Pictures from Before I Was Tired
There are years that ask and years that answer.
Before I started writing, I scrolled. Not through Instagram or TikTok (I don’t have the latter). Nor through Pinterest or even Substack (I do love seeing other creators’ work). Instead, I scrolled through the digital album my mom and I share.
Not much redeems technology in my eyes, but capturing moments and words keeps me from fleeing to Greece and unceremoniously dumping my devices off the coast of the Mediterranean, whooping and jumping up and down, maybe pumping the air with a rebellious fist. The freeing idea of casting off those encoded chains and saying GOODBYE to anything that holds me back from weightlessness sounds like an ever-present possibility.
More, shedding the fatigue of my early adult years seems to me like some priceless commodity, almost in reach, but not quite. Comparable to watching water run through your frustrated and altogether human hands, unable to do anything but watch.
Scrolling through the album, I literally watched time in fast-forward, observed myself and the others in the pictures age and change as the years altered faces, bodies, smiles, eyes, and clothing styles.
Last week, in the quiet of a coffee shop nearing closing time, I determined to scrawl in a journal some last-minute thoughts on the passage we’re studying in my Bible study group. True to my scatterbrained and always-late tendencies—born out of the chaos of the last five years—our meeting was the next morning, and I was ashamedly feeling unmotivated and bored by having to come up with ‘facts’ or manufactured revelations to share in our meeting. Due, of course, to my own lack of regard for the task and not the study itself.
So, of course, I was fully willing to succumb to my mom’s distracting dialogue about her wistful scrolling through years and years of parenthood displayed on her phone screen. We shared several laughs about my overplucked and overdrawn eyebrows, my brother’s ridiculous poses, and outfits that were so early 2000s. I mourned my youthful pre-curve slimness, while my mom made a face at my dramatics. Thankfully, the cafe was all but empty. I doubt the other patrons would have appreciated our guffawing, although we did our best to keep it to a minimum.
Due to my exaggerated insecurities, all that I could recall from our nostalgic scrolling was this feeling of just being less than the girl in the past. I couldn’t shake her; she seemed so confident, so unique, so…her. Why couldn’t I be her again? I took several bracing sips of my blueberry hibiscus tea, holding the mug close to me and trying to just enjoy the silliness of it all. Don’t be so serious about it, September, I thought to myself, you’re not that different. You’re still the same person. Also, I was glad to be out of high school—there wasn’t much to be nostalgic about when it came to the years of 15-18.
Later, though, during the car ride to the grocery, my mother said, “Do you think that you looked lighter in those photos back then?” The silly, vain creature that I am, immediately assumed she meant my physical weight. I snorted, and she looked at my expression, reading my thoughts.
“Not your actual weight,” she rolled her eyes. “I meant in your eyes—the weight from life hasn’t set in yet. I don’t know. Maybe that doesn’t make sense.”
It made perfect sense. I told her so. She hadn’t intended her words to draw blood, but they did. It felt like a cauterized but persistent lesion, somewhere in the region of my stomach, in my gut perhaps? A nagging pain that suddenly felt like more than a pinprick and more like an ache that revealed some enduring inner hurt.
“That kind of cut me to the heart, what you said,” I remarked as we got back in the car after foraging in the grocery aisles for dinner. She looked surprised and quickly apologized, but I reassured her it wasn’t a harmful thing she’d done. It just pained me because I already felt that inside, and didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Six years ago, I was in a Middle Summer—a summer between the end of my freshman year and becoming a sophomore in the fall. My family and I had moved from California to plant roots on the other side of the United States. At the time, I was an angry, hormonal teenager. I was indescribably lonely and bereft, having left my whole life behind on the opposite coast, with no way back because I was too afraid to live on my own somewhere else. Besides, I was too young to even seriously consider that a possibility. Not only was I between grades, but I was sandwiched inside of a previous life somewhere else, and this new one that I frankly hated. All of a sudden, everything felt up in the air.
The Middle Summer was hot, sticky, full of creaking and chirping cicadas—bugs too large to be allowed. Every moment spent outside was a moment struggling to breathe fresher air that hovered just above the humidity. I have always referred to that first year as one that I spent depressed, deflated, defeated, demoralized, and lots of other adjectives that start with ‘de’.
Funnily enough, perusing the infamous album again, I find that not all of the first year here on the East Coast was a ‘de’ year. Some of it was actually rather pleasant. I felt young, free, capable, inspired, and utterly unstoppable. My now 21-year-old self could argue against those traits being a sign that I was spiritually healthy—in fact, my memories tell me my relationship to God wasn’t on the rise, per se. But mentally, I think I may have been doing better back then at 15 than I am now.
Nostalgia isn’t helpful, it’s not pragmatic or efficient—sometimes it’s downright dangerous.
