003: The burden of the memory keeper

Capturing memories is my way of showing care and preserving fleeting moments, but I often pour all my energy into documenting others’ joy—at what cost?

“Can you smile? It’s just a picture.” I can’t count how many times I heard this phrase when I was younger, especially between the ages of 12 /15. You know, that awkward phase when you don’t feel particularly pretty, you don’t want to be in any pictures, and the idea of someone posting it on Facebook is your worst nightmare. I hated the questions that followed: “Why aren’t you smiling? Are you mad?” It made me shrink away from the camera entirely.

Because of that experience, I never ask anyone to smile in a photo, or even to smile at all. I know what it’s like to not want to be in the frame. But looking back now, I’m so grateful my mom took the time to capture those moments. She didn’t just take pictures—she preserved memories, no matter how ugly I was. Today, I can look at those candid, imperfect photos and relive the emotions, see how much I’ve grown, and appreciate where I’ve come from. My mom didn’t take professional photos; she took the ones that mattered—the ones with friends and family, snapped on the family camera, the kind that fill albums with love and nostalgia.

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I’ve been bringing a camera everywhere since I bought my very first one in high school. Back then, I saved every bit of money I had until I could afford a Canon 600D. The day I bought it was the start of my creative journey—little Dahana, already a content creator! Can you imagine? I wasn’t particularly good at it, but I didn’t care. The joy of taking photos and creating videos was unmatched.

On weekends, I’d head to the forest to capture the beauty of nature. In the fall, I’d photograph raindrops on leaves or the vibrant oranges, yellows, and reds of the season. In summer, I’d chase sunsets, capturing the light as it played hide-and-seek through the trees. Pretty quickly, I discovered my love for landscapes and nature. But when it came to photographing people, something shifted—what I saw would disappear the moment I raised the camera, replaced by awkwardness and discomfort.

For me, the camera became more than a tool; it was an icebreaker. As someone who’s not naturally outgoing, it helped me connect with people. Strangers would notice my camera, ask questions, and I’d open up instantly. Then, when the moment passed, I’d go back to capturing the world around me.

Eventually, I started incorporating people into my work—at family gatherings, I’d be the one documenting everything. It felt like my way of contributing, and as a kid, I dreamed of one day seeing my pictures on a magazine cover, so I needed to practice ! *Did I just share a secret dream of mine? Yes. But let’s keep that between us, ok?*

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Hello, I’m Dahana the memory keeper

As I grew older, I noticed how differently people reacted when I tried to capture a moment and they were in the frame. Some would get aggressive or dismissive. I get it—having your photo taken isn’t for everyone. But there’s a way to say “no, I don’t want to be in the picture” without being unkind.

Fast forward to a random Tuesday night. I was having dinner with friends, and as usual, I brought my camera. I tried to take a picture of a friend who I thought looked absolutely beautiful. I wanted to capture that moment for her, so she could look back on it and smile. For me, taking pictures of others is a way of showing them that I see them and care about them. But instead of a smile, I was met with frustration.

When someone says “no,” I respect it—no means no. But it’s not the “no” itself that bothers me; it’s how it’s delivered. It brought up old feelings, memories of rejection and misunderstanding tied to my love for photography and capturing moments.

“Being the person who always wants to take pictures is quite a challenge. First, no one wants to be in the pictures, but when they see the results, everyone wants their photo. However, no one really asks if you’d like to be in a picture yourself. Or, you don’t want to bother them by asking if they could take a picture of you.”

This realization hit me deeply, as it made me reflect on the invisible role of being the photographer in so many moments. Capturing memories has always been my way of showing care and preserving the beauty of fleeting moments, I often pour all my energy into documenting the joy, beauty, and essence of others but it often comes at the cost of being left out of those memories myself. I tend to disappear from the story, leaving no trace of myself in the memories. It’s not intentional, but rather a result of focusing so much on others that I forget to include myself. It’s a strange kind of loneliness—to be the one documenting everyone else’s joy while feeling unseen in the process. Every now and then, I wish someone would see me, too—not just behind the lens, but as part of the moment, part of the story.

It’s a delicate balance, isn’t it? To give so much of yourself—your time, your care —only to feel overlooked. It’s not about needing constant acknowledgment but about the simple desire to be included, to feel like you’re part of the narrative.

There’s a strange irony in being the person responsible for preserving everyone else’s moments while your own presence fades into the background. And while I love the act of capturing the world through my lens, it does make me pause sometimes. I wonder, "Who will remember that I was there, too?" This isn’t just about being in pictures—it’s about being part of the story, part of the shared memory.

It’s a delicate balance to strike, one that I’m still learning to navigate. But maybe it starts with making space for myself, gently asking to be seen (trust me, since I started writing this, I can tell you I’m getting better at it.), and reminding others that the person behind the camera deserves to be part of the picture, too.

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*One thing that always brings a smile to my face is the irony of my job, which revolves around asking others to capture moments of me. Yet, I often find myself hesitating to ask for photos during events and fashion week. There’s a certain shyness that creeps in, perhaps tied to the discomfort of being in such bustling, glamorous environments. It’s a curious paradox—working in a profession that thrives on visibility, while still navigating moments of self-doubt. But maybe that’s a reflection for another time, as I continue to find the balance between confidence and vulnerability in this vibrant world*

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Looking back, I’ve realized that photography has always been my way of seeing and preserving beauty in the world—even when it’s unpolished, raw, or fleeting. I’ve learned to respect people’s boundaries while still holding on to the joy of capturing moments that matter. It’s a legacy of memories, frozen in time, that we’ll appreciate long after the moment is gone.

I have to remind myself that i’m not responsable for capturing memorie for other, that’s not my duties and that was never the case in the end. Sometimes, I catch myself feeling the weight of capturing every moment, as if preserving memories for others has become my unspoken role. But I’ve realized it’s not my responsibility—it never was. Memories belong to everyone, and it’s okay to step back and simply live in the moment, without feeling the pressure to document it all. Letting go of that expectation allows me to fully experience the present and trust that the beauty of the moment doesn’t rely solely on my lens.

As 2025 begins, I’ve decided to return to physical media as much as possible. I want to print my photos and create albums, posters, postcards, and fanzines. I want to hold memories in my hands instead of relying on my phone. I also want to take fewer photos—focusing on capturing what truly resonates with me and documenting meaningful moments. This is something I want to do for myself.

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If you’ve made it this far, thank you! I truly appreciate you taking the time to be here with me and to read my thoughts. I hope you’re doing well—take care of yourself. Sending love!

xx