#self-in-surrender

I feel exposed when someone looks at my body. Not seen—exposed. There’s shame. Embarrassment. That twitchy, skin-crawling urge to hide. Like maybe if I stay turned just right, keep the light low enough, I can control what they notice. Maybe I can stay desirable by staying slightly out of reach.

But once I’m on my knees, something changes. In front of the right person—in front of my person—I feel beautiful. I feel like I have a purpose. I feel wanted in a way that quiets all the static.

I still get conflicted. About showing my stomach. My arms. The front of me. The parts where loose skin and stretch marks show up like proof. Proof that I’ve changed. That I’ve survived things. That this body has been lived in and fought with. Sometimes I feel like I’m only beautiful from behind—until I turn around and all my trauma is on display. I hate that it feels like that. But it does.

And still—I offer it. Not because I love it. But because I’m trying to live in it again.

Submission lets me experience my body differently. I step into it like a room I was afraid to enter. I move like it might actually be mine. It’s not about performance. It’s about belonging to something—someone—in a way that makes me feel real.

I still struggle to separate being wanted from being accepted. And honestly, I’m not sure I want to feel the difference. Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Once you realize you were only ever being wanted, it’s hard to keep handing yourself over like it’s safe.

But I crave being taken. I don’t need a pedestal. I need a grip. I need to be used like I’m already chosen.

The bravest thing I’ve done with my body? Letting it be recorded. And watching it back. Watching the stretch marks. The angles I avoid. The softness I wish I could edit out. Watching it all—and not looking away.