By Kristen Mudrack

I don’t typically like pictures of myself. I’m the kind of person who would rather be behind the camera than in front of it. I have lots of pictures of my kids and my husband on my phone, but not so many of me.

But I’ve been trying to get in front of the camera more so that my kids can have those pictures someday. Because even if I look like garbage, there’s a memory attached to that photo that they will recall and reminisce about someday.

We have a friend who has done some pictures for our family in the past, and a few weeks ago, she did a “Mom and Me” session for Mother’s Day. And despite my son refusing to stand where he was supposed to and my daughter refusing to smile, she got some great pictures – of the kids. I’m in them, too, of course. But the cuteness is in the two nearly two-year-olds, not their tired mama.

My husband (as all good husbands should) tells me that I am pretty and that he likes the way I look, but I’ve never been able to see that. I tend to focus on the negatives – my hair looks terrible, my dress is wrinkled, and that scar on my arm looks hideous.

My eyes are drawn to that scar, a mark of trauma surgery from a break and dislocation that we still don’t quite know how it happened. After surgery, one of my physical therapists (and others) have lamented that “You’re too young for a scar like that” or that “You were so pretty before.” So perhaps it’s because of the way I think other people see me that I’m drawn to that part of the picture.

My eyes are drawn to the scar, not to the smiling daughter in my arms or the laughter on my son’s face. But the more I think about it, the more I start to realize that this scar is a reminder of the village that surrounds me when things don’t go quite according to plan. Without that village, that scar would be a much more painful reminder of times when I tried to do it all myself and failed.

That village has helped me (and will continue to help me) raise two children and care for others who come through our home. That village has brought meals and gifts and a listening ear when I needed it. That village has helped to bridge the gap of childcare when all else fails. That village shows up all the time – when I call, and when I don’t.

I’m reminded of that village when I see that scar – a physical reminder that I can’t do this all alone. That I shouldn’t do it all alone. My kids need to see that I am willing to ask for help, accept help, and give help to others. My kids need to know that they have so many other adults in their life cheering them on. Because that village continues to show up for them, and for us. And I’ll be reminded of that in every picture from here on out.

I still don’t like pictures of myself. But I’m learning to see the beauty and the reminders in the person in them.