I’m Not Shy About Showing Them
They’re not just photos. They’re declarations.
Each one is a frame pulled from the reel of a life lived out loud. Not curated for perfection, but chosen for truth. The angles aren’t always flattering. The lighting isn’t always kind. But they’re mine. And I’m not shy about showing them.
Because these aren’t just images—they’re evidence. Proof that I existed, that I felt, that I dared to be seen.
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There’s one of me in the garden, dirt on my hands, a grin stretched across my face like sunlight. I’m crouched beside a bloom I named Reckless Grace—a flower that shouldn’t have survived the dry season, but did. Its petals are torn, its stem crooked, but it stands. And so do I.
Another shot: me beside my car, Marrow, a classic with a cracked windshield and a story in every dent. I’m leaning against her hood, boots scuffed, jacket loud, eyes defiant. The caption reads: “She’s not pretty, but she’s powerful.” I wasn’t talking about the car.
Then there’s the mirror pic. The one I took after a long night, mascara smudged, hair wild, expression raw. I didn’t post it for sympathy. I posted it for honesty. Because beauty isn’t always polished. Sometimes it’s bruised. Sometimes it’s tired. Sometimes it’s just real.
Full Story 👇👇👇
I used to hide.
Not physically. I was always present. But emotionally, spiritually—I kept the best parts of myself tucked away, afraid they’d be misunderstood. I wore clothes that blended in. Smiled when I didn’t feel like it. Posted pictures that looked like everyone else’s.
But something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning bolt. Just a slow, quiet rebellion. A whisper that grew louder: What if you stopped hiding?
So I did.
I started naming things. My car. My flowers. My moods. I gave them identities, stories, legacies. I treated objects like characters in my personal mythology. And in doing so, I gave myself permission to be a character too.
Not a role. A presence.
I began dressing for emotion, not occasion. I wore velvet on Tuesdays, boots in the rain, colors that clashed because they felt like me. I stopped asking if it was “too much.” I started asking if it was true.
And then I picked up a camera.
Not to capture perfection. But to document presence.
I took photos of everything—my garden, my car, my clothes, my face. I didn’t wait for good lighting. I didn’t edit out the mess. I let the chaos show. I let the joy show. I let me show.
And I posted them.
Not for likes.
For legacy.
The comments came quickly.
Some were confused. Some were cruel. But most were curious. People saw something in the photos—something they hadn’t seen in a while. Not just style. Not just mood. But permission.
Permission to be seen.
Permission to be imperfect.
Permission to name the things that matter.
One follower messaged me: “I named my bike after your car. I call her ‘Rib.’ She’s not fast, but she’s loyal.”
Another wrote: “Your garden made me plant one. I named my first bloom ‘Soft Rage.’”
And someone else said: “I took a mirror pic today. I didn’t smile. I didn’t filter. I just let it be. Thank you.”
That’s why I’m not shy about showing them.
Because every photo is a seed.
Every image is a mirror.
Every post is a door.
And behind that door is a world where people name their scars, dress their moods, and plant flowers that shouldn’t bloom—but do.
So yes, I show them.
The messy ones.
The moody ones.
The ones that make people pause mid-scroll and wonder, “What’s the story here?”
Because there is a story.
And it’s mine.
And I’m not shy about telling it.
