Unfiltered Exposure
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a complicated relationship with the camera. I didn’t like how I looked in photos, but especially candids. Every time someone snapped an unexpected picture, I’d feel this surge of dread—like the camera was capturing something I didn’t want to be permanently on film. The lack of control, of being perceived in a way I didn’t choose, always left me feeling more exposed than I was ready for.
So, I started taking my own photos. It wasn’t a decision based on wanting to feel good about myself, or at least, not at first. I didn’t suddenly wake up and think, let’s kill my self-loathing by taking some nudes! I wish I had that noble of a motivation in mind, in hindsight. No, it was more about taking back control of how I was seen, and proving to myself that there was in fact at least one tiny obscure angle I could memorialize on film where I looked beautiful to my own eyes.
At first, the goal was simple: I just wanted to be in charge of the lens. I wanted to choose how I was framed, lit, and ultimately viewed. It wasn’t about perfection, per se, but it was about choice. Candids felt like someone else’s narrative about me. When I was the one holding the camera, I got to write my own story, at least visually. And as small as that sounds, and as misguided as my hopes were at the start, it held a huge amount of mental significance.
The early days weren’t glamorous. In fact, they were as clumsy as I am (nearly). I didn’t know the first thing about angles or lighting. The poses felt stiff and unnatural, and the results were hardly anything to brag about. I wasn’t suddenly falling in love with my reflection. Actually, looking back at those first self-portraits, they felt just as awkward as I did in real life. Knowing how easily discouraged I can be, I’m surprised I didn’t view the very first attempt as confirmation that aesthetic redemption was unattainable to me. But something kept me going.
Maybe it was the small shred of power that came with choosing how to present myself. I wasn’t at the mercy of someone else’s camera or someone else’s view of me. That shift—no longer being the subject of a photo, but the author of it—was something I hadn’t expected to matter so much. And yet it was everything I needed in a catalyst.
Looking through the images I took, I started noticing things. Little details I didn’t hate. A curve I liked, the way my skin looked in soft light, the unique textures of my body that, when I focused on them, didn’t seem so hideous. Less photos were being immediately discarded to the bin, and I began to experiment with angles and poses. Sure, I wasn’t exactly celebrating everything about my appearance, but I was starting to see it with more curiosity and less judgment.
As I continued taking photos, something began to shift. At first, it was all about regaining control over how I was seen. But slowly, it turned into something more profound. The camera stopped feeling like a tool for just presenting an idealized version of myself. Instead, it became a mirror of sorts. And not a harsh, critical one like the mirrors I used to avoid, or the deeply unkind mirror in my mind’s eye, but softer and far more forgiving. It allowed me to look at myself with a sense of compassion I hadn’t felt in probably my entire life.
Instead of focusing on my blemishes and imperfections, I started to explore the parts of myself that felt real, that felt like they were unique to me and I didn’t see replicated on anyone else. My stretch marks, my soft stomach, my thighs that touch—all the things I had been conditioned to think of as innate personal flaws suddenly didn’t seem so threatening. When I was behind the camera, I had the chance to see those parts from a different perspective, and with time, that perspective changed the way I viewed my entire body.
It didn’t happen overnight. In fact, it was a pretty slow process. There were plenty of moments when I’d look at a photo and feel that familiar insecure commentary creeping up in volume again. But over time, those feelings began to lose their grip. With every photo I took, I chipped away at the belief that my body was something to hide or be ashamed of. Each new image became a small step toward acceptance.
I think a big part of why this practice helped me was because it gave me the power to define how I’m seen, by both myself and others. When you’re constantly being caught in candids or only seeing yourself through other people’s eyes you start to lose touch with what you actually think. Looking back now, my own inner critic just caricaturized what I thought everyone must be thinking, and called it fact when it was really just my own unkindness. But when I began to take my own photos, that outside noise quieted down. It became about me and how I wanted to see myself, not how I thought others should see me.
This control was freeing in ways I didn’t foresee. I stopped worrying about how I measured up to some arbitrary standard of beauty and started thinking about what simply made me feel good. Maybe it was a photo where my eyes looked soft, or the way my body curved in a certain position, or the texture of my skin in morning light. Whatever it was, I was the one deciding what felt beautiful, and that shifted everything for me.
It also helped me detach from the idea of perfection. When I was in control of the camera, I got to define what looked good. I didn’t need the perfect angle or the most flattering lighting. I didn’t need to look like anyone else. The photos weren’t about impressing anyone or fitting into a filtered-perfect world. They were about accurately capturing me—in all my messy, real, and entirely original glory.
The more I engaged with this process, the more it turned into something deeply healing. What started as a desire for complete control evolved into a way to reclaim my body. For so many years, I’d been disconnected from it and really only saw it through a funhouse mirror of insecurity and criticism. But with each self-portrait, I started to bridge that gap.
Taking nudes became a vital part of that healing journey. It wasn’t just about physical self-image; it was about allowing myself to be vulnerable in a way I hadn’t before. Standing in front of a camera, fully exposed, was terrifying at first. But that vulnerability slowly turned into something powerful. I wasn’t hiding anymore. I wasn’t shying away from my body or avoiding its reflection. I was standing there, raw and real, and there was something incredibly freeing about that.
It wasn’t about showing off or trying to prove something to anyone else. It was about showing up for myself. About claiming, “Here is my body, and it is worth being memorialized exactly as it is in this moment”.
If you’re waiting for me to say that I’ve completely transformed my self-esteem and love everything about myself now, well, no. I’m sorry to disappoint, but that would be making light of how difficult self-acceptance can be. This isn’t some magical fix where I woke up one day to have achieved self-actualization. In fact, on more days than I care to admit I still struggle. There are still plenty of moments when the old insecurities come belittling in, mocking as ever.
But what’s different now is that I have a tool to push back against those insecurities. When I feel myself starting to spiral, I can grab my camera, take a few photos, and remind myself of the progress I’ve made. Each time I step in front of the camera, I’m taking back a little bit more of my power.
This journey has taught me that self-esteem isn’t about reaching a final destination where everything is cropped, airbrushed, filtered, and posted for the validation of going viral. It’s about the ongoing process of seeing myself, accepting myself, and reminding myself that I’m worthy of being seen on my own terms.
If you’re thinking about trying this for yourself, start slow. Don’t worry about the technical stuff. Just focus on what makes you feel good. Whether it’s a nude, a portrait, or just capturing a moment where you feel at peace, let the camera be your tool for healing, not for judgment.
And if you’d like to hear more about this topic, or a tutorial for how I take my own photos, just engage and let me know. I am more than happy to share my extremely low-budget and self-taught methods, and I’d love to know that it is helpful to anyone.
Until next time,
Hillary