• An old friend shared a picture of me as a bridesmaid nearly half a century ago.
• I was shocked and uncertain that it was me.
• As a younger person, and especially in my teens, I had no self-confidence. In the photo, I saw a beautiful young girl.

Earlier this summer, an old high school friend and her husband, whom I hadn't seen for 40 years, stopped by on their way from northern Indiana to their home in Atlanta. I was a bridesmaid in their wedding 49 years ago.

During our visit, my friend shared a picture of me at 20, in a light-blue gown, proceeding into their wedding ceremony at our hometown's United Methodist Church. A lightning strike could not have affected me more than seeing that old picture.

Growing up, I always compared myself to others

I met my friend and her younger sister while we worked at the local drive-in, a staple of 1970s Indiana. As carhops, we wore silver coin changers and placed yellow metal trays filled with burgers and glass mugs of root beer on customers' front car windows. Both girls were fit, pretty, blonde cheerleaders.

I had been slightly overweight since my early teens, and working at the drive-in with its free ice cream didn't help. My jet-black hair didn't seem to match my pale ivory skin, which burned in the sun after just a few minutes of exposure. And I was sensitive about my nose, the dreaded "McVay" nose, the famous proboscis of my dad's family.

I didn't measure up to what I saw on the pages of "Seventeen" magazine, the arbiter of all things good. My dear mother, God rest her soul, was six inches shorter than I, and a size six. Like most of her friends, she wore only foundation, a hint of rouge, and bright-red lipstick. She dressed like Jackie Kennedy.

And with no sisters, I had no clue about mascara, the trendy blue eyeshadow, or any fashion sense. My hair was very black and thick, and full of waves and five cowlicks. Mom took me to the woman who did her weekly Wash-n-Set for perms with varying results. I often looked like a brunette Mamie Eisenhower. Before plus sizes, I was relegated to the awfulness of Alfred Dunner and other women's clothing, making me look like an older woman.

I made friends and met my wonderful husband, but still felt unattractive

In college, I found people who shared my interests on the college yearbook staff, and we are still friends. I married one of the editors, a handsome man with eyes bluer than Sinatra's. We've been married for 42 years, and we have a son, smart and good-looking like his father.

Yet this feeling of unattractiveness stayed with me most of my life. Even on my wedding day, I was intimidated by my bridesmaids' looks, even in a hideous-then-fashionable peach taffeta dress with "Seinfeld's" puffy sleeves. White was not a good color for me, and I didn't have the agency in 1984 to strike out and do something different.

Twenty years ago, when my father digitized 500 Ektachrome slides covering the sixties and early seventies, I saw that I was indeed a cute little kid. That was progress.

Now I'm 69, and I have the requisite facial wrinkles my peers shared, but like Nora Ephron said in a book, "I Feel Bad About My Neck." After hiding from the sun after my beach baby oil days as a teen, my wrinkles aren't horrible. But my neck resembles Mr. Gobbler as he struts during his reprieve at the White House every Thanksgiving.

But I've been blessed with white hair, like both my grandmothers and my mother. I quit coloring my hair when I retired from full-time work nine years ago, and I love my hair. I feel like I earned this color.

That picture made me think about how I look at myself

After a lifetime of struggling, my self-loathing has given way to an appreciation for a long, good life filled with love and many friends, rather than missing the Junior Prom.

When my high school friend visited, I saw the picture for the first time in many years. And I was floored.

Who is this young woman? She's very pretty. She isn't smiling, but she looks nice, even lovely, in the 1970s-style dress and hat.

How I wish I could shake away all the bad feelings she had about herself and tell her, and every other young woman who feels as I did, that life is more than how you look in high school, where the harshest judgments come from people who may look similar. Almost everyone has something like the "McVay nose" in their family, and not everyone can be a magazine cover. Real beauty comes from the inside; it took me decades and a vintage snapshot to appreciate this truth.

• My mother-in-law and I have spent years "Swedish death cleaning" together.
• Being the daughter-in-law put me in a unique position to help her declutter.
• Going through her belongings has made me see her in a new light.

