Today, I got one of those oh-so-helpful “On This Day” memory nudges from my cloud drive. You know, those digital ghost notes that chirp: *Hey! Remember this magical moment from April 27th in 2017, 2019, 2022…?

Well, apparently, I was very busy pretending to enjoy things on past April 27ths.

There were photos of a kid’s birthday party that I kind of recall—complete with one of those bounce houses that smells faintly of sweat and regret. There was a gala for a partner organization where I smiled into the camera next to people whose last names I no longer remember, if I ever really did. Plus, I posed with a semi-celebrity. Well, back then, he was a semi-celebrity.  Nowadays, he yo-yoed up and down the D to the B to the C list. Anyway, back to the photo. I was definitely wearing heels that hurt. And my smile? So wide, so staged, so… performative.

Looking at those photos now, I feel nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not even a flicker of nostalgia. These weren’t enemies. They weren’t friends. They were just people who occupied the same frame for five seconds. I took pictures. I might’ve even posted them once with a caption that said something forced like “Great night with great people!” Lies? Eh? No. Just nothing now.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How many photos we’ve taken with people who no longer occupy any space in our lives. Not in our texts, not in our thoughts, and definitely not in our hearts. And yet, at the time, we paused, posed, maybe even fake-laughed. Why? Because we’re trained to document joy. Even when it’s synthetic.

Do I sound jaded? Maybe. 
But maybe I’m just refined. 
Refined enough to know that not all smiles are sacred. 
And not all moments deserve to be remembered.

So here’s to untagging, unfaking, and unapologetically curating your memories going forward. Because next April 27th, I’d like a reminder of something real. Even if it’s just a photo of me, alone, with a slice of pie, I didn’t have to share.