That one time I did boudoir
I remember the outrage and glee and interest that the world had when Amy Schumer got photographed in the nude.
This isn’t meant to be a commentary on size, but Amy has a pretty “palatable” body figure and overall mass, albeit “bigger than your average” celeb. The whole ordeal inspired a lot of fat girls, shocked a lot of skinny girls, disgusted the fatphobic in our world.
A few years ago I was approached with the opportunity to do a boudoir shoot: for no one but myself. The photographer who gifted me this was the same photographer who shot my engagement & wedding photos — both of which, at that point — were effectively disbanded.
Before that time, I believed boudoir was an experience that women suffered uncomfortably through to give their admirers a token, a prized gift. Women, offering up their bodies and their discomfort for someone else’s pleasure. I cringe typing that, but it’s truly what I thought.
As terrified as I was, I agreed to do it anyway. It felt like it was something I was going to regret turning down if I didn’t just show up and do the damn thing. Classic Enneagram 7. Seeking and embracing all the experiences, all the time.
You see, the person who was approached in that moment was waking up every day trying to remind herself that it wasn’t her being too big or too much that ended her marriage. Toxic, abusive relationships have a tendency to make us believe things that aren’t true. They make us take on more responsibility baggage than is actually ours to carry. And they don’t have to be romantic to do real damage to us in our quest to live a full and rich life.
So what was it like?
The experience itself was awkward.
Not because of the brilliant work of my photographer, but because of where my head was.
In the years that have followed since, I’ve learned to reflect on these photos and embrace them as a snippet of an everyday, intimate, and anti-radical moment.
A moment where I said enough is enough. Setting down the baggage of other people’s ideas of what is strong, what is beautiful, what is appropriate. Picking up for myself, instead.
At the time, being nearly nude in front of another person that I wasn’t preparing to be intimate with was like how it feels to be 10 yards from completing a marathon: almost there, just trying to make it through those final uncomfortable moments, sucking it in, smiling big, not quite sure where to look as you cross the finish line.
To stand there was radical.
To lay there was radical.
To be, without apology, was radical.
The society in which I was raised told me that I should hide and cover my fatness so that others are not exposed to my wild imperfections.
My fatness was not just a shame, but it was seen as an inconvenience to the entire world.
I wish I could say I left that boudoir shoot with a changed mind, a happy heart, and a fresh new love for my body.
I didn’t.
I walked out the exact same as when I walked in. I was sick of believing the idea that I had to chase a specific idea or image of what was beautiful, strong, or sexy. Those descriptors are often painted into very tiny corners, none of which are big enough for all of us to occupy.
All that being said, I’m glad I did it.
Those photos are a time capsule of the time I decided I was sick of standing down to those societal creeds, the pleas to become smaller in the way I show up.
It was an attempt and a success at reinstating my baseline:
