Naked Medicine: The Art Of Being Witnessed
I did something that terrifies me.
Think- naked.
Think- stared at and dissected by multiple strangers.
Like those nightmare dreams where you're on stage and suddenly realise - you're completely naked. Except I chose this fate. I chose to sit, naked, in front of strangers as part of my self-imposed exposure therapy - to be truly witnessed, truly seen.
This will land differently depending on where - and how - you were raised. This article might not resonate with the European baddies who lounge comfortably, everything hanging out on beaches without a second thought. But for those from other conservative cultures and families, for example - carrying painful shame around sexuality and nudity- this might strike a deeper chord.
Like many women, my body is something I’ve bounced in and out of a toxic relationship with. I find myself slightly more relaxed when I am smaller - when my body fits the guidelines of society’s so-called ideal. And when it does, the world responds accordingly: more attention, more respect. But when I’m feeling bigger, everything is slow. My frequency is slower, I feel I move heavier - my energy is dense, mirroring my physical form. I understand the self-worth wounds that get triggered - the ones that drive me to put on weight, as both protection and self-sabotage. I've been trying to understand the deeper, energetic patterns of weight gain in women and I notice how my denser emotions come first - then my body follows. But whether bigger or smaller, one thing has always remained: I’ve never known true, consistent peace with my flesh. And so I did something very extreme and scorpio’esque of me;
I put myself in a nude figure study class - to be drawn.
Most of us hate the idea of being studied like this. I know I do. I prefer to stay hidden and unseen. To do just enough to get by, but not enough to be truly noticed. Not enough to be held in the spotlight.
Why?
I think there’s a soup of reasons why;
My healing path has sprouted - and re-sprouted again and again - through painful and traumatic sexual experiences. These moments have seeded confusion and shame around my nudity, my sexuality, and even my sensuality. These patterns aren’t just mine - I see them running through my lineage. Through many lineages around me, to be honest. Embracing my body as a body, a flesh bag, a vessel, a portal - not only associating its bareness with sexual context - or even as something that needs to be sensual - something that can be naked and still safe, still sovereign.
Reclaiming nudity as something I can naturally land in, as a birthright. Not something someone else can take from. Not something that will be used to make me small - just so someone else can feel bigger, feel in control. Not something that is used to arouse or perform. And alongside this, I’ve had many experiences where stepping out of my shell and receiving compliments upset the people closest to me. It jeopardized relationships with dear sisters. It made women around me turn inward, criticise themselves the moment I shared my successes - high marks, career accomplishments, intentional and healthy weight loss, muscle gains from working out. Instead of celebration, there was silence. Distance. Tension.
In these moments of success, I could feel the air shift.
Anyway, there I am - naked,
Finding interesting postures around a chair for artists to draw me. I sat witnessing myself being witnessed, and I wasn’t as self-conscious as I thought I’d be. The fact that the observers were more focused on their artistic abilities than the shape of my body helped, definitely, but I entered the room thinking I’d be trying to stick to strategic angles and sucking in my stomach for three hours straight. But instead, I found small ways to relax into my imperfections - to allow whatever wanted to be drawn, to be drawn. If I hated the outcomes, I never had to see them again. But the goal was bigger than approval.
The goal was to see everything as art - regardless of whether I liked it or not. I took it for what it was: Just another strange, interesting experience while inhabiting this flesh body on a floating rock in the cosmos, and not connected to my personal worth, completely releasing all the personal narratives I wanted to give each shape and line. Being the muse, it’s not up to me what lies under the charcoal of the artists interpretation. I cannot control what goes on on the other side of the easel, and what meaning they attach to it.
Quite frankly, as an artist myself, I like to draw things that are slightly imperfect -
things that carry the weight of a story.
Isn’t that the essence of us, as humans? Vessels that carry stories. That’s what keeps us grounded - what ties us to the human experience, to the density of Earth: our stories, our pasts, our nostalgia, our regrets, our hopes and dreams. Which is why, on the path to ascension, monks release all attachments to story and ego. They become empty. Free of the density that keeps the soul indulging in, and attached to, returning to Earth in the next incarnation. They practice absolute presence - letting go of craving, expectation, aversion, and hope for the future… and letting go of the narratives, denials, and meanings we assign to the past. Without this character, we have no weight. In the context of frequency, this allows monks to fly into the next dimension in their next lives, and it grounds the rest of us in our admiration and spiritual obsession with art - the merging of good and bad, dense and light, physical and metaphysical.
I’m not saying hold onto every story - from an energy worker perspective, this will slowly kill your body through illness and disease. What I am saying is although it’s beneficial to practice emptiness, hold your self and the sinews of your inner workings - good and bad - in a large compassionate room in your heart as you unravel out into this lifetime’s learnings. The process before the unraveling, during the unraveling, and the rebuild after the unraveling all fall under art. It’s all the point. It’s why we are here. And it can all be witnessed as your intriguing and continuous happening.
And so, back to the basis of this blog on embracing nakedness; It is, without a doubt, a practice I will continue. Becoming completely comfortable with being witnessed - emotionally, spiritually, physically. If I release all judgment of myself, I release the energetic weight of judgment projected onto me by others. And in doing so, I begin to heal the bleeding wounds of my ancestral lineages. I begin to heal the bleeding wounds of my fellow Earth sisters.
The ripples of your personal healing expand far wider than you know. It is never selfish to focus on your own healing. The little, scary things - the quiet or loud acts of courage - hold profound butterfly effects for the collective.
And with the closing of this contemplation, I leave you with a few questions:
Is there a way you can practice being seen this week?
Can you hold steady through the tension, even when your body screams at you to hide? Can you stay present when your voice and emotions want to scurry under behind the rock in search of safety - even if that safety costs you your visibility? In these ways, are you brave enough to rewire your brain?
Holding eye contact just a little bit longer with those you love. Answering authentically when someone asks, "How are you?". Wearing that piece of clothing you usually avoid - the one that feels just a little bolder than you're used to. Sharing your heart with someone. Speaking your truth in a group setting. Releasing self-judgment before - and during - a big milestone moment.
We did not arrive in these bodies, in these narratives, in this era - to remain invisible and silent.
Your existence is not meant to cautiously peek from behind rocks,
or tiptoe through the grass as if there are hidden bombs buried beneath your every step.