Hitting Play

Notes on a life before me

AlexA play I ‘Think About It All The Time’ by charli xcx…..

This week I got to see charli at Barclays in Brooklyn and I don’t think I’ll ever stop talking about it. Granted we were the third to last row in the highest section (with an obstructed side view) but I dont remember the last time I dance harder or screamed louder. I’m officially declaring it Brat Summer forever.

Sorry I’ve been away for a few weeks.. I’ve been working on what I’m about to share, enjoying the sun and wearing really short shorts. Some days, I was doing all three at the same time.

Trying not to put too much pressure on myself to write when it doesn’t feel natural, but I let time get away from me. I can say it won’t happen again but it would probably be a lie.

This week, I wrote another (sigh) sentimental essay—this time about my parents. More specifically, their wedding video, which I recently watched for the first time after my mom unearthed it from who-knows-where. I'm excited for you to read it.

If you feel inclined, do play ‘I Think About It All The Time’ in the background while you read. Weirdly enough, the essay + song both encapsulate that feeling of alternate endings and not being able to shut off your brain from thinking ‘what if’.

You can even just hit play and turn the volume all the way down - I won’t know. Well I will if you decide to tell me.

ENJOY!

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Hitting Play on Life Before Me

A few weeks ago, my mom called out of the blue to tell me she found her wedding video. She’d had it digitized years ago, and while cleaning out her phone, stumbled upon the login details in her notes app. Naturally, she fell down a rabbit hole of nostalgia.

Babies of the 70s, married in the 90s, my parents grew up down the block from each other in New Hampshire; high school sweethearts who sneaked out to throw pebbles at each other's windows. An 80s Verona love story before the pollution of cell phones and record keeping digitization.

It reminded me that things used to be marginally harder; Whenever I want to reminisce I just scroll to the month. For them, it’s a fragmented process, piecing life together from a scrapbook of photo albums, film cameras, and fading memories.

As we talked, I noticed something new flickering in her familiar blue eyes; the same pale blue I inherited. Though I couldn't quite place it, I knew I hadn’t seen it in a long time. It wasn’t that she never looked excited, the sparkle was similar to how she used to cheer us on at my track meets or my brother’s baseball games, but this time it wasn’t a reflection of us. It was about her.

Once the brief catch-up was over, after telling her what I made for dinner and how shitty work had been, I logged in and thumbed through the videos. Most featured similar versions of twenty-somethings who looked forty-something, dancing on the floor of a reception hall that looked like a cruise ship. A few clips also showed my mom’s late best friend smiling at the camcorder with a shaky, unguarded grin; the same kind my mom carries like a purse. For the most part, it was the same cast of characters in their lives now, family and friends just a few decades older as if they'd regrown a new layer of skin; adorning sunspots and wrinkles like Girl Scout badges.

It’s always strange watching back old tapes or combing through photo books like a time capsule. I sat there watching family members mingle, gripping the knowledge of what was to come—loss, change, disillusionment. It felt like being both a seer and saint, blessed and burdened with foresight. Time is cruel, cold, and beautiful. Still, there’s something transfixing about capturing a moment just as it was, grainy video and all.

Will it ever feel jarring to see our most sacred memories in 4K? Or would it be better not to have them recorded at all? My camera roll is stacked with pictures I took and never look at - proof that capturing doesn’t equate to preservation.

Still, some memories endure without screens. My mom’s wedding dress, for example: classically chic with big sleeves and a dropped waist. Unlike many of the over-the-top trends, hers was bold and timeless. She thankfully avoided the worst of the era’s fashion faux pas’ at a time when it felt like a competition for the biggest, poofiest gown. It's now tucked away in a box somewhere in our basement, resting near the ping pong table. Preserved in its own quiet way.

The ceremony was captured too. Sweet and simple, held in a small unassuming church just a short walk from their childhood homes not far from where they first met. The map of their story traced a quiet triangle of landmarks downtown. It all felt familiar. Watching it, I almost forgot I wasn’t there.

Most of the remaining clips were blurry and indistinct, audio flitting between screeches, claps, and sniffles. I was about to exit the app when one shot caught my attention; it was just before my mom and dad headed into the reception hall for their first dance. Up to that point, most people kept breaking the fourth wall - glancing at the camera, laughing self-consciously - but for them it was as if the camera didn’t even exist. Perplexing, given how big those cameras must’ve been.

It was a striking image, sunlight filtering through stained glass as they smiled at each other, catching each other's eyes to wordlessly mime how certain they were about the step they were taking together. Complete unison.

They were only 25, two years older than I am now, and looking at them feels like falling into a mirror and an alternate universe at the same time. The sureness in their step and the lightness they carry are something I continue to chase. My dad’s dancing stays the same; My mom’s smile still carries the room. Logically, I know it’s them. But it still feels strange to see a version of them I never knew.

My dad moves mechanically, steady and deliberate, and I see that in myself. My mom moves like water, fluid and effortless, and I see traces of that when I’m laughing. It’s a reminder there will always be pieces of them that I carry in my back pocket, even when it doesn’t always feel that way. Isn’t there an old saying that everyone, at some point, becomes their mother no matter how hard they try to fight the current?

It makes me wonder: how were my parents so sure they wanted me? I arrived two years later, just days from their anniversary. Was that a step or a leap? Is there a map to find that kind of certainty? Were they as sure as they seemed, or just following some predetermined rhythm?

For them, the decision looked easy. Just the next domino. I’m sure the grainy footage and wedding day smiles don’t show everything, but still, how could they be so sure about creating something so big? I can hardly take care of myself.

It’s not wrong to love the compact life you’ve made for yourself; glossy bed sheets and the fan blowing just the way you like it. But I also see the beauty in raising new life; bruised knees, summer parks, and ice cream cones that melt in the car. The power of watching a small ember turn into a towering flame. I think about it everytime I see a young family on the subway, until I hear the screaming, and realize my patience isn’t quite ready.

I think about it more seriously with each passing year. But what if the weight is too much? What if I crack like a dinner plate? And even if I get it all right, the world is still out of my control. Is it fair to build a house on rotting soil?

Yes, there was life before me, and now there’s life with me. But there’s also a version of me that exists in a different world than the one my parents grew up in, one untethered by the constraints they faced. I can’t help but ask myself: how would life have unfolded if I’d chosen a different path? Could I have been a painter? (Probably not.) It’s a constant question, these alternate realities, and I struggle with how to shut that part of my brain off.

I wonder if they ever miss the versions of themselves that never got to be, like I do, and whether those lost possibilities still haunt them. I don’t think I could love them more, but I often imagine what life might have been like if they'd traveled more, lived in Paris, or gone back to school. Maybe things would have been simpler. Maybe freer.

Seeing them frozen in that moment, full of light and certainty, I can’t help but wonder about the lives they never got to live. I always thought of my mom as a socialite born in the wrong era; someone who would’ve thrived at dinner parties with aristocrats. And I’ve often imagined my dad as a quieter, more creative version of him too. Maybe without me, that garden of theirs would have bloomed more fully. Like Plath’s fig tree, I wonder which parts of them—artist, traveler, scholar—withered before they had the chance to ripen, all because they reached for the branch that bore me.

When I watch the video, I see happiness. I see what’s to come in their eyes—me and my two siblings—but I also see what’s going to be taken from them. Aging is a beautiful, twisted gift that not everyone gets the chance to unwrap.

I saved screenshots of the video on my phone to remind myself that it’s their first time living too. I’m sure they’re just as scared about the big and little things that happen every day; they might just be better at hiding it. I don’t know if it’s worth wondering about life without me, but I’m certainly glad it’s the one they chose.