Nostalgia isn’t quite what I imagine, though, when I regard the little girl in her rosy pink cowboy hat and matching western boots. Nor the teenage girl in her—what she thought at the time—sexy tube top and fitted jeans. It’s not as if I desire to be back in those times, in those past bodies of mine. I like my present, actually.
What about the past, then, draws us in? Historical fiction does it, if it’s written just so. Talking with a childhood friend on the phone or laughing over some age-old, slightly crass bit that should probably not be given any more attention. Smelling an old purple security blanket tucked away in a basket. Or looking at hazy pre-16+ iPhone-era pictures.
More than wishing to be back in that teen girl’s body, more than longing for her tenacity, maybe I just wish I weren’t so tired all the time.
I can almost imagine you nodding along with me, a slight smile on your lips as you reminisce on the days when adulthood didn’t drag upon your selfhood. Perhaps it’s those moments of surprised joy that C.S. Lewis happily remembered in his semi-biography that I reference subconsciously. Or that tricky German metaphysical experience, Sehnsucht: a longing for the other, an ache for what is yet to come that cannot be given to us on this earth.
But I can’t help but inquire of God, of myself too, where the unbearable lightness went? Where, oh where did it disappear to? Did my trustful joy remain in the storybooks of my girlhood, my ardent love in the remnants of my first young relationship? What of that nearly reckless bravery, driving me to apply to a job the moment my feet touched Southern soil?
What happened in between the Middle Summer and 2025 to break me down so? What of your own inner grieving, reader? What parts of your selfhood do you grieve? Where did they go, do you think?
Maybe some other mature, reasonable, level-headed grownup can relieve me of my romantic notions, my unresolved teenage angst. But I think not—because my mother, queen of always looking forward rather than backward, made the comment in the first place. Empathetic but realistic, my mother isn’t often nostalgic, wistful, or dreamy like her daughter. Hence, my amazement at her unintentionally piercing remark.
Our derelict society prefers us to be sad. My friends and I have discussed this recently, the so-called ‘sad girl aesthetic’: a persona that prizes melancholia, depressive episodes, heartfelt crying sessions, and bathroom floor breakdowns while making it seem desirable, pretty, and downright trendy.
Melancholic as anything, I too often find these sorts of moods dangerously seductive, reeling me in like a hooked fish into the ever-widening pool of despair that sucks at me like midnight tar, oozing around my open wounds like some witchy brew.
Only, becoming a sad girl is not what I note or desire to obtain, when I examine my happy expression from years past, eyes disappearing in the overtly joyful grin that consumes my whole being. If somebody’s whole body could smile, I think mine would be in those momentary snapshots. An obscure literature reference came to my mind, the source is lost in my subconscious imagination— “I didn’t want to be in that photo with him, I envied the photo itself, wanted to hold him like the photo did”, or something like that. Akin to this girl’s longing, I think I desire to become the photo, identify with it, hold inside me that elusive, joyful, carefree girl.
In a conversation with my mother again, she told me that she had recently been on a phone call with a friend. Her friend related a story to my mom of her experience observing a picture of her cousin, perceiving her cousin’s lightness. In a catch-up conversation with the cousin, my mom’s friend commented, “You seemed so light in that photo! I wonder why that is?” A question in her voice. “Oh! That’s when I gave my life to Jesus!” she responded.
Worrying thoughts spun around inside. Wait, is it ungrateful of me to love God and feel weighed down? Do I need to say sorry for my gloominess?
I don’t intend for me to manifest as a writer sobbing out her illegitimate melancholic notions. Rather, I’m just not sure where I went. Most days, my body walks around in a daydream haze. As if my faculties are separate from my physical body.
Days have come and gone where I imagine I’m back in that dreaded Middle Summer. In fact, maybe all of my twenties will feel like some odd middle way, as if I’m learning all the hard stuff now so when I reach thirty, I’ll have some sense of where to go and who to be in this mad life. Almost two years in, it feels like that little light bird that fluttered in picture frames and put on fashion shows is tucked away, hiding from the harshness of the world around her.
Amongst the buzz of the somewhat absurd and ironic mundane, I have begun to reconcile the last 1,460 days as somewhat of a mixed bag. Like playing a game where you put your hand in the hat, drawing out whatever paper fate deals you, just hoping that it’s going to be a fortunate one. Maybe I’ll pull a You’ve just won a million dollars! or Tomorrow, you will meet the man of your dreams or maybe just After you read this, you won’t struggle with any more fears.
And in the midst of the psychic disturbances, something akin to a gentle reminder stepped from the shadows, smiling warmly at me with empathetic eyes and open arms—
there are years that ask and years that answer.
Sometimes it is a lengthy sequence of years that serves up a fine buffet of puzzles rather than prettily and tidily made outcomes, ones that befuddle our time-limited perspectives. When the light changes, we are gifted with big picture vision like the prophets of old, excited to see blessing, restoration, and rest on the horizon of our futures.
