Y’all know I love Timehop. Once Reese turned 1, it got especially fun and I don’t think I’ve skipped a single day of checking it. I love remembering my tiny babies, random everyday snapshots taking me back into those seemingly mundane trips to Target or just another time they fell asleep on Ryan on the couch. I love seeing how they compare to their sisters at that age—the ways doll-like Loney differs from raspy toddler Reese and how Stevie is Reese’s happier clone.

The last few weeks my Timehop has been a portal into one of the darkest and most chaotic times of my life. A single photo can become a bungee cord, springing me back to a moment where I felt actual despair flooding into every vein and artery throughout my body.

+ A screenshot of the carefully color-coded schedule I made for nanny + family when Ryan and I went to Hawaii, which ended up being useless when my nanny forgot to pick up my kids multiple days in a row. I had no choice but to fire her, leaving us without childcare during an insanely busy season.

+ Photos of a nice Nativity set I was selling on Facebook Marketplace, because I had a panic attack in my cold storage when I happily pulled out my Christmas decorations just to realize that my faith crisis was at a point where baby Jesus was a poisoned barb, representing everything I’d been forced to painfully shed that year.

+ A photo of Reese, standing angry with arms crossed, the bangs she’s been painstakingly growing out chopped half an inch from the root in a moment of frustration, timestamped well after midnight.

+ Samples of my writing I was downloading as I considered applying for new jobs, because I suspected my new boss was not going to be a good fit for me. (*Narrator: HE WASN’T. She stayed for 9 more miserable months working for that jagweed.)

+ A video of Stevie goofy dancing in the mirror, but in the reflection you can see my gaunt, pale face that hasn’t seen makeup in a week as I tiredly smile through a weighted blanket of depression.

+ The drink menu at a swanky New Orleans restaurant, where I was trying to order something without sounding like a total moron in front of the coworkers I was meeting in person for the first time. The embarrassment I felt at being a 33 year old who was just starting to explore alcohol, and their compassionate kindness in giving me nonjudgmental recommendations.

+ An email from Reese’s teacher about her ongoing battle with three (3) boys in her class, echoing my same exhaustion of resources and consequences, screenshotted to send to a close friend who also has a spirited child, and would understand.

+ A selfie of me and Ryan at the Lower Lights concert,  a beloved annual tradition that suddenly left me feeling hollow and numb, wondering if I’d ever be able to enjoy the beautiful religious Christmas songs ever again.

+ Screenshots of the STUPIDEST text fight I was in with a Karen acquaintance, borne of my spineless people-pleasing, sent to my group chat to help talk me off the ledge.

+ A Marco Polo sent to my best friend in the middle of the night from my upstairs landing, laying outside Reese’s door to prevent another late-night raid of the ketchup (???), running away, or sneaking into the Christmas presents. We never knew with her, then.

+ The GPS map indicating where Loney was at that moment, perpetually playing with friends, and at this time in our life it was threaded with relief and guilt. When Loney was home, she was walking a minefield of stressed, irritable, depleted parents and a big sister who unfortunately used Malone as the outlet for all of her mental anguish.

+ Reese smiling, holding a surprise present from one of my dearest friends who came through for us when some loved ones we needed really let us down.

+ A screenshot of the warning signs for urgent psychiatric help in young children.

All at once I can recognize her. That Danica clawing at her own throat as her airway was closing in. And yet she is a stranger to me.

That Danica was so low, and this Danica has been climbing ever since. This December has been truly, deeply delightful. I’m calm. I’m happy. I’m grateful. I’m regulated. I’m thriving. My family is similarly improved.

And this is why reflection matters. If you never look back, how will you ever know how far you’ve come?