How Photos Help Us Grow Through Grief and Change

Lately, old photos keep showing up in my life.

At a friend’s bachelorette party, we strung a garland with snapshots from our teenage years — awkward, joyful, unfiltered. A few days later, my sister mentioned photo albums as a kind of reflection. Then my partner sent me a picture of himself as a child: soft cheeks, wide eyes, hair down to his shoulders.

Different moments, same theme. Everywhere I turned: images of the past.

Pictures on My Mind

My mother made a photo book for every year of my life. I can flip through them now: baby me in my dad’s arms, kindergarten me splashing in the backyard pool, teenage me waving from a train window on my first solo trip.

It’s comforting. Confronting too, sometimes. (Why did my hair always look so strange?) But mostly, those pictures stir something quiet in my chest. Soft awe.

How could I ever have been that small?

The Psychology of Reminiscing

What interests me isn’t just the photo books themselves. It’s what they reveal about how we remember.

Years ago, as an undergraduate, I was part of a university research group. We conducted interviews with participants who had been asked to create a small book of personal photos. Pictures that captured the most meaningful moments of their lives.

We were studying reminiscing.

Reminiscing is the act of recalling and reflecting on personal experiences, often with emotional weight. It draws on autobiographical memory and serves many purposes: shaping identity, processing emotions, bridging generations or simply savoring a moment.

Our question was simple: would looking through images of one’s own life — milestones, turning points — help people make sense of it all?

Research suggested yes. Reminiscing had been linked to stronger family bonds, greater mutual understanding, even higher self-esteem. It’s not nostalgia, which often idealizes the past. And it’s not rumination, which loops painful memories without resolution. In therapy, there’s also the structured “life review” or Reminiscence therapy (RT), usually near the end of life.

But we weren’t interested in structure. We just asked:

What happens when people look at their own pictures? What feelings surface? What do they realize?

The study required real effort. Participants uploaded their photos into a digital tool, then sat for in-depth interviews. But it was one of the most rewarding projects of my psychology program.

I remember how their eyes lit up when they spoke. On choosing the photos. On arranging them. On remembering how it felt to be in that moment.

The data is gone. The interviews archived. But that spark stayed with me. Until then, I had thought of photo books as sweet keepsakes — sentimental, decorative. But I started to see them as something more:

A way to witness your own life. To track the challenges you’ve overcome. To revisit the faces you loved or maybe still love. To reflect on how your story has unfolded, and how you’ve changed along the way.

Which pictures are you drawn to?

And what does that say about who you are now?

Reminiscing as an Art Project

When you’re creating the book yourself, a whole spectrum of emotions can rise to the surface. It’s not just reminiscing. It’s a kind of art project.

Which picture goes where? Which ones are too much and which must be included? What story are you trying to tell?

I’ll be honest: handcrafts aren’t my thing. I could write or sing for hours, but hand me glue, thread, or scissors and I’m overwhelmed within minutes.

Photo books, on the other hand? When I do sit down to make one, it grounds me.

I remember making a photo book after finishing my master’s degree in psychology. I put on music. Went through every picture on my phone. Then I selected, trimmed, edited. Waited patiently for the prints. Glued them in. Added stickers and little notes.

And while I worked, I found myself wondering:

What do the photos we keep say about us? What stories are we telling — or avoiding — without even realizing it?

Photos That Help Us Heal

At the time, I was in a relationship with a Dutch guy I’d met during my first year. The relationship had a rocky start. Looking at the photos helped me revisit that time. There were pictures where I knew — behind the smile — I had cried myself to sleep the night before. Others radiated real warmth. The sense of safety I found in that relationship.

The photo book became a map. Of where my heart had started, and how far it had carried me.

A few weeks after I made that book, my ex broke up with me. Not cleanly. Not kindly. In the middle of the heartbreak, the panic, those images came back. That same photo book. And with it, a strange kind of clarity: the relationship had ended exactly the way it had begun. Uneven, uncertain, and painful.

Somehow, this realization helped me let go more quickly. With more strength. A sense of resolve came over me.

Assertiveness. A boundary, maybe.

It felt like witnessing my younger self — her patterns, her hope — had helped me stand taller in the present. Because I had already reflected on the highs and lows, I didn’t fall into the same fog of confusion. I could piece together how I’d arrived there. What I had chosen. What I’d ignored.

It gave me grace.

And brutal honesty.

Old Pictures, New Insight: Finding Clarity in Past Moments

I know this is a dramatic example of what a photo book can evoke. But maybe that makes the point: Looking back at your life can help you make sense of it. And what better way to do that than through images?

Last week, while looking for something cute to add to the bachelorette garland, I stumbled across the same pictures I’d glued into that old photo book.

The pictures are the same. But the way I see them isn’t.

Maybe it’s the rhythm I’ve found in Berlin — this blog, a few creative projects, a sense of belonging. Maybe it’s the steadiness of my new relationship. Or maybe it’s just time doing what time does.

When I look at those old pictures now, I feel distance. Not pain, not longing. Just a sense that I’ve moved far beyond the version of me who lived in them.

Even the photos with my ex don’t feel loaded anymore. They feel like a chapter I understand, but no longer relate to. I know why I was there, what I was hoping for, what I didn’t yet know about myself. But I don't miss it. I don’t miss her, either. That’s a kind of freedom I didn’t expect — to see the past without needing to relive it. To feel grateful and detached.

Psychologist Susan David calls this capacity to hold our emotions with clarity and curiosity emotional agility. It’s not about controlling how we feel, but about noticing, naming, and responding with presence.

That’s what the photos gave me: not a fix, but a moment of pause. A shift in how I saw the story and myself within it.

The Photos We Keep, the Stories We Tell

Of course, we don’t need photo books to remember who we were. But sometimes, holding those snapshots, laid out in sequence, frozen mid-laugh or mid-heartbreak, helps us see what memory alone can’t.

A mirror.

A timeline.

A conversation with your younger self.

These images hold more than nostalgia. They carry questions we weren’t ready to ask at the time. They reflect patterns we couldn’t yet name. They show us, with quiet honesty, not just what we’ve lived through, but who we’ve become because of it.

That’s what struck me most, looking back at the old photo book. Not how much had changed. But that I could finally see it.

Maybe that’s what photos offer us most: not answers, but access. A way in. A way back. A way through.

So if a picture ever stops you — mid-scroll, mid-sorting, mid-packing — let it.

Look. Ask:

What have I forgotten? What wants to be remembered? What am I ready to see differently now?

A big thank you to my beautiful sister for the gentle nudge and the spark of inspiration.