Developing Me: A Self-Portrait in Progress

How the Camera Became My Mirror, My Memory, and My Liberation

I’m always the friend who wants to take pictures. Of food, of outfits, of events, of laughs. “One day, we’ll want this to look back on,” I assert.

At least, I do. Photoshoots allow me to trace the cornerstones of important milestones or moments in my adult life.

In my college apartment, I had framed photos of myself visiting Carrie Bradshaw’s famous Perry Street apartment in New York. I was wearing Sarah Jessica Parker’s now-retired SJP shoe line, which made my giddiness more palpable—especially when she commented on the Instagram post.

After learning about feminism in college and understanding myself within this new framework, I yearned for ways to express myself that defied expectations of who I was supposed to be.

I was always the good girl. The quiet girl. The straight-A student. The kid who was never grounded. The one who did all the “right” things. For me, this resistance often meant reclaiming my body as my own. Usually in the form of boudoir photography.

After pouring myself into a research project about how body image shapes women’s sexual self-concept, a photoshoot felt like a natural celebratory act of self-expression. The final test of my self-love that would only count as a grade for me from me.

But people have problems when a woman publicly reclaims her body. My photo—a simple shot of me in a white bikini at the beach—was no different. Countless women post on social media without a second thought. The problem with my bikini photo wasn’t the clothing—it was my expression.

I was hot. I was sexy. I wasn’t surrounded by children smiling innocently at the beach. Something was alluring about my gaze. I was too sexual for comfortable consumption. I was assisting at a women’s empowerment group at the time, and the leader—a woman, no less—pulled me aside and told me she couldn’t have me posting photos “like that” while being involved in a women’s empowerment project.

We weren’t friends on Facebook, which made her statement more pronounced. As I searched for answers hidden on her Facebook, I noticed she had photos of herself in her bikini on her page, too. But she was smiling. I was not. It became clear we did not share the same brand of feminism or definition of women’s empowerment. I was slut shamed and parted ways after that season.