on being seen by everyday writes
I could not be more honoured to be sharing an eassy written for us by my client Nadia of Everyday Writes today. It’s a beautiful, moving piece about Nadia’s experience of being seen as a queer, neurodivergent, Black business owner. Over to Nadia…
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Well tell your face that.”
As I type now, resting scowl in place, heel crossed over knee, stim-tapping my fingers between thoughts, it’s wild to think how much energy I used to expend trying to mould into something more comfortable for others.
I had planned to write about what it’s like to work with Anna, why I love the photos she takes of me. But being visible, being comfortable being seen in the world, receiving photographs that match up how you look on the outside with how you feel on the inside, there’s deep magic in all that. It’s more than a few casual paragraphs.
I’ve been reflecting on photography in relation to growing up feeling surveyed. All those formative moments when my looks, my skin, the way I moved, were scrutinised and found wanting. The relentless racial profiling of growing up Black in an isolated town. My siblings and I, never allowed to just be kids. The concerned neighbours who saw us running from our (white) grandad’s house and called him to check he was safe. (The bus was due, and we were 9 and 10 and full of excitement for the box-fresh summer holidays; we’d hugged and kissed our grandad goodbye and run out the door). Our little bodies always stood out. And as I grew older, judgements voiced about whether my name fitted my body, the way I moved, how I chose to dress. Everyone always had an opinion.
There was always a calculation to be made, a risk assessment, whether to shrink.
As a queer neurodivergent kid with no language for either, I learned to still my hands even when they wanted to dance.
These thoughts kept me company earlier as I dance-walked alone through the woods, always happiest surrounded by moss and ferns. The rain happening somewhere above the trees. The daydreaming that becomes possible when your body feels safe.
For me, a powerful photo shoot is about feeling safe enough in your body, in the world, to let yourself be seen. To let a photographer you trust get close enough to capture you as you really are and communicate that with care.
The first photos Anna took of me, in January 2022, changed my life. They were a springboard for sending my offering into the world. Exactly what I needed at that time: they showed me calm, centred, approachable, smiley. I remember especially the shot in the archway, looking across to my friend and then back to Anna, a smile that felt natural, completely at ease. For the first time ever, I felt comfortable in front of a camera.
I look back at photos of myself as a kid – a massive fringe that never stayed put, 80s shellsuits in pink and turquoise, my eyes squinting even on a cloudy day, my hands always clasped awkwardly in front of me. I was often squished between siblings, where I loved to be.
Adults constantly commented on how “shy” I was. But it wasn’t that. It was never shyness. I just could never quite figure out how to be in this fishbowl-world, that told me how girls are supposed to sit, how your neutral face is supposed to look, that the way you walk is weird, that you’re always too wriggly, that your eyes are too intense, that your body doesn’t belong even though you were born in the same hospital as everyone else in this town. I grew up being beeped at, slurs shouted out of car windows, being interrogated about my heritage by shopkeepers, taxi drivers, strangers at bus stops. If it wasn’t racist, it was homophobic. If it wasn’t homophobic, it was misogynistic.
I think it’s the same for anyone who grows up looking different – a feeling of always being perceived, even on the shitty days when you most want to hide. A sixth sense that heightens when there’s something in the news about people who look or sound or think like you. I have these conversations, through my coaching and in friendships, with others who grew up in the margins. Blackness, queerness, chronic illness, neurodivergence, transness, disability. Visibility does not equate with safety. There’s often years of self-love, self-compassion, unlearning and remembering to be done before we feel safe putting ourselves out there.
In the space between my first photo shoot with Anna and our second, a lot changed. I’ve been feeling into bodywork after a lifetime of thinking; feeling into what’s mine to hold and what never was, all the shame I’ve accumulated, all the stories I’m done with. My relationship with my body and the outside world is changing. I finally started getting the haircuts I wanted, made a vision board that centred play and imagination and queer creativity and magic. I began to love my neurodivergence, stopped worrying about what to do with my hands, let them dance when I was excited.
When I asked Anna about a second photo shoot, I wasn’t so concerned this time about looking friendly. I was ready to show up with more than that.
And so, I found myself at the top of Calton Hill in Edinburgh, spinning in my favourite green trousers. Anna lying on the floor, pointing the camera towards the sky, capturing me as I spun and spun. This was Anna’s idea. The skill of someone so good at their job that they can intuit what you need before you can articulate it. I needed to capture freedom of movement, a sense of openness, not caring so damn much when there’s other people around. My love of nature, of the details of ferns and moss and creatures and people. There’s something really joyful about someone meeting that boundary between you and the world with care, taking the time to know it, to create safety and comfort around it. That’s what I try to do for other people in my work, too. I’ve been thinking about our collective responsibility to create that safety for everyone around us; the ways we can choose to position our bodies, use our words, interrupt silences, to protect the people who need extra care.
I remember all the times I was told I looked sad, that I should cheer up love. I had good reason to be sad. I grew up in a violent environment, and I navigated that every day as a kid and then a teenager. I wish someone had said, it makes sense that your face looks sad. It’s OK. You don’t have to smile. If it all feels too much it’s because it is. Smiling isn’t going to get you the help you need. I wonder if that’s why I chose the work I do, the helping people to sit with discomfort, the moving through. All those years in the margins have made me attentive to the spaces between, the things that aren’t said.
Throwing flowers towards the camera with a massive grin, spinning with my favourite song playing in my ears, sitting in peace writing, looking over the city and beyond to the sea, being OK with people walking by. The shoot was full of wonder. Looking at the photos, I feel exactly how I felt in each moment the camera clicked. Calm, playful, serious, all of it.
I think one of the reasons I love shoots with Anna is because she doesn’t tell me to smile.
I think that’s why I look so happy.
Nadia Karim (she/they) aka Everyday Writes is a life coach, climate coach and writer working online and in-person from Scotland… helping you to skip the small talk, move towards the life you want, and re-imagine the world. You can find Nadia at everydaywrites.com.
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In the meantime, lots of love,
Anna xxx
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