I’m Not Shy About Showing Them. See the Comments for More Pics… Full Story👇👇👇
I used to hide them.
The scars. The stretch marks. The crooked smile. The moments that didn’t fit the feed. I’d crop, filter, retouch, revise. I’d post the polished version and keep the truth tucked away like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.
But not anymore.
Now I show them. All of them. The bruises from the fall I took chasing a sunset. The laugh lines that prove I’ve lived. The garden soil under my nails from planting Dusty June in the rain. The car door dent I refused to fix because it reminds me of the road trip that changed everything.
I’m not shy about showing them.
Because they’re mine. Because they’re real. Because they tell a story that’s bigger than symmetry and shine.
👇👇👇 Full story below.
It started with a photo. Not the kind that gets curated into a grid, but the kind that gets buried in your camera roll. Me, sitting on the hood of Clementine—my rust-freckled Datsun—with a bouquet of marigolds in one hand and a busted sandal in the other. My hair was a mess. My eyes were tired. But I looked alive.
I almost didn’t post it. I stared at it for days. Zoomed in on the imperfections. The way my knee was scraped. The way my shirt clung awkwardly. The way the marigolds were already wilting.
But then I thought: What if this is the most honest I’ve ever looked?
So I posted it. Captioned it: “I’m not shy about showing them.”
The comments lit up. Some were confused. Some were kind. Some asked what I meant. So I dropped the rest of the pics in the first comment.
Me laughing with my mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut. Me watering Riot, my wild marigold, with a chipped mug. Me standing in front of a mirror, bare-faced, with a note taped to the glass that read: “You’re allowed to take up space.”
Each photo was a piece of the story. Not the highlight reel. The real reel.
Because here’s the truth: I’ve spent too long trying to be palatable. Trying to be liked. Trying to be the kind of person who fits neatly into a frame.
But I’m not neat. I’m not polished. I’m not shy.
I’m loud in the ways that matter. I’m messy in the ways that heal. I’m soft in the ways that scare people who mistake softness for weakness.
And I’m done hiding.
I show the bruises because they remind me I got back up. I show the stretch marks because they’re proof I’ve grown. I show the crooked smile because it’s mine—and it’s been earned.
I show the garden because it’s wild. I show Clementine because she’s stubborn. I show the marigolds because they bloom even when they shouldn’t.
I show the joy. The grief. The in-between.
Because I want people to know that beauty isn’t in the perfection—it’s in the presence.
It’s in showing up. As you are. Without apology.
So when I say “I’m not shy about showing them,” I mean all of it.
The photos. The feelings. The failures. The fire.
I mean the late-night texts I never sent. The poems I wrote on receipts. The way I cried when Ophelia finally bloomed after weeks of silence.
I mean the dent in the car door. The crack in the ceramic vase. The way I still wear the necklace he gave me, even though he’s gone.
I mean the story.
The full story.
👇👇👇
I was taught to be quiet. To be small. To be agreeable. But I was born loud. Born curious. Born with a heart that refused to shrink.
I named my flowers because they felt like friends. I named my car because she felt like a character. I named my pain because it deserved to be seen.
And now I name my truth.
I call it unfiltered. I call it alive. I call it mine.
So scroll the comments. See the pics. Each one is a chapter. Each one is a confession. Each one is a celebration.
Of the girl who stopped hiding.
Of the woman who started showing.
Of the story that doesn’t need permission.
Because I’m not shy.
I’m here.
And I’m showing them.
