I was recently looking through some old photographs — something I feel genuinely privileged to have. In an age where memories live on our phones, scrolled past in seconds, there is something quietly magical about holding an actual photograph in your hands. It has weight. Texture. A past.

One small print absolutely leapt out at me as the perfect embodiment of the saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

It’s tiny. Slightly out of focus. The black and white faded with time. And yet… it holds an entire childhood.

The first thing that hits me is the height difference. My sister was nearly six years younger than me, 5 years and 11 months to be precise, and it shows.

Then there’s the hair. I had dark brown hair; hers was much lighter. And of course, the bows. My mum adored enormous hair bows — architectural masterpieces of ribbon. I had finally escaped that particular fashion trauma by virtue of being older. My sister, however, was still very much in the “gift wrap” stage.

The dresses are unforgettable. Mum loved making our clothes — using the same material and pattern. Nothing quite says “happy childhood” like being dressed as a coordinated set despite the age difference. We wore those dresses endlessly, even when they became too short.

In my hands, I’m holding a camera. Of course I am. Even then, apparently preparing for a future career — although it would take me quite a while to get there. Some clues about who we are start early, if we bother to notice them.

And then there’s the bandage around my knee. Proof that I was — and remain — gloriously clumsy. I’m fairly certain this was from the time I decided climbing over the school railing was a brilliant idea. It was not. I ended up making a hole in the back of my leg via a spike and was incredibly lucky not to cause permanent damage. I remember at least 3 to 4 stitches. I remember no blood (weird) but pain. A trip to hospital. And I am still mildly convinced the nurse “forgot” the anaesthetic whilst stitching me up, probably to teach me a lesson. She even asked my Dad to hold my leg down whilst she did it. This is maybe why I am now risk-averse.

The photo must have been taken a few days later. We were on holiday in Weston-super-Mare, staying on a farm. Despite being young, I vividly remember the farmer’s five sons — though not, interestingly, what we actually did there. Memory is selective like that.

And finally, my mum took the photograph. Which means she isn’t in it. As usual, she was behind the camera. Capturing the moment. Being Mum. Probably with plasters in her handbag in anticipation of my next disaster.

It’s funny how one small, slightly blurry photograph can hold so much — chaos, love, questionable fashion choices, minor medical drama, ambition, and an entire era wrapped into one frame.

And despite the soft focus, it’s crystal clear in my mind.

But here’s the thing: all of that lives in me. Not in the photo.

If that picture had been left in a drawer and found decades from now, would anyone know about the bows? The railing incident? The farm? The five sons? The future camera career? The mother who was always there but rarely visible?

A photograph captures a moment. Words preserve their meaning.

We are living in a time where thousands of images sit silently in digital archives. But unless we tell the stories behind them, they are just faces, places, and dates (if we are lucky to have the dates) — eventually detached from the people who lived them.

So write it down.

Write about the height difference.
Write about the dresses.
Write about the injury that became family folklore.
Write about the person behind the camera.

Print your photos. Back them up. Label them. Protect them. And, most importantly, tell their stories.

Because one day, someone will hold that picture and wonder.

And what a gift it would be if they didn’t have to guess.