WHAT BEING SEEN TAUGHT ME ABOUT MYSELF

The strange thing about standing in front of a camera is that eventually you run out of places to hide.

At first, I noticed everything.

My posture. My stomach. My arms. The way the fabric fell. The angle of my face.

All of the little negotiations women make with their bodies without even realizing we're doing it.

Turn this way. Cover that. Hold this in. Lengthen this. Don't let them see that.

I knew how to look at myself.

Or at least I thought I did.

Then something changed.

There was a moment when I stopped thinking about how I looked and started noticing how I felt.

The room became quieter. My shoulders dropped.

My body stopped being something I was arranging for someone else's approval.

It simply became mine again.

I think that's what the camera unexpectedly gave me.

Not confidence exactly.

Permission.

Permission to see a woman rather than a collection of things to correct. Permission to notice sensuality without turning it into performance. Permission to let softness exist beside strength. Permission to inhabit my own skin instead of constantly observing it from the outside.

There are photographs I love because they're beautiful.

But there are others I love for a completely different reason.

I recognize myself in them.

Not the polished version. Not the version trying to get everything right.

Me.

And that has made me wonder how often we look at ourselves through borrowed eyes.

A partner's eyes. A parent's eyes. Society's eyes. The eyes of whoever once made us question whether we were enough.

Maybe being truly seen begins somewhere much more private.

Maybe it begins the moment you stop looking away from yourself.