If There Aren’t Photos To Prove It, Did It Really Happen?

JPEG Proof or Just Trust Me, in a world where Instagram reels are gospel.

How Did My Book Become About Receipts?

I hope this finds you slowly easing out of your holiday sweatpants and fully embracing whatever your version of “joy mode” looks like.

For me? It was a month of finally making long-ago dog-eared recipes, averaging a book a day, finding my small-town coven (think Practical Magic), and letting my camera gather some dust while giving some love to this space—and The Book.

The year has started slow over here, intentionally so. No sprinting. Today we’re taking the boy back to college after five sweet, unhurried weeks together—proof that sometimes the best resolutions are about what you don’t do. If you’ve been considering a slower start to the year, let this be your nudge: Highly recommend.

But even with all this quiet, one conversation from before the holidays keeps replaying in my mind. I casually mentioned The Book format to a friend. Her immediate response? Shock, horror… dismay.

“What do you mean no photos?!? I’m so mad.”

She wasn’t the first person to assume the book would include photos, but her reaction hit differently. Maybe it was her passion, maybe it was her disbelief—but it stuck with me.

And it got me thinking: Why does the question of photos in The Book make me bristle (while making others so excited)?

It’s not just a photo; it’s a social contract.

Photos in a book like this aren’t just pictures—they’re proof.

Proof that the transformation is real. Proof that the person writing the story has lived it. Proof that the words on the page can be trusted.

And for me, putting work into the world in book form carries so much weight. It’s been a constant struggle to trust that my message is important, needed, and enough. To not prove and instead trust.

Because we’ve been trained to need proof—and to show it. We live in an instant gratification pressure cooker where the question “If There Aren’t Photos To Prove It, Did It Really Happen?” is met with a “Hold on, let me drop 20 photos, a time-lapse, and my perfectly soundtracked Instagram reel” kind of world.

We want the receipts. We want to see it to believe it. And honestly? I get it. I’m guilty of the same—on both sides. I’m sure you are too.

Photos in this context aren’t neutral. They’re receipts. Proof that I’m qualified to share this story. Proof that the transformation I’m writing about is real. Proof that I am enough.

And that question—Am I enough?—has hovered around me for years.

Here’s what I’ve realized: My photos aren’t about proving anything to anyone else. They’re proof of me, for me—of the woman I’ve fought to become to see clearly, to love.

The fact that I can look at them—after years of hiding, doubting, and shrinking—is the ultimate proof of concept.

It’s not about the writing—it’s about the format. And the photos. It always circles back to photos.

Because no one wants their book to age like a Myspace profile pic circa 2007

When I first imagined this book, I didn’t want photos to tie it to a specific moment in time. You know the type—trendy images that feel fresh today but scream early 2020s tomorrow. (Think pumpkin spice lattes and ironic bucket hats.)

At first, I avoided the idea entirely. I told myself: no photos, no risk of aging out like a pair of skinny jeans at a Gen Z convention. Problem solved, right?

But then, I let myself dream a little. I moved out of the self-help aisle at the bookstore—where the covers all seem to shout “fix yourself!”—and into the big, beautiful lifestyle books I love. You know the ones. The books that beg to be displayed on a coffee table, with pages so gorgeous you’d feel guilty dog-earing them.

I imagined The Book sitting there, pages filled with my photos. I let myself wonder: Could my images belong here? Could they hold their own?

I sat with my camera roll, printing self-portrait after self-portrait and collaging the wall like a teenager redoing her bedroom. I studied them for trends, for tell-tale signs that would pin them to a decade, for anything that might make them irrelevant.

And what I saw surprised me: They weren’t trendy. They weren’t tied to a moment. They reflected something bigger—something timeless. The vibe, the feeling, the clarity of The Method.

It turns out, sometimes the risk isn’t in including the photos. It’s in underestimating what they represent.

But this isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s personal. Like, ‘reclaiming my life in JPEGs’ personal.

Then there’s the most personal layer: protection.

The photos I’ve taken over the years aren’t just pictures—they’re a reclamation. A clawing back of my identity, my sense of safety, and my self-love after years of shrinking, doubting, and hiding.

They’re not the kind of images you slap onto a PowerPoint presentation or throw into a Pinterest board labeled “vibes.” These photos represent something raw and real—the moment I stopped disappearing and chose to exist fully in my own life.

They’re a testament to that morning when I looked in the mirror at 45 and said, “Not today, mom. Not my life.” A promise to myself that I wouldn’t waste a second more being less than who I am.

I’m not afraid of how the world would see those photos. I’m fiercely protective of her. The woman in them. The woman I’ve fought to know, love, and respect.

And honestly? I’m protective of you, too. Because here’s the thing: We live in a world where flipping through someone else’s photos often feels less like inspiration and more like a test you didn’t study for.

The quiet questions sneak in: Why doesn’t my life look like that? Why don’t I look like that? Why can’t I get it together?

I don’t want this book to become another chapter in that spiral. I don’t want my photos to be another yardstick, another reason to doubt yourself, another reason to feel like you’re falling short.

If the photos make it in, they’ll be there for one reason: because they belong. Not as proof, not as a gold star for me, but as a reflection of what’s possible when you stop hiding and start seeing yourself clearly.

For everyone furiously scrolling for receipts, let’s get to the real question you’ve been dying to ask

Lisa, will there be photos or not?

You’ll just have to wait and see. 😉

But let me ask you this: If there weren’t any photos, would it change what you took from the book? Would it make the words feel less true? Less actionable?

While the real revolution is learning to see yourself clearly—without needing external proof—we still need visuals to create visuals.

We need art. We need inspiration. And most of all, we need to look at our own photos. The ones where we catch a glimpse of something real, something timeless, something us.

And that’s why my photos might just make the cut. Because they’re not about proving anything to anyone else—they’re about showing what’s possible when you learn to see yourself clearly.

Thanks for reading my musings and letting me unburden. You’re creative—I know you get it. I bet you have your own version of to photo or not to photo playing out in your world right now.