A 40th Birthday Boudoir Photo Shoot (and Some Takeaways)

*CONTENT WARNING: Mention of sexual assault and suicide. Please proceed only if you feel safe to do so.*

At twenty-fucking depressed-two, I wrote in my journal, “I am the oldest 22-year-old I know. I feel so old, and tired of this life.” Three years prior, I downed a cocktail of drugs – half a blister pack of paracetamol, muscle relaxants, sleeping pills, others I can’t remember – hoping to never wake up. I postulated that I wouldn’t make it past my 30s.

Yet here we are, forty and kicking. The youngest, most alive, most confident, and most empowered I’ve felt in decades. What a revelation this all is.

Over the years, I have become more outspoken about the fact that, from preschool until adulthood, I was raped and molested on separate occasions by different people I personally know and that this series of events is the most defining contributor to my depression. I learned early how speaking of the violence committed against my body only handed me violence in return. Accusations that I “enjoyed it” and that I’m “old enough to stop whining about the past”; questions like “Why didn’t you scream or tell anyone?”

Coupled with dysfunctional parenting, being an assault survivor changed the way I view and move in the world. I learned to bend and serve others before me, keeping it all tucked neatly underneath layers of obedience and silence, ever so malleable under standards and conventions.

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For decades, I was servile and often leaned into others’ dictates of what a “good woman” should do to her body. Reserve sensuality to yourself or in the bedroom. Don’t wear anything too revealing. Follow norms. I married into a family of devout, conservative Catholics who are my polar opposites. On my wedding day, I purposely wore a sleeved dress to cover the tattoo I’ve had on my arm since I was 16. Nobody knew. My (ex) in-laws are good people who love me until now, but they didn’t know all of me including important composites that make up who I am. I was afraid to show up as my authentic self to most — a wild horse constantly taming herself inside a stable.

Only after Lia’s dad and I separated in 2019 did I drastically begin to unpeel my masks. It was also in that year that I first spoke publicly as an assault survivor. It was liberating and emboldening. The more I shared about the experience, the more I detached from the feeling of shame and guilt I long carried. I learned to accept that it happened to me, but the accountability is not mine to bear. That there is nothing wrong with me. I am a normal person who was handed abnormal circumstances. I can even write poems and essays now about my experiences and share them with a wider audience, like my CNF, “Reasons Why I Haven’t Fucked in a Decade”, which was published in The Hooghly Review.

The tipping point for me was meeting a guy last year who mirrored all my traumas and emotional intensity. He was the first man I opened up to about my assault experiences who really listened. Who understood me and allowed me to be seen in all of my strangeness and complexity. Made me feel desired and beautiful again. Who I rediscovered desire with. With him, I was free to be who I am and to openly speak of horrors.

Our short-lived connection destroyed me. But it also wounded me so deeply that it shoved me to self-discovery. What I am worth, what I wouldn’t settle for anymore. Taught me to accord myself love. To embrace the chaotic, messy brownie that I am. It was the final key to my rebirth.

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So, in addition to our annual hiking tradition, this year I thought I’d add something different to the mix to celebrate this life-giving journey to my empowered self (Lia and I still hiked the day after my birthday. More on that on a separate post).

I asked my niece, Maia, who freelances as a photographer and videographer, if she’d like to capture her aunt buck naked. Lucky me, portraits are her favorite and she thought a boudoir photo shoot would make a nice gift to said aunt. Tee-hee.

(You can view her portfolio here or do a quick glimpse of her shots and contact her for commissions/freelance gigs via Instagram, @maiaimperial. She charges fairly and has worked with brands like Bench, Megaworld, and Northbound Magazine. You’ll be in good hands.)

Armed with my faulty, blood-sputtering, old-as-my-ass Nikon D3300 (my niece is still a college student and simply rents full-frame cameras during gigs. We’re aiming for little to no expense), off we went to the cheapest Airbnb we can book in Makati with balcony and floor-to-ceiling windows.

My request was simple: I wanted to be photographed in my barest, most natural state. That meant no makeup (not even no-makeup makeup), no hairstyling, no Brazilian wax; no photoshopping stretchmarks, wrinkles, zits, dark spots, fat rolls, flabs, and scars (especially not my CS scar); no major enhancements or alterations. Just pure natural light and Scorpio energy.

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She instructed me on gaze and proper body positioning, especially at the beginning of the shoot. But I’m glad that most of what came out were candid moments. It helped that she’s a woman and there is already trust between us. We essentially lived in the same houses for many years.

We had loads of fun, alright.

Given the constraints, including a malfunctioning camera and the fact that she was sick on my birthday (and that this was her first boudoir shoot!), my photographer understood the assignment. I think it all came out really well. We are both happy with the results.

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This photo shoot is deeply personal to me. For a long time, I worried that I would be judged, as other survivors constantly are, for disrobing my skin and bones. That I would hear, “Well, that explains why she was assaulted. Look at her. She is obviously asking for it” whenever I bared my skin. But survivors are also humans with unique desires and personalities. We can be sensual, too. Our bodies are ours and ours alone.

To be in a room with two young women I love – my daughter included – and share with them the ways a woman can honor the grace and strength of a body that witnessed and weathered so much violence in this lifetime is a profound experience.

To show them we can and must love this one home in its aging state, with all the time-bound marks that society perceives as “flaws”. To be compassionate with it. To raise a finger at my abusers and the patriarchy. To be bold enough to tell people, whenever they comment in the negative that I’ve changed, “Yes, I have outgrown the tired, subservient woman you once knew. She gets to rest now. This is the real me, and the real me is constantly evolving as everything does in nature.” All the ways to say to the world I have total agency of this body now. I will embody it however I feel called to embody it. It does not need approval and external validation to claim space.

On our way home, my daughter asked if I was going to post the pictures on socials. “Yes, I will,” I said.

“Do you ever get weirded out wearing almost nothing and being photographed? Showing it to people?”

“No. Do you get weirded out by me?”

“No. Only if it’s my body. I don’t like showing that much skin.” I love that about her. She doesn’t cave in even when it’s her mother she is talking to. At 11, she knows what she wants and asserts authority over her body — as she should.

“That’s right,” I replied. “It’s your body. But if it’s other people, do you feel weirded out by them showing their skin?”

She shook her head. “Nah. I support that. It’s their body. Only they can decide what to do with it.”

Well, my work here is done, people. And my life is just getting started.