The beginning of the month wrought a new chapter in my life: I started a brand-spanking new job as corporate communications coordinator for the Detroit Lions. It’s been a whirlwind.

As part of my newfangled responsibilities, I get to admittedly do some pretty rad stuff.

This past weekend as part of my job, I had one of the most surreal experiences I’ve yet had (I’m the media contact for all non-Lions events at Ford Field) at Taylor Swift’s show. She puts on an AMAZING performance, though I know I don’t have convince too many people of that considering she’s one of the world’s biggest superstars and deservedly so.

While the whole ordeal provided some memories I won’t soon forget and phenomenal professional know-hows, I was left with an emotion that felt an awful lot like regret the next day. Why, you ask? I didn’t have any pictures to prove it.

It left me with an internal struggle of sorts; in the time we live in, especially for people around my age, we often find ourselves asking the question – unknowingly or consciously – if there were no pictures, did it really happen? If I have no proof or an image to invoke the memory, was it worth doing at all?

Of course it is. But that didn’t stop me from lamenting the fact I didn’t take more pictures.

So then I found myself asking why. Why did I care? I know what happened – I lived it! Was I worried I wasn’t showing off enough to other people? Was I looking to validate my own experiences to myself? I honestly don’t know. If I were to guess, it’s probably the later. Most likely I’m worried if I don’t obsessively document my life, I won’t remember it.

Thing is, I don’t typically spend my time looking at old pictures. Obviously I do on occasion – everyone gets nostalgic. I’m probably more nostalgic than most and I still look back sparingly. What am I afraid of missing? A majority of my free time is spent having fresh experiences, potentially making new memories to take up space in my head over the less important ones. Or I’m watching my favorite television shows or reading my favorite books. It kind of begs the question all together, what is a memory, really?

(Written on May 31 – published on July 7)