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Polaroid stories | getting older

I was going through a box where I keep family Polaroids and thought about selecting a few. That’s when it hit me that they already tell a story on their own. A story we all move through and often barely notice. We grow older.

And growing older isn’t just about adding years like stacking boxes in the corner of a room. It’s more like moving houses without warning yourself first.

Friendships change shape. Some turn into memories with a very specific scent. Others remain, even with fewer messages and longer pauses. Some people leave your life without fights or explanations, simply because the versions of you no longer exist at the same time. It hurts less when you understand that permanence isn’t the only proof of affection.

Love grows older too. Sometimes together, sometimes in opposite directions. The love that once burned learns how to warm. Or it fades. You learn that intensity isn’t the same as depth, and that peace can be a form of passion that only reveals itself with time.

Perhaps the most unsettling part of growing older is accepting that we are temporary even to ourselves. That the person you once were saved you as far as they could, and now it’s time to thank them and move on. Not as someone who abandons, but as someone who honors.

Growing older is this. Continuing to say goodbye while still living. Shedding skins without losing truth. Carrying fewer certainties and more gentleness. And realizing, with a mix of surprise and relief, that changing isn’t losing yourself. It’s often the most honest way to keep going.

That’s the reflection this box of Polaroids gave back to me.