulnerability, that softness meant danger, that taking up space meant being judged.
But that part is working off old software.
Because now I know—my body is not a problem to solve.
It’s a story.
One that holds the full weight of my lived experience: the babies it carried, the grief it held, the joy it made room for.
And I want to live fully in the memories we’re making—not just for me, but for them.
This is why I created the Coming Home to Your Body: A 7-Day Challenge here on Substack.
Not because you need to “fix” your body—
But because you deserve to feel at home in it.
Starting August 18, we’ll spend 7 days gently setting down those shame mirrors we’ve carried for too long.
Each day, I’ll share a story and a reflection to help you see yourself differently—through the eyes of compassionate acceptance, not criticism.
🟡 Free subscribers will get a daily preview of each theme—a spark to start shifting the way you see yourself.
🟠 Paid subscribers will get the full transformation experience:
Full stories + healing prompts that go deeper than “just thinking about it.”
Daily integration practices so shifts stick beyond the challenge.
Bonus audio/video reflections for when reading feels too heavy.
A printable journal to track your progress and witness your growth.
Private reflection threads + a closing session so you never have to untangle this alone.
💛 By the end of our 7 days together, you’ll have more than just new photos—you’ll have a softer, kinder way of seeing yourself in them.
If you’ve been craving a reset—not just for your body image, but for the way you show up in your life—this is for you.
Come sit with us. There’s room for your story here.
👉 Become a paid subscriber to join the full challenge experience and walk with us for 7 days of story, reflection, and real-time support.
In the frame with you,
Crystal
P.S. If the thought of doing a “body image challenge” makes you nervous — I get it. This isn’t about forcing yourself to love your body overnight or pushing past where you’re ready to go. It’s about small, gentle shifts that help you feel more at home in your skin, one day at a time. You can start exactly where you are. Join us here.