A few months ago, my dad dropped off a box of old slides.

He was always a hobbyist photographer, documenting birthdays, vacations, 5Ks, aircrafts, and everyday life. But unlike many families who filled shelves with photo albums, most of these photos lived only on slides tucked away in boxes. For decades, my childhood memories were essentially out of sight.

I told my dad I'd start the process of digitizing his slides — naturally, beginning with the boxes that contained photos of me.

Six months later, after they had spent plenty of time moving from one pile in my house to another, I finally made my way to Hoyer’s to drop them off.

As I handed them over, I started reading the handwritten labels.

"Amy Christening, 1981."

"Hershey Park, 1989."

Standing there at the counter, I started crying. Not because I had seen the photographs, but because I hadn't. It hit me that there were pieces of my life and my family's story sitting inside those little cardboard frames—moments I hadn't seen in decades and, in some cases, moments I may never have seen at all.

A few weeks later, I sat down and opened the folders on the flash drive. With every click, another piece of my past appeared on the screen.

I laughed at the truly questionable hair and fashion choices of the '80s. I was struck by how much my second daughter looks like I did at her age. I had forgotten how light my hair was as a toddler. I smiled at the awkward way my older sister held me the day I came home from the hospital, looking equal parts proud and terrified.

Every image seemed to reveal some small detail I had forgotten, never knew, or suddenly saw differently. Some made me laugh and others made my heart skip several beats.

And one had me sobbing against my husband’s chest. A snapshot of my mom lying on the couch holding newborn me. No milestone. No special occasion. No perfect styling. Just a tired young mother cradling her baby on a very vintage couch.

And it absolutely wrecked me.

She died eight years ago, and the moment I saw that photograph, all I wanted to do was call her.

I wanted to ask about the couch and the house. I wanted to know what she remembered about that day. Was she exhausted? Happy? Overwhelmed?

But I can't.

As photographers, we spend a lot of time talking about beautiful images. We talk about light, locations, composition, outfits, posing, ‘the art.’ Those things matter to me, of course. But sitting there looking through those slides, I was reminded that none of those things are really why photographs become valuable.

It's in the way your toddler reaches for your hand, or the way your child curls up next to you on the couch. It's in the way your family looks right now, in this season that feels exhausting and ordinary and endless all at the same time.

One day, your children will be grown. They'll want to remember what home felt like. They'll want to see you, not the perfectly curated version or the vacation highlights, but you. Holding them, laughing with them. Existing alongside them in the everyday moments that never felt important at the time.

When I'm photographing a family, I'm not really thinking about this year's Christmas card. I'm thinking about 40 years from now. I'm thinking about a grown child opening an album, finding a forgotten folder on a hard drive, or pulling a box off a shelf. I'm thinking about the moments they'll get back, the stories they'll remember, and the people they'll miss.

Because that's exactly what happened to me last week.

What started as a project to digitize these old slides became an emotional reminder of why this little business is so important to me. Photographs become more valuable with time. The images you're making today may feel completely ordinary, but someday they may be the photographs your children treasure most.

Take the photo. Print the photo. Preserve the photo.