We Only Take Photos of Things We Don't Want to Forget
By Luca Bonafede · June 6, 2026 ·
Today I went through my camera roll.
Gym mirrors. The same face, different days, different cities.
I remember when I started this — end of every workout, without exception. A selfie. Not because I looked good. In 2022, in Amsterdam, I didn't look good at all.
That was exactly the point.
I forced myself. Look at this. Look at how you are right now. It felt less like vanity and more like a confession. A way of saying: I see you, and I'm not looking away.
It's easy to take a photo when everything is going well. When the light is right, when you feel it, when Life is cooperating. Anyone can do that. But taking a photo when you don't feel right — when you're underdressed, exhausted, softer than you want to be — that takes something else. That takes a kind of honesty most people prefer to skip.
So I didn't skip it.
And over time, the photos became something I didn't expect. Not a record of progress. A record of presence. When I scroll back and see a dense stretch of gym selfies, I know something about that period without needing to remember it. I was showing up. Life had some structure. Not perfect — but held together.
When the selfies disappear, I know that too.
The gaps don't lie.
But I've been doing this for fifteen years, in different forms. And the gym is only part of it.
Sometimes it's not a selfie. Sometimes it's a half-empty glass on a table. The last light through a window I was about to leave. A street corner at a time I'll never forget. Small things. Things that meant nothing to anyone else in that moment.
To say: this is where it changed. Sometimes it's a beginning you can already feel building. Sometimes it's an end you've known for longer than you'd like to admit. And sometimes it's simply: I'm done. Let's move forward.
Sometimes I'm the only one who knows what that photo means. It looks like nothing. A corridor. A sky. A half-empty room. But I know. And when I go back to it years later, I don't just see the image. I feel exactly what I felt the moment I took it — what I was thinking, what I was afraid of, what I was quietly saying goodbye to.
Some people take photos of everything and remember nothing. The feed is full, the memory is empty. There's a difference between documenting a moment and performing it.
I'd take a blurry snap half-drunk and overjoyed over a perfectly lit dinner shot any day. A quick selfie in an Uber at 7am on the way to work, after 45 minutes of sleep following an unforgettable night out. A random cooking moment — messy kitchen, bad lighting, someone laughing with their mouth full. No filter. No setup. Just: this happened, and it was real, and I was there in the moment.
Those are the ones I go back to. Not because they're beautiful. Because they're honest.
And then there are the people who don't take photos at all. Sometimes I look at the person next to me and notice they haven't taken a single one. And for a moment — just a moment — I wonder if they simply don't want to remember this. But that's my way of seeing things. Not everyone carries the camera as a form of honesty. Some people are just... present. In a way I'm still learning.
My Mother told me that once. And I think about it every time I raise the camera when I'd rather not.
We only take photos of things we want to remember.
Doesn't matter if they're good or bad. Doesn't matter if you looked terrible or the light was wrong or you were crying five minutes before. You raised the camera because something in you said: I don't want to forget this.
That instinct never lies.
My Brother was the first one to make me notice that. Years ago, without even realising he was teaching me something.
So I keep taking the selfies. The good ones, when Life feels full. And especially the bad ones — the ones I had to force myself to take, where I looked at the screen and didn't love what I saw.
Those are the ones that remind me I was honest with myself.
And that, more than any highlight reel, is worth remembering.
Thank you, and ciao for now.
Luca Bonafede