If you know me well, there’s a good chance you’ve stumbled upon my nude photos. My brother’s girlfriend has seen them, along with my sister, friends, and a few aunts. In fact, my mom was the very first person I shared them with. My husband has seen them too, though he doesn’t quite appreciate them like I do.
These images weren’t leaked by an ex or splashed across social media. Instead, they’re tastefully displayed in a coffee table book that resides on a shelf in our living room.
“You should really put those away,” one aunt remarked. But I can’t bring myself to do it; these images and what they signify are far too meaningful to me.
I remember the first time the thought of posing for nude art crossed my mind. I was a middle school babysitter, flipping through a Marie Claire magazine when I stumbled upon an essay about modeling for a figure painting class. It piqued my interest, but I quickly dismissed the idea. After all, nude models were usually stunning figures—think of Rose from Titanic, gracefully posed. I was a bit more on the pudgy, bookish side and definitely not graceful. Posing for nudes felt like something I could only dream about, living in a world where I wore bikinis and effortlessly kissed boys.
Years later, in college, the suggestion popped up again when a friend mentioned seeing a flyer at a Boston museum seeking nude models. “Are you out of your mind?” another friend gasped. I, however, encouraged her, even though she was a fraction of my size and too self-conscious to see the potential beauty in posing.
Then, while babysitting again, I stumbled upon an unexpected opportunity: an ad on Craigslist looking for nude models. A professional photographer wanted to practice with new lighting techniques and offered to let the model keep the rights to all the photos. Instead of worrying about potential dangers, I was thrilled. I picked a picture that I felt showcased my beauty and my size-16 figure, and sent it off. The photographer shared a link to his website (if he was a creep, at least he was a talented one), and we booked a session.
The night before the shoot, my confidence waned and nerves kicked in. I hadn’t told my fiancé; I didn’t want his thoughts to cloud my decision. I wandered into the kitchen, where my mom was preparing dinner. I hopped on the counter, a familiar perch for our chats over the years. This time, though, I wasn’t shy.
“I have an appointment tomorrow—it’s not for the doctor,” I said casually. “It’s for pictures.”
She looked up, intrigued.
“In my birthday suit,” I added with a chuckle, using humor to ease myself. I swore her to secrecy and she cleared her schedule to accompany me, acting as my supportive cheerleader.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and dropped the sarong I had wrapped around myself. “You can keep that over your lap for now,” the photographer said, a kind man with family pictures adorning the studio walls. “Let’s start with some face shots.”
He was doing his best to help me feel at ease, and surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous at all. I didn’t dwell on the fact that I was naked in a converted warehouse studio in front of someone I had just met. I wasn’t concerned about my mom sitting just beyond the camera, engrossed in her book. Instead, I was reveling in the moment, feeling empowered.
“Those are fantastic,” the photographer remarked. “Shall we move to the floor?”
I laid down on the cool, white studio floor while he adjusted the lighting. His instructions punctuated my thoughts: arch your back, look toward the camera, drape your arm across your chest. It felt like an unusual form of yoga—posing, finding calmness, and transitioning to the next.
“You were so comfortable,” my mom said over lunch after the shoot. “It was great to watch.”
When I got home, I was surprised to find my body sore, like after a vigorous workout. It made me smile; I wasn’t just a passive subject—I was an active participant.
Looking at the photos, I don’t see my flaws; instead, I see a serene happiness illuminating my face. I appear peaceful and relaxed, a woman finally at ease in her own skin.
It’s been three years since that day, and I still beam every time I see those pictures. Society often dictates that women can only celebrate their bodies on certain occasions—when reaching a specific size or serving someone else. The wedding industry suggests that nudity is only acceptable as a gift for a husband. But simply appreciating yourself, as you are, is rarely acknowledged.
I cherish my body in all its imperfect glory, and those nudes are the truest reflection of that sentiment. They’re not just sexy photos; they’re art. They’re not for anyone else; they’re for me. Every glance at that book fills me with empowerment.
“Your pictures are amazing,” my younger sister said when I mentioned I was writing about my experience. It fills me with joy knowing that as she steps into adulthood, she understands the profound beauty of everyday moments captured in art.
As a mom now, I often ponder when I might need to tuck away that photo book. My daughter is only a toddler, and to her, my body represents comfort. I can foresee a time when she might ask me to hide it, concerned about what her friends might think. While I’ll respect her wishes, I’ll ensure she knows there’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, and that these photos, much like my body, deserve to be celebrated, valued, and loved.
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Summary
This article discusses the author’s journey of self-acceptance and empowerment through nude photography, highlighting the significance of celebrating one’s body in all its forms. It emphasizes the importance of self-love and the meaning behind capturing moments that showcase beauty beyond societal standards.