Years ago, I took my kids to a concert. Ariana Grande, if you’re curious.

We were having a great time, the music was fantastic, and at some point I noticed they were watching the performance through their phones. Recording it, of course — taking videos they could watch later, share with friends, keep as reminders of a night they’d enjoyed. I understood why. I take pictures and videos too. But I remember talking with them about what happens when we’re so busy capturing an experience that we’re not fully in it.

When you’re recording a performance, you’re thinking about the zoom, the framing, whether the artist is in focus, whether someone’s head is blocking the shot. You’re paying attention to a little screen instead of the entire stage in front of you. Meanwhile, there’s a whole concert happening outside that frame.

My advice was pretty simple: take a few pictures, record a couple of clips, then put the phone away and enjoy the show.

Apparently, I need to have that conversation with myself now.

I’m a little over a week into 60 Days to 60, and I’ve discovered something. Planning sixty days of experiences was considerably easier than actually making them happen — not because the activities are difficult, but because I’ve also committed to documenting and sharing them. Which means before I do something, I’m already thinking about how I’m going to present it. What should I film? What shots do I need? How will I put it together afterward? And while I’m actually there, I’m trying to capture enough footage to tell the story later. Then there’s the editing, the scheduling, the small matter of having the next day’s content ready before the next day arrives.

It’s almost as though I turned having fun into a production schedule. Imagine that.

The funny thing is, I’ve genuinely enjoyed the experiences so far. The project is doing what I hoped — I’m getting out, trying things, spending time with people, participating more deliberately in my own life. But I’ve also caught myself thinking about the video I’m making while the experience I’m supposed to be enjoying is happening right in front of me. And I keep coming back to that conversation with my kids at the concert.

Though I want to be honest about something, because the relationship with the phone isn’t simple.

Last week I wrote about a video I have of Bob and our son playing in piles of leaves in the yard. A happy afternoon, just three months before Bob died. Watching that footage now lets me see the joy on his face again, hear his voice, see a little piece of a life we shared. I’m incredibly grateful I recorded it. I have no recording of my first husband’s voice at all. Most of the photos I have from that time are of places rather than people — we didn’t have digital cameras in our pockets back then. There are photographs and videos of people I’ve lost that mean more to me now than I could ever have imagined when I took them. Ordinary moments that became extraordinary because I can no longer make new ones with those people.

So I’m not going to suggest we stop taking pictures. Sometimes those recordings become treasures.

But I also know there are experiences I remember vividly without a single photograph of them. Conversations. Laughter. A particular feeling of being somewhere with someone I loved. Moments when I wasn’t thinking about documenting anything because I was too busy being there. Those memories matter too.

I don’t think there’s a perfect balance between capturing a moment and being present for it, and I’m not sure there needs to be. What I think matters is remembering why we’re doing it in the first place.

That feels worth considering as we head toward the holidays.

There can be so much effort involved in creating a meaningful occasion — preparing meals, decorating, organizing gatherings, keeping traditions alive, making sure everyone has what they need. And for those of us whose lives have changed because of loss, there can be an added desire to preserve something of what those occasions used to mean. To recreate a familiar celebration because we remember how happy it made us. To take every photograph we can because we understand how precious those images may become.

There’s real love in those efforts. But there’s also a risk of spending the entire occasion making sure everyone else has a wonderful experience while barely letting ourselves participate. I’ve certainly been guilty of that.

And now I’ve managed to create a sixty-day project that gives me a chance to actually practice what I’ve been telling myself for years.

The experience matters more than the project. I said that before 60 Days to 60 even began. It sounded like a sensible rule at the time. Now I actually have to follow it.

Maybe that means getting a few clips and putting the phone away. Maybe it means asking someone else to record something so I can just be in it. Maybe it means accepting that not every activity needs a perfectly edited video. And maybe, once in a while, it means deciding that something is worth experiencing without recording it at all.

I’m still figuring that part out. But I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to arrive at my sixtieth birthday with sixty days of beautifully documented experiences and realize I spent most of them thinking about the next shot.

There’s a whole life happening outside that frame. I’d like to make sure I’m in it.

Your Turn

Think about an experience you’re looking forward to — a holiday gathering, a concert, a meal with friends, an ordinary afternoon with someone you care about.

What do you actually want to remember about it?

Maybe you’ll want a photograph. Maybe you’ll want to preserve a tradition or create something special for the people around you.

There’s nothing wrong with any of that. Just remember to give yourself the chance to enjoy the experience you’re working so hard to capture.

Take the picture. Make the memory.

And don’t forget to be part of it.