Serving a God who has set us inside of a linear timeline seems harsh to a mind that knows no other life than the one where events take place, one after another. It is as if my Question Years stand out like an ugly bruise on otherwise flawless features, begging to be acknowledged and attended to, but with no cure or recourse except for the time healing takes and the answers that pay no attention to demands.
365 long stretches with a pilgrim’s weighty burden become almost unmanageable. They have become so for me. The worst of it is that you can’t point to a specific cause, precisely. Yes, you can go to counseling, hire a psychologist, work out more, and take those supplements. But it’s as if those ‘cures’ don’t penetrate to the darker points of your inner self.
Those days when no matter how much sleep you had the night before, regardless of the numerous power naps throughout the day, your feet still feel like they’re dragging from one step to the next. Food suddenly doesn’t sound so appealing anymore unless it’s that milkshake and fries you’ve been dreaming of during all those naps. Speaking and interacting with anyone seems as difficult as scaling Mount Everest…I wonder if I could climb a mountain like Everest as other go-getters have, who seem to possess more energy and resilience than I would imagine possible?
Despite the worship music, Bible reading sessions, and regular church attendance, the lightness in my eyes seems to grow dimmer until it seems a tired flame in a vast midnight cavern. Alone. Dreadfully alone.
At long last, I felt inwardly, I am exhausted. Bone weary. On the point of spiritual collapse.
And right there, it hit me.
I was puzzling over what was different between now as an adult and my childhood days, and grasped at something: that life was definitely simpler when I was seven years old. Of course, I can practically hear the hands being thrown up, the laptop being shut, the eyes rolling. “Duh. Everyone knows that. Plus, didn’t we already cover that? I’m out. That won’t help me with my complicated life now.” Yes, sure—we’ve been here before.
Oftentimes, the cliche truths are the things that rescue us from going under.
Except, can we choose simple? Admittedly, simple probably includes some sacrifice. And it doesn’t guarantee ease. Maybe that’s the beauty of it, though, choosing it. Maybe, in order for me to feel transcendentally light, unburdened, is just to train my mind to let them slide off my back, as Christian did at Christ’s cross in The Pilgrim’s Progress. At some point, we all have the option to choose freedom from burdens. Sometimes, it takes us whispering “Jesus” under our breath a thousand times a day; other times, a momentary glance at an icon relieves us of suffering immediately.
As a child, simple equalled trust. As a child, constant anxiety stemming from hyper self-awareness and type A control issues wasn’t even existing problem in my orbit. I lived day to day, trusting in the assured provision of my parents, thankful for the opportunity to wake up each morning and venture into the world as an explorer and lifetime learner. Some days, it was to play veterinarian, others as a doctor. Teacher, princess, or damsel in distress, I knew I was loved and that the world was ultimately a pretty okay place to be.
Not only did trust mean everything to me when I was a kid, but there was another thing: no heavy expectations. The world hampers adults, and increasingly younger and younger folk, through social media, with unrealistic, dramatic, unachievable lifestyle expectations. All five senses are flooded with unmet standards for life on this earth that we don’t know what to do with. It’s as if we stood still as dirty engine oil was poured by the bucketload onto us in our entirely white array.
At some point, I began looking around me, noticing the abundance that seemed to cascade down upon my friends, even random strangers I’d pass on the street, whose stories I didn’t even know.
Wow, why does she look so effortlessly graceful and stylish?
What a cute couple—how did they find each other, I wonder?
He really speaks with conviction and charisma. I need to work on that.
Ugly, ugly burdens that force my shoulders to turn inwards. I’m fearful that someday, when I’m old, I’ll be one of those grouchy, bitter old ladies who bite out angry remarks at children and berate their neighbors because the world didn’t do her a good turn.
A wonderful truth—that childlike weightlessness in those photographs can be restored. But it will require the sacrifice of burdens that I’ve borne so long, it will seem unnatural to cast them away. Much of our baggage is self-imposed, if we’re honest with ourselves. Could it be we’ve chosen, perhaps subconsciously, to embrace the society we were brought up in, to accept that countryside mansions, high social stratas, lazing by the pool, attractive partners, and cocktail parties every weekend are part of everybody’s existence on this earth? Uncomfortably, I have to acknowledge to myself that it might not be my lot in life. It could be. But maybe not. The expectation that “I must” weighs me down, though.
"Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." (Is. 40:30-31)
To enter into Heaven, we must have the weightless hearts of children.
Perhaps it is time to relearn the meaning of lightness. A picture or two to remember, I’m still capable of weightless simplicity.
In the silence of a lonely car ride, I whisper to myself, Just be in His presence. Hold His hand. It’ll be enough.
This is beautiful.