Every year, my husband and I make the trek from California to Michigan to live with his 85-year-old mom, Elizabeth, for a few months.

These have been lovely family visits that give us a chance to spend time together, and they've also allowed me to help her with Swedish death cleaning.

This decluttering method focuses on getting things in order before you die, largely so that loved ones won't be left with a lot of stuff to sort through and make decisions about.

I've always been a natural declutterer. My family knows that if I visit, there's a good chance a junk drawer, closet, or cabinet is getting organized.

Helping my mother-in-law gradually decide what to keep, donate, sell, or pass along naturally grew out of that habit.

Now that she's in her mid-80s, the process has become even more intentional, and I've realized that being the daughter-in-law has put me in a unique position to help.

Not only do I get to tidy up spaces she might not otherwise be able to, but she also feels a little lighter after every visit.

Thankfully, she's not sick, and her spiritual beliefs have made this an incredibly meaningful and surprisingly fun process for both of us.

Being the daughter-in-law has turned out to be an advantage

I love MIL Elizabeth dearly, and she has always referred to me as her "third child," but I'm not carrying the same emotional weight into the death-cleaning process as her children would.

Unlike my husband and sister-in-law, I've already experienced the death of close family members. My father passed away eight years ago, and in the last year, both my grandparents died.

I know what it's like to sort through decades of belongings while grieving and how overwhelming it can be when every object feels tied to someone you love.

I feel grateful to take some of that off their plate. When the day comes, I want my husband and sis-in-law to spend as little time as possible wondering whether to keep something simply because it meant something to their mom.

But this isn't just about making things easier for us someday. My husband appreciates how this death cleaning is helping his mom's quality of life now.

Her home is less cluttered, and she knows where things are. Instead of being surrounded by stuff she never uses or even remembers she has, she says she feels like she has more breathing room.

We've spent years (not days) working through a lifetime of belongings

Elizabeth's home is filled with antique furniture, one-of-a-kind objets d'art, shelves of books, and fine china that she inherited from her mom.

Going through these possessions isn't something that can be finished in a weekend. It's making hundreds of small decisions, year after year — some take five minutes, others take five conversations.

One area where we made the most progress this summer is her wardrobe. She always donates clothes and other items to the Armenian church, but this year we also included the Salvation Army and other charities. I even took her to a resale shop to sell vintage clothing for the first time, which was a good learning experience.

She didn't get much money, but it helped answer a bigger question: Was it better to let those clothes keep gathering dust in the closet or make a few bucks and give them a chance at a new life with someone else?

Ultimately, it helped her become more willing to let things go.

I love the unexpected conversations that have come out of all this

Every piece in my MIL's house has a story, and every bit of cleaning is a trip down memory lane.

Although we've had countless conversations over the past 20-plus years, this process has let me hear the stories behind so many objects I never thought about or didn't even know existed.

We've reminisced over the photo of her at 15 years old meeting Elvis Presley (who kissed her on the cheek!), wedding telegrams filled with well-wishes from around the world, and old newspaper clippings about the various businesses she built over the years.

We also laugh over her old wedding photos with "the kids' dad" (always accompanied by one of her eye rolls) and how it feels like another lifetime.

I've come away with a much deeper appreciation for who she is, not only as my mother-in-law but as an entrepreneur, traveler, philanthropist, daughter, mother, and friend.

I can't help but marvel at the many versions of Elizabeth that existed long before I knew her.

The biggest surprise is realizing this hasn't just been about clearing out a house

My MIL has a very peaceful outlook on death. She believes it's a temporary transition, so that lightens the mood whenever we're sifting through her belongings.

In fact, she usually laughs whenever we talk about our "Swedish death cleaning days."

What started as my habit of organizing has become one of the most meaningful ways we've spent time together. I wish more families could find a way to do this while they have the chance.

As she recently told me while we were sorting through old photos, "I feel so privileged to have known these people over the years and to have had those experiences."