If you know me, it’s quite likely that you’ve laid eyes on my nude photographs. My brother’s girlfriend, sister, friends, and even a couple of aunts have seen them. In fact, my mom was the first person to view those images. My partner has seen them as well, although he doesn’t share my enthusiasm for them. These photos weren’t leaked by an angry ex or splashed across social media; they are proudly displayed in a coffee table book on a shelf in our living room.
“Maybe you should keep those out of sight,” one aunt suggested. But I can’t bring myself to hide them, as they hold a significance that resonates deeply with me.
I recall a moment from my middle school days, babysitting and flipping through a Marie Claire magazine that belonged to the mother. An essay about modeling for a figure painting class sparked my curiosity, yet I quickly dismissed the thought. I imagined that only perfect beauties—like Rose from Titanic, captured in her delicate form—would be sought after. I viewed myself as pudgy, bookish, and anything but graceful. The idea of posing for nude art seemed like a fantasy, a whimsical thought for another life where I wore bikinis, touched my toes, and dated boys.
During college, the subject resurfaced when a friend mentioned a flyer at a Boston museum calling for nude models. “Are you out of your mind?” another friend exclaimed. Yet, I encouraged her—she was petite and self-conscious—but secretly, I wished I could join her.
Eventually, while babysitting again, I stumbled upon a chance I hadn’t been seeking. An ad on Craigslist called for nude models for a photographer looking to practice new lighting techniques. In exchange, the model would retain the rights to the photos. I should have worried about safety, but I felt exhilarated. I sifted through iPhoto and selected a picture that represented my beauty and my size-16 shape, sending it off in response to the ad. The photographer’s website seemed legitimate, and we booked the session.
The night before the shoot, my earlier confidence faded into nerves. I hadn’t told my fiancé; I didn’t want his opinion to cloud my decision. I found my mom in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and hopped onto the counter—our usual spot for deep conversations.
“About that appointment I mentioned for tomorrow? It’s not a doctor’s visit. It’s for photos,” I said, trying to lighten the mood with humor. “In my birthday suit.” I swore her to secrecy, and she agreed to accompany me, acting as both a supportive mother and a bodyguard.
Taking a deep breath, I released the sarong I had wrapped around myself. “You can keep that over your lap for now,” the photographer, a slight man with family photos adorning his studio, suggested. He aimed to make me comfortable, and surprisingly, I was. I wasn’t focused on my nudity or the fact that my mom was just outside the frame, reading her book. Instead, I felt empowered. I was finally taking this step.
The photographer guided me through various poses, and I realized I was actively participating, not just an object in the shoot. Afterward, my muscles ached pleasantly, reminiscent of a good workout. I had embraced my body, using it to create something beautiful.
Looking back at those photos, I no longer see imperfections. Instead, I see a woman who is genuinely at peace with herself. It’s been three years since that day, and each time I glance at the book, a smile creeps onto my face. Society often dictates that women can celebrate their bodies only under specific circumstances—when they reach a particular size or when they are pleasing someone else. But I celebrate mine as it is, an act of self-love and empowerment.
My sister, now 20, praised the pictures when I mentioned writing about the experience. It’s heartening to see her appreciate the significance of capturing everyday beauty as she steps into adulthood. As a new mom, I sometimes ponder when I might stash away that photo book. My daughter, still a toddler, views my body as a source of comfort. I anticipate she may one day request I hide it, concerned about peer opinions. While I’ll respect her wishes, I will ensure she understands that those images are not sources of shame but rather tokens of celebration and love—just like my body.
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In summary, embracing and celebrating one’s body in its natural form is a deeply personal journey. By sharing my experience, I hope to inspire others to do the same, regardless of societal expectations or standards.