At first, selfies seem harmless fun—a way to snap out of a fast moment of confidence or joy that captures how we look at that moment. But then, as time passes, the endless stream of photographs becomes a cruel documentary on aging, showing you that perfect filters and rehearsed angles can’t keep wrinkles or sagging skin at bay. Then comes a day when taking another selfie feels like an act of self-sabotage.
Like everybody else, I used to take selfies. Every good hair day, every decent light, and every new outfit was all a call for one. The photos were like little trophies, reassuring me that I was still radiant, still young. Now, while I’m looking at the selfies I took in all those years, I don’t just see my younger self; I see time slowly passing. The sharp jawline that I would boast? It’s softer now. The sparkle in my eyes? Not gone, but certainly dimmed by life’s wear and tear.
And it’s not just me. I’ve noticed friends who used to flood their feeds with selfies suddenly go quiet. When I asked one of them why, she sighed and said, “I just don’t like what I see anymore.” And it hit me: selfies, once a tool of self-celebration, had turned into a mirror we’d rather avoid. It is an irony almost cruel that what once served to record our confidence has now turned into a harbinger, reminding us of its gradual decline.
Even the ritual of taking selfies feels different. I used to take pictures willy-nilly, but lately, I catch myself agonizing over every shot: the dark spots around my eyes, the angle of my neck, the sagginess of my cheeks. By the time I get to a photo that I don’t hate, the moment that I was trying to capture is long gone, and I’m left somehow frustrated and defeated.
Selfies are, in so many ways, a lie we tell ourselves. Filters smooth out imperfections, and strategic poses conceal the bits we’d rather not see. For a while, it works. But eventually, reality catches up. I am reminded of a grandmother who refuses to be in photos altogether. “I don’t want to remember myself like this,” she says. Maybe she’s onto something. Maybe there is wisdom in stepping away from the camera before it starts to feel like an enemy.
I’m not saying selfies are inherently bad. They’ve given us a way to connect, to share, to express ourselves. But there’s a fine line between documenting life and obsessing over appearances, and I’ve found myself dangerously close to crossing it. Instead of capturing memories, I’ve spent too much time chasing an image of myself that no longer exists—or perhaps never truly did.
But here’s the saddest thing to realize: selfies don’t preserve us; they record only our changes. They’re like marks on a door frame, charting our growth in reverse. And while they remind us of who we once were, they cannot stop time or erase those parts of aging that we would rather not think about. I have begun to wonder whether I would be happier without the constant comparison and the pressure to look good enough for the camera.
Perhaps now is a good time to retreat from selfies onto something different: a life lived not with the lens always pointing in. Instead of capturing every moment, maybe I need to just live them. After all, the beauty of life isn’t in a perfect photo; it’s in the messy, unfiltered moments we share with others, wrinkles and all.
