The Boudoir Album
There was a time when loving someone meant trying to show my worth. I remember planning the boudoir photos- something I quietly dreamed about for years. I wasn’t doing it to be sexy for anyone else, or to compare myself to anyone. I did it because I finally felt brave enough to celebrate my own body, to feel powerful in my own skin.
I let myself exist in front of the camera without apology, and it felt like a step towards confidence.
When I created the book, I filled it not just with `photos, but with effort, vulnerability and hope. I truly through it would make him feel loved. I thought it would bring us closer. I thought it would matter.
But instead of appreciation, the first thing I heard was suspicion: “Was it a man that took the photos?”
In that moment, all the excitement, the nerves, the courage behind the pictures were dismissed. I had trusted him with something intimate, and he didn’t see the gift in front of him. He didn’t see me. He only saw himself, his insecurity, his control. The album was tucked away in a drawer- not because the photos weren’t beautiful, but because he didn’t know how to love a woman who felt beautiful.
Looking back now, the hurt was never about the pictures. It was about how small I learned to make myself to be accepted, how quickly confidence could be shut down in the wrong environment. I thought the album was something I made for him, but I realized now it was really a snapshot of who I was becoming- someone learning to take up space, someone learning her own worth.
I don’t regret that book anymore. It wasn’t wasted. It wasn’t embarrassing. It was proof that I was trying to love myself long before I understood what real love looks like. Someone else may have treasured those photos, but the truth is, they were neveer for the person who hid them away.
The next time I choose to celebrate my body, my beauty, or my confidence, I won’t be asking for approval. It won’t be a gift to prove anything. It will simply be a reflection of me- strong, healing, and no longer hidden in the bottom of anyone’s drawer.
