By Staff Writer: Kayla Kocher-Reichenbach
I found an old photograph the other day, the corners curled and fading. My face looked familiar and foreign at once, the same eyes but brighter. I could almost smell the perfume I wore then, that mix of vanilla and uncertainty, and hear the hum of a song I used to play on repeat. Holding that picture, I realized how much had changed while I wasn’t paying attention.
I blinked, and a decade passed.
For years, I moved through life like a dream I couldn’t wake from. Days blurred together, each one rushed, scrolled through, or survived. I thought I’d remember everything: the laughter, the heartbreak, the small in-between moments. But much of it feels hazy now, like I was watching from behind glass. Adulthood didn’t arrive in one big moment. It crept in quietly through routines and grocery lists, through the slow fading of old versions of myself.
Then, one day, I came to. It wasn’t a grand revelation, just a moment: my dog resting her gray muzzle on my lap, my husband laughing in the kitchen, afternoon light spilling gold across the counter. For the first time in a long while, I noticed.
Dear me at 19,
You don’t need to rush. Look up sometimes. Watch the sunset, even from your car after a long day. Laugh hard. Cry when you need to. The world won’t collapse if you pause. You’ll forget some things, but the ones that matter will return in unexpected ways.
Now, near 30, I’m learning to slow down. I take pictures to remember, not to post. I write to feel, not to impress. I watch my dogs sleeping beside me and think about how love isn’t loud; it’s steady, ordinary, and always there if you let yourself see it.
Maybe that’s the point, not that time slipped away, but that I finally caught up to it. Life isn’t ending; it’s unfolding, one conscious heartbeat at a time.
The picture is still in my hands, but now, I’m finally in the